Episode 109, Myths
24 Sep 2024Ryuko Ntsikana
Episode 109, Myths
FW Cephei system
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The vessel shuddered under the relentless barrage, hull plating tearing away as the atmosphere vented into the cold void. The bridge was a chaotic mess of flashing caution lights and blaring alarms.
“Boost away from this guy!” The commander’s voice cut through the din, strained but controlled.
The pilot’s hands flew over the controls, trying desperately to reverse thrust and force their attacker to overshoot. “Dammit, I can’t! We’ve got a nitrogen warning on the thrusters—it's choking the helium plasma before it can ramp up!”
“Nitrogen?” the commander shouted, pulling up the scanner readouts on his console. His eyes widened as the ship shuddered again, a series of impacts reverberating through the hull. The pilot executed a tight turn, but it did little to shake their pursuer.
“A large burst laser and a frag cannon... Bet he’s running drag modifications on that thing.” The commander’s words were almost lost under the sound of another explosion, the ship rocking violently as red warning lights bathed the bridge.
“Hull breach, starboard side, outside the bridge door! We’re losing atmosphere!” the pilot shouted, his voice edged with panic. Both their helmets snapped shut as the automatic emergency systems kicked in, sealing their suits.
“Switch to suit oxygen! Just get us clear!”
“I can’t!” The pilot’s voice cracked with fear. “Power plant’s down to ten percent, starboard and dorsal hydrogen tanks are ruptured, power regulator’s shot and life support is failing!”
The commander and the pilot exchanged a look, a shared moment of desperate confusion as, suddenly, the firing stopped.
Silence.
The only sound was the dull hum of their suit radios, the soft hiss of their breathing. The pilot glanced at the commander, his eyes wide behind his visor. “Why did he stop?”
The commander frowned, fingers flying over his console as he pulled up external sensors. “He’s... right on our tail. Why isn’t he finishing us off?”
There was a moment of unbearable tension, the damaged vessel drifting in space like a wounded animal waiting for the final blow. The attacker’s ship, a dark silhouette against the stars, loomed ominously, holding position mere meters away.
Then, through the crackling of the comms, a mechanical voice, calm and measured, broke the silence.
“Your ship is crippled. There’s no honor in finishing a fight that’s already won.”
The commander’s heart sank. He knew then that this wasn’t mercy, but a message. The enemy had chosen not to kill them, but to leave them adrift, helpless and humiliated, to serve as a warning to others.
The comms went silent again, and the dark ship angled away, its engines flaring as it sped off, leaving the damaged vessel to its fate.
The pilot slumped back in his seat, his voice trembling. “What do we do now?”
The commander exhaled slowly, staring at the wreckage around him. “We send out a distress signal, and we survive.”
The pilot swallowed hard, nodding as he began to activate the emergency beacon.
Estrellas de la Mirage, Fleet Carrier
LkHA 428N, System
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The order to jump further into the hinter regions of the Orion Spur raised eyebrows among the crew—and lifted the spirits of a few pilots. Exploration promised great pay with minimal risk, even if it meant missing out on the thrill of chasing bounties or engaging in battle. Bounty and plunder were always prized, but so was the glory of being the first to discover an exotic bacterial culture or fungal growth on exoplanetary mountains no human had ever touched.
The real surprise was seeing Ryuko this far out in a Vulture-heavy fighter. He had bartered passage on a fleet carrier heading for the distant unknown, far beyond the bubble. The going rate for a single jump passage was Tritium fuel or its equivalent in credits. What would have taken days of short-hop jumping was reduced to fifteen minutes, and Ryuko was exactly where he wanted to be.
The Iris Nebula—remote, lawless, and perfect. A small, backwater anarchy system where, with a day’s worth of effort, Ryuko could rip through local ships, leaving most of them crippled but not destroyed. Disabled ships told tales. And Ryuko wanted the story of his Vulture burning out thrusters and ripping through hulls to circulate like wildfire. The explorers passing through on their way back to the bubble would hear the whispers and carry them forward.
Like all great bogeyman stories, his would be unbelievable, but not impossible. The local ship mechanics, eager for gossip, would add their own spin, adding just enough credibility to make the story stick. For that to work, Ryuko knew he had to vanish as quickly as he appeared, leaving no trace behind. With his fleet carrier cooling its engines after the jump nearby, it would be easy to slip back aboard, jump out, and disappear—just another carrier in a galaxy of hundreds, as if he had never been there.
Lemmy’s Rock
HIP 96456 system
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Lieutenant Roman Hogan leaned back in his chair, his toothy, yellow smile vying for attention against the shock of bright yellow hair and beard that framed his face. Across from him, Commander Kael Draven, a man weathered by decades of service, watched the holographic image hovering above Hogan’s desk morph into a series of graphs. Hogan’s expression tightened; he hated statistics, but they were a necessary evil of his mid-tier position.
