x
The soft hum of machinery envelopes Admiral Rigel Waldermara as she settles into her command chair, the cool leather molding to her form. On her temple, what appeared to be an abstract tattoo of the Orion constellation glows faintly. As the stars illuminate, a familiar tingle ran across her forehead, signaling the active connection between her consciousness and the ship’s vast network. An advanced technology bridging the gap between human and machine through what most civilians would mistake for a stylish, glowing personal statement.
Rigel’s fingers go to work on the petal controllers, each touch bringing the ship to life around her. The buttons, akin to those of an accordion, respond with precise feedback, adjusting the ship’s engines with the grace of a maestro. Holographic displays shimmer into existence, bathing the enclosed space in a soft, yellow glow. The augmented reality projections of the different ships and the station so crisp and clear that Rigel can almost feel the void of space pressing against the ship’s hull. Feet rest on two pedals, directional controls, allowing her to make fine adjustments to the ship’s orientation at any moment needed. Here, encased in layers of advanced technology and protected from the harsh vacuum of space, Admiral Rigel was more than just a commander. She was the eyes, ears, and brain of the Heavy Cruiser Orion.
With a deep inward breath; savoring the sharp, clean scent that permeates the air within her highly decorated helmet, she focuses on the pending docking procedure. A faint metallic undertone tickles her nostrils, a subtle scent from the suit working tirelessly to maintain the delicate balance of their artificial atmosphere. The cool air caresses her skin, raising goosebumps along her body as she lends focus to the last of her duties for the day.
The Sentinel Fleet maintains a precise formation, orbiting around the StarShade Station; sleek hulls reflecting the distant starlight. The recently departed hauler ships have left the civilian docking bays relatively quiet, its petals folding back into a more defensive posture. The leviathans have completed their crucial task of delivering supplies, and now the focus of the fleet shifts to patrol duties.
Rigel’s augmented projections are vivid and immersive. The StarShade Station floated in the middle of the Orion’s command, providing a detailed view of the station’s structure and activity. The fleets visible, each ship marked by different colored lights symbolizing their type and status. Focusing on one ship is easy and intuitive, requiring little more than a thought to zoom in and assess shield or weapon statuses, fuel load, or even communications activity. But there’s no time to dally with obsessing over her fleet’s minutia; the biodomes’ private bays are blinking a green glow indicating their readiness to receive the fleet.
Her cruiser hums, providing a comforting background noise that signifies smooth functionality. The soft clicks of the haptic buttons on Rigel’s controllers blends with the occasional beeps and alerts, creating for her a symphony of optimization. EDI releases a faint scent of ozone with a subtle hint of something floral, perhaps a nod to the StarShade plants that were the inspiration behind the station’s unique shape. The scent likely is part of EDI’s attempt to acclimate the crew to their temporary stay.
Eyes flicker across the AR displays, taking in the data and visuals. Admiral Rigel Waldermara takes the helm of her command ship, adjusting course with her array of instrumentation tied into her custom command chair. Each action is as deliberate as a musician playing a complex melody. The Orion responds instantly to her touch, engines singing in harmony with her commands. The lights on her neural interface pulsed gently, indicating her sync to the ship’s hubs and devices.
As the Orion approaches the StarShade Station, the admiral guides it with precision unique to her connection and interface, aligning perfectly to her assigned docking bay within one of the largest biodomes. The holographic projection of the station, shows the other ships in her fleet entering their respective bays. EDI, the station’s AI, initiates contact through a secure quantum-entangled channel; a voice a perfect blend of efficiency and clarity.
“Admiral Rigel,” the AI bids softly, “I would be happy to assume piloting control from you for the docking procedure.”
“Not today, EDI. Thank you.” Admiral Rigel’s tone is curt and dismissive.
“As always, at your pleasure Admiral,” EDI continues. “As for the status of the fleet; I am noting several insufficiencies requiring intervention. The corvettes require replenishment of their reserves while the escort carrier is addressing a minor shield microfracture. The estimated completion time for all procedures is ninety-nine minutes and thirty-three seconds. Station defenses are operating at ninety-eight point seven percent capacity. Long-range scans indicate no anomalies within a five-light-year radius.” EDI’s communication is accompanied by a burst of encrypted data, providing real-time diagnostics of each ship within the Sentinel Fleet.
