Rebirth: The Road to Hell…
27 Dec 2022Astraeius
Was quite ill-paved, if we are to believe the ancient adage. For it was not good intentions that brought me where I lay now, in an infirmary bed on an ATI megaship. Rather, it was hubris that beckoned me to my grave, like so many among the great heroes of old.I'd always found it a fascinating concept, that of hubris. That men could dare too much, fly too high, and that the Gods or the all-powerful fate would take it upon themselves to teach them humility. And yet, those same Gods would tell those same men to dare, for a life without daring was one without worth. It always fascinated me, how the heroes of myth would have to thread that line: dare beyond what common men would, but not beyond what men could, learn to rely on the help of the Gods, but never take it for granted. Was that, then, the sign of true heroism? To know when to dare and when to be cautious? To commit exceptional acts and yet retain the humility to acknowledge those that are too far above us? Perhaps.
But that is a long string of fair words, all to say this: I have been careless, and paid the price for it. Careless and curious, that fatal combination. I had just fled a bout with a Basilisk with all but the innermost part of my hull melted off. A fact which - rather than instil into me the certainty that my ship still required extensive tinkering before it could serve as anything more than a support vessel - convinced me that there was no danger I could not outpace.
Wisdom saved me from wrestling with the alien interceptor that hyperdicted me, and so I sought haven in the closest system I could reach. I will admit without shame that, as the creature's missiles headed towards me, I did not take excessive care in picking my destination. But I will avow some measure of embarrassment in that, once I was in the relative safety of superluminal speed, I sat back on my haunches - and on my laurels - and headed towards the closest station that my scanners could pick up. That was the carelessness. Curiosity came when dropped out of warp space, and found myself facing not the welcoming arms of a safe port, but the ominous green clouds that wash over all of the enemy's victims.
I should have turned back then, perhaps, but I'd docked at ports under attack before, under fire from the enemy, and this seemed no different. No, that's a lie. Even when my sensors told me that I would find no skeleton crew, no military personnel - when they told me that the station was not, in fact, under attack, but had long been conquered - still I aimed towards it. Because I was curious. Because I failed to gaze upon the planet-side cities that the enemy has destroyed, and so maybe wished to see what the aliens did to our stations. Would that I had never witnessed the grim picture. Would that I had never been made to see the burning homes and hear the creaking sounds of metal towers collapsing onto the streets below. In all that horror, alone am I grateful of the fact that I could not smell it.
Little consolation that was, when the blasts started to reach me. I know not how, as I was still inside the station - or, at least, what remained of the Corioli's shell - but I did not loose too much hope. The attack shook me from my reveries, and I manoeuvred myself in front of the airlock, and prepared to run the gauntlet before I could safely jump away. I passed through the entryway at full speed, but that is when the interceptor arrived. I know not what form it had, nor if there were more than one. Because the arrival meant that my power reserves were now tasked with holding off its energy surge, crippling my second boost. And so ends that story.
A rescue ship picked me up hours later - I know not how many, nor did I truly think of asking - while searching through the station. Davidson Platform. Apparently the crews there were terraforming, and so it was thought that there might be some material worth salvaging, among the wreckage. Luckily for me, that meant seemed to include my ship. What remains of her, anyway. The starboard nacelle is almost entirely gone, and with it my Guardian cannons - perhaps the Thargoids were more methodical in their destruction than I thought possible. The port side fared better, as did the cockpit.
I can't help but laugh. I could have quite easily died, yet now I lament the state of my ship. How is that for gratitude? And yet, I am grateful. So incredibly grateful. To my rescuers, to my ship and her makers, and to whichever God decided that my act of hubris had been punished enough.
The sight of the burning port... no, I cannot leave this war. But I know now that I am nowhere near as ready to fight it as I thought. Humanity might mourn the heroes that die rushing at the enemy, but it needs victories, not martyrs. Though perhaps I am now only comforting myself with a list of good intentions.