“We’ve lost a significant portion of our revenue in these sectors,” Draven noted, his voice timed and calculated. “Trained personnel, too, thanks to these covert strikes. The methods vary, but there’s one constant: the technicians are always taken out by physical force. Our competitor’s influence rose slightly with each attack—until an independent party showed up. Now, the strikes have stopped, and their numbers are the lowest in the entire system.”
Draven barely contained his irritation. Hogan was the kind of officer who relied more on swagger than strategy, a man who preferred self-indulgence over substance. Draven had seen plenty like him rise and fall, and he knew better than to challenge Hogan’s thinly veiled complacency directly. He remained silent, his eyes locked on the holographic display, waiting for the lieutenant.
Hogan, oblivious or uncaring, seemed more interested in wrapping up the meeting. He knew the faction needed men like Draven—steady, methodical types who were good with data and dull conversation—but Hogan found such people insufferably tedious. In his mind, he had already pieced together what had happened and who was behind it. He had no interest in hearing Draven’s analysis.
“The hierarchy already knows all this,” Hogan said, waving a dismissive hand. “I spoke to the one responsible last night in the bar. They’ve left the system.”
Draven nodded, masking his growing irritation with professional detachment. He knew he was being dismissed, and his input was deemed irrelevant by a man who thought he had all the answers. But Draven also knew Hogan’s arrogance blinded him to the reality of the situation. The stranger who had disrupted their operations hadn’t fled because of any action taken by Hogan—or even by the faction itself. No, they had left because they had accomplished their mission. Hogan, in his self-satisfied ignorance, couldn’t see that.
“Thank you for your time, Lieutenant,” Draven said evenly, his tone giving nothing away. “I’ll leave a copy of this report with you.”
He executed a crisp about-face and marched out of the office, his steps measured and controlled. Outside, he let out a slow breath, the rigid lines of his face softening slightly. Whatever the stranger had been after, they had achieved it. Draven only wished that Hogan had been on their list of targets. He suspected that before long, Hogan’s complacency would catch up with him. And when it did, Draven wouldn’t shed a tear.
He returned to his station office, confident he had fulfilled his duty in alerting lower management—the rest was now up to Lieutenant Hogan to convey to the higher-ups. He never enjoyed spending much time on stations, preferring the solitude of his ship. The stars were his true domain, and he navigated them as naturally as a sailor on the sea.
The walls of his office, hewn from the asteroid itself, were bare, devoid of any adornments. It was a stark contrast to the more elaborate quarters of other officers. His desk matched the space—utilitarian and spartan, with a lone lamp casting a soft pool of light over its surface. His chair was equally unremarkable, a plain, sturdy piece of furniture, mirrored by two similar chairs in front of the desk and a small couch against the opposite wall.
Fredrick Valdez, head of the faction’s legal facilities and Draven’s occasional superior—depending on the circumstances—spotted the light and poked his head in.
“I read your report on the mysterious assailant. Good work. Seems they’ve finished their contract for whoever hired them and left the system. Now we’ve got a new wave of independents sniffing around, all stirred up by the activity out here.”
Draven’s fingers moved methodically over his data tablet, sorting through a mess of files, trying to impose some kind of order on the chaos.
“If my hunch is right, I wouldn’t break out the champagne just yet.”
Fredrick’s eyebrows arched in curiosity. “You think they’ll be back for another job?”
Draven grimaced at the thought of the mountain of paperwork awaiting him. One of the things he loathed most in the galaxy was paperwork. As his rank rose, so did the relentless tide of administrative duties.
“I think they care more about their own objectives than any allegiance.”
Fredrick leaned against the doorframe, tapping his fingers thoughtfully. “That may be true, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry now. The latest influx of visitors is causing more trouble than your ghost ever did. My office just got swamped with ten new cases from a brawl on the docks, and that was in the last hour alone.”
Draven sighed, his fingers brushing through his thinning hair. He missed the larger factions, where he could focus on being a naval commander rather than juggling a dozen roles in a backwater system far from the core worlds. Every officer here wore multiple hats, and his latest crop of gray hairs was a testament to the toll it was taking.
“I need to find a quiet agricultural planet in the middle of the galactic hinterlands, settle down with a nice farm girl, and retire.”
Fredrick chuckled, throwing a hand up in mock surrender as he turned to leave. “Hell, take me with you!”
Draven watched him go, a fleeting smile crossing his face before he returned his gaze to the mountain of reports. Retirement might be a pipe dream, but it was a nice one to hold onto amidst the bureaucracy and madness. For now, though, he still had a job to do.