“Copy,” Admiral Rigel’s golden eyes reflect the vast expanse of space as the station’s massive silhouette fills the forward viewscreen. Strands of brown hair that should be tightly secured beneath her helmet, frame high cheekbones, as movement and duration have taken a toll on her composed presentation. Fair skin, marked by the passage of time, stretches over an angular jawline showing her teeth clench as she focuses with intensity on the last few kilometers.
“Prepare for docking,” Rigel’s voice was steady and clear for her crew. “Deactivating shields and initiating handover of Orion to station.”
As if responding to an unspoken command, the ship’s systems begin their meticulous handover sequence once momentum has ceased.
The bridge crew, clad in full gear for potential danger and ejection, wear helmets that reflect the soft glow of the holographic displays. Their suits adorned with intricate golden designs, each pattern signifying their rank and role. The eight crew members sit in a circular arrangement, facing each other and the projections.
The Betelgeuse hub pings softly. “All stop. Propulsion systems transferred,” reports Lieutenant Byrn, his neon designs glowing a vibrant red. A gentle whir follows from the Bellatrix hub. “Navigation controls relinquished,” said Ensign Rhyne, her few golden and purple designs shimmering under the bridge lights. Mintaka hub buzzes next. “Weapons systems locked down,” announces Sergeant Lyris, his suit designed with intricate golden patterns reflecting his years of service. The Alnilam hub chimes in sequencing with the reporting. “Life support stabilized for docking,” confirms Chief Engineer Vyrn, her unique golden details and pink neon patterns pulsing in sync with the ship’s systems. She is trailed by Alnitak hub beeping. “Communications array realigned,” said Engineer Kael, singing the words, her white suit with no gold standing out against the backdrop of the bridge. The Saiph hub hums. “Sensor grid recalibrated,” states Engineer Haron, his voice nearly a whisper. Finally, the Rigel hub pulses, not to be confused with their Admiral in command. “Command functions transferred,” finalizes Commander Corion, his authoritative tone signaling the completion of the process.
“Handover complete, EDI. All systems now under station control. Commence securing procedures.” Rigel says as she leans back in her chair, the lights on her neural interface in the shape of the constellation for which her ship is named dimming into what seemed a minimal abstract tattoo. The visualization of the augmented reality begins to fade at the disconnect, the Admiral left with only what is readily apparent around her.
The shields of the Orion flicker and fade, their iridescent glow dissipating into the void as the last energy barrier fell away—replaced by a soft hum carrying the ship into the docking bay cleansing barrier, ready to envelop the ship, creating a sensation of gentle weightlessness.
Beneath the crew, the seats, designed to protect and support during high-stress maneuvers, begin to adjust. They slowly unlock and release, allowing Rigel and her crew to relax. The pressure that had built up during the mission is invited to ease away. Most return to the relaxed position. Lights on the bridge shift from a serious, focused blue to a warmer, more relaxed hue of orange. The soundscape changes as well, the stern beeps and alerts giving way to softer, more soothing tones of the ship being secure. It is a sound everyone enjoys hearing—the transition from the intensity of command to the calm of security. Her crew start stretching and rubbing sore muscles under their space suits.
“Entering decontamination sequence,” EDI announces. “Prepare for cleansing procedures.”
A gentle vibration thrums through the ship as the radiation and chemical cleaning initiates. Rigel closes her eyes, savoring the moment. They are home. “EDI, what about Messer?”
“Admiral Messer has refused maintenance,” EDI replies, voice a perfect blend of efficiency and clarity with a subtle undertone of warmth. “He insists everything is in order.”
A slight frown tugged at Rigel’s lips. “Asshole. It’s the third time in a row. EDI, please file a complaint to his wife.”
“Understood, Admiral,” EDI replies, calm and professional. “I will notify Commander Thomir of Admiral Messer’s maintenance refusals.” The crew chuckles at Rigel’s remark with renewed ease.
As the Orion waits in the docking bay, the chemical cleansing process begins outside the ship. The crew can’t hear the actual cleansing, as the ship’s walls are too thick and insulated. However, EDI, ever attuned to the human crew’s need, decides to add a touch of humor to the routine. Inside the ship, a tune plays over the intercom, reminiscent of a children’s song. The crew exchange amused glances, recognizing EDI’s newest attempt at levity. Holographic bubbles appear, floating gently through the air, adding a whimsical touch to the otherwise sterile environment.
“Chemical cleansing in progress,” EDI announces, its voice maintaining a professional tone despite the playful visuals. “Please remain seated and enjoy the show.”
The performance garners healthy chuckles as the bridge crew watch the holographic bubbles drift around them. Some have moved their seat for maximum comfort, adjusting to fully recline. Some have activated the massage feature to knead any remaining tension by force. Sergeant Lyris has chosen to rise and begin stretching, more proactive in his attempt at decompression.
Some of the crew members, nostalgic or dopey from their fatigue, even start singing along to the familiar tune:
“Splish splash, scrub-a-dub-dub, Wash your toes and wash your back, Splish splash, scrub-a-dub-dub, Clean and fresh, that’s the knack!”
During the decon, Rigel connects her neural interface to her personal device, a transparent tablet with contents only she can see. The lens on her eyes augments a new display, bringing up detailed schematics of the Sword fleet. Her gaze sharpens as she zooms in on the smaller ships. The shields on these vessels flicker erratically, their energy levels spiking and dipping in rapid succession. Red warning indicators flash beside the most affected ships, highlighting the critical state of their defenses.
As Rigel studies the schematics, the singing gradually fades, replaced by the soft artificial hum and silence. The Orion’s exterior is enveloped in a fine mist, the chemical agents working to neutralize any contaminants. EDI’s playful tune and holographic bubbles continue as the mist outside thickens, the final stages of the cleansing process nearing completion.
Suddenly, the music fades, replaced by EDI’s warm, almost maternal voice. “Decontamination complete, Orion crew. It’s time to disembark.” Inside, the ship’s interior lighting shifts from relaxing warm hues to a cooler, energizing blue, gently encouraging movement. The comfortable massage functions of the seats gradually deactivate, and the backs straighten, prompting the crew to stand.
“Aw, come on, EDI,” Lieutenant Braxis Byrn groans good-naturedly. “Can’t we stay in our comfy chairs a bit longer?” The neon designs on his suit, flickering dimly, a sign of his depleted energy. He rolls his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if each step requires conscious effort.
EDI’s laugh, perfected over years of interaction with humans, fills the area. “I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. But I promise your quarters are just as comfortable. Perhaps even more so.”
“Alright, alright, you win.”
One by one, the crew reluctantly rises from their seats. Some use the seat’s abilities to transform into an exoskeleton, playfully letting the mechanical limbs assist them in standing. Braxis grins as the exoskeleton lifts him effortlessly, his neon tattoos flickering in amusement. Others, like Chief Engineer Grissel Vyrn prefer the exercise, stretching their aching muscles and giving a little giggle to shake their legs back to life. Engineer Fenilar Kael yawns and stretches, her helmet slightly fogging up as she blinks rapidly to stay alert, “I’m so ready for a nice bath.”
With Rigel’s assistance or EDI’s gentle encouragement, they begin to walk. EDI’s voice, warm and reassuring, guides them with reminders and soft prompts. “Take it easy, Orion crew. You’ve outdone yourselves this time—eight hours straight flight, and not a single shark or shuttle hurt in the process. Your dedication to protecting the arks and haulers is truly commendable.”
They share a light chuckle as they stroll toward the airlock. Behind them, the ship’s systems begin a soft, almost imperceptible shutdown sequence. Holographic controls fade, non-essential systems power down, and the Orion itself seeming to urge the crew to rest. The lights dim behind them as they exit, creating an off-limits environment.
Ahead, the airlock hisses open, revealing the busy robotic docking bay beyond. The sudden brightness makes the crew squint behind their visors, their eyes adjusting slowly. EDI’s voice, now resonating through the bay as well as their helmets, takes on a more authoritative tone. “Please proceed to your quarantine pods. Your neural interfaces will guide you.”
Admiral Waldermara is the first to step onto the deck. Immediately, her neural interface activates, projecting a holographic yellow path only she can see. She fights a yawn, her golden eyes half-closed as she battles an emerging headache. Her usually sharp gaze is softened by fatigue, but she maintains her authoritative posture. “EDI, please schedule a hot meal and drink to all the crew’s rooms for tonight. Drinks on me,” she says, a warm smile attempted across her face.
“Thank you,” the crew says in unison, their voices a harmonious blend of gratitude and affection as they follow her dutifully.
The crew approaches the glassy doors, each of EDI’s chosen colorful paths glowing brightly beneath their feet. The doors slide open with a soft hiss, revealing the pristine, sterile environment of the quarantine area.
EDI’s voice echoes softly through the sterile room. “Place your hand on the sensor panel, to activate the pod.”
Within the quarantine room, eight immaculately arranged glass cylinders, one for each crew member, await. Each glowing with a soft, inviting light. The pods are open and arranged in a semicircle, their smooth surfaces gleaming under the station’s lights.
“Commencing personalized decontamination,” EDI informs them. “This process has been tailored to your individual physiology and recent mission parameters. Please stay centered within the pod and avoid leaning on the glass. Maintain a steady position.”
Inside the pods, a fine mist envelops each crew member, its composition adapting in real-time based on continuous scans. The mist changes color, shifting through various hues as it targets different potential contaminants. It carries a faint, pleasant aroma reminiscent of citrus.
“Decontamination cycle complete,” EDI announces. “Initiating atmospheric transition,” EDI announces unlocking their helmets. “Please breathe normally.”
The pods open on the other side with a soft whoosh. As each crew member stepped outside their pod, they found a set of comfortable sporty clothes waiting for them. EDI’s voice guides them through the process. “Please remove your suits and place them in the compartment in front of you. The compartment will seal automatically, and your suits will be ready for your next mission.”
Rigel reaches for the seal of her helmet, twisting it with a practiced motion. As the helmet comes off, she winces slightly, rolling her neck to work out the kinks.
Tarek watches her with a mixture of concern and amusement. “You know, Admiral, you’d feel less like a pretzel if you let me take the helm once in a while.”
Rigel shoots him a look that is half-grin, half-grimace. “And let you have all the fun, Commander Corion? Not a chance. The Orion may be just a Heavy Cruiser, but he handles like a dream.”
“A dream that’s giving you nightmares, by the looks of it,” Tarek quips, stretching his own back with an exaggerated groan. “I’m just saying, there’s no shame in letting your Second-in-Command earn his keep.”
Rigel chuckles, shaking her head. “Tarek, you’re a brilliant tactician and a hell of a shot. But this hunter? He’s mine.” Her expression softens slightly. “Besides, what kind of pilot would I be if I commandeered people around a battleship instead?”
“A comfortable Admiral?” Tarek suggests with a grin.
“Comfort is overrated,” Rigel retorts, but there’s warmth in her voice. “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. EDI,” she calls out, “please have a hot compress sent to my quarters.”
“Of course, Admiral,” EDI responds promptly. “The hot compress will be waiting for you upon arrival.”
“You’re a lifesaver, EDI,” Rigel sighs gratefully.
Tarek raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you’d just let me—”
“Over my dead body, Tarek,” Rigel cuts him off with a smirk. “Now, how about you make yourself useful take a look at the next patrol schedules? Unless you’d prefer to trade places and deal with Messer instead?”
Tarek holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Messer? Now that’s a true nightmare. I’ll stick to my current duties, thank you very much.”
“Smart man,” Rigel nods approvingly. “That’s why I keep you around.”
Tarek, stretching his back, added, “While we’re at it, EDI, could you pull up the patrol schedules for the next arrival?”
“Certainly, Commander,” EDI continued to facilitate. “I’ve sent the current schedule to your tablet. Four sharks are currently charging their quantum drives. Expectation of their arrival is in eight hours. Admiral, I’ve copied you on this as well.”
“Thanks, EDI,” Tarek nodded, already scrolling through the information on his tablet.
Rigel felt a wave of gratitude for EDI’s efficiency. “You always seem to be one step ahead of us, EDI.”
“Just doing my job, Admiral,” EDI replied, a hint of pride in its synthesized voice.
“Admiral,” EDI addressed Rigel privately through her neural interface, “I’ve taken the liberty to locate Admiral Messer. He’s at the Command Office with his new operatives. The Epsilon-4 will take you there.”
Rigel nodded imperceptibly. “Thank you, EDI,” she subvocalized. Turning to her crew, she said aloud, “Alright, team. Get some rest and tend to your families.”
As the crew finishes changing into their off-duty uniforms and into more comfortable and sporty outfits, there is a palpable sense of relief and pride. They are tired, sore, and in need of rest.
Rigel take one last look at her team before heading out. “EDI, ensure they all get to their quarters safely and have everything they need.”
“Of course, Admiral,” EDI confirmed. “I’ll monitor your A-Patches and sleep cycles and adjust each room’s environmental controls for optimal recovery.”
Rigel presses her palm to the panel, and the doors part with a pneumatic whoosh. The stark, sterile white of the changing area gives way to a riot of color and sound assaulting her senses. The change in the environment is immediate and exhilarating.
ns 15.158.61.5da2
