Slow Before Mission Start

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-615-82790-2-4
Verlag: PublishDrive
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 3, 246 Seiten

Reihe: Just a story

Just a Story #3 - Before the Ship Sets Sail

Since the fall of the last great rebellion, no one has questioned the Empire's strength. But one day, a visitor arrives aboard -the former navy carrier that has been drifting for a quarter of a century among radioactive clouds. There, a strange crew awaits him-a crew with only one true abundance: time.

But what happens when time is joined by the voice of conscience?

Some carry the weight of the past; others fear the future. The third volume offers new answers-and raises new questions.

A story about those who set out on a journey-and those who stayed behind.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Slow, L. A.

Weitere Mitwirkende

Kovács, László

Leseproben

Home Again

The man standing by the monitor leaned in close, studying Walden from just inches away. After a moment, he gestured to his companion, who loosened the cable around Walden’s neck slightly.

"Relax, Colonel," he said softly, almost hypnotically, still watching him from just inches away. Seeing that his words were having the desired effect, he added in the same tone:

"Place your hands on the armrests. Grip them. Breathe deeply. Otherwise, we'll resume the previous, shall we say, treatment."

Walden obeyed, drawing deep breaths—as much as the loosened wire around his neck would allow. His body filled with oxygen, the bulging veins in his temples smoothed out, and his hands clamped onto the chair’s armrests.

"Good," came the calm praise. "In the interest of further cooperation, let me point out that your pretty little ship is no longer where you left it. There’s no point in trying to run or play the hero. Those, naturally, would bring immediate retaliation. Understood?"

Walden gave a short nod.

"All right," the man said with a nod of his own. "Tell me, does ‘P.M.’ stand for something naughty—like, say, Pussy Magnet?"

Walden nodded again.

"Given the circumstances, I’d have guessed Post Mortem."

"You got it," Walden rasped.

"I’m glad. Do you recognize me? Honestly, I didn’t recognize you at first."

Walden studied the man in front of him. He appeared to be in his twenties, his tight clothes hinting at a well-built physique. The caramel-brown skin, dark eyes, short curly hair, and strong nose that didn’t quite match his broad cheekbones seemed familiar, but it took a moment to reconcile the image with his situation.

"Major Bronson?" he guessed, still in his strained voice.

"Congratulations," Bronson acknowledged with a smile. "Still sharp. Under other circumstances, I’d say that’s impressive for someone your age. How old are you now—in real time?"

"One-oh-three."

"Nice! You’re not the oldest among us, but you’re definitely on the podium."

Walden decided to use the friendlier tone to his advantage.

"Would you mind taking the loop off my neck?" he asked. "I’m not planning to run. I’m here for a reason."

At Bronson’s approving nod, the loop was removed from Walden’s neck. He rubbed and massaged the sore area.

"Come with us," Bronson said, inviting his former superior. "You’ll have a chance to explain exactly why you’re paying us this visit. And just a heads-up—clinging to your old rank isn’t recommended."

"What kind of hierarchy does the Elmo’s Fire operate on?" Walden asked as he pushed himself up from the chair.

He swayed a little, but the man who had been choking him gave him an encouraging smile and steadied him by the arm.

"We have a kind of democracy here. Good ideas, hard work, commitment—that’s how you earn respect in the community. If…"

"If…?" Walden prompted uncertainly.

"If we accept you," the man finished, playfully twirling the loop that had been around Walden’s neck.

"And if you don’t?"

"We’ll cross that bridge later," Bronson said soothingly, slipping Walden’s confiscated pistol into his pocket.

"Now come on."

When he stepped out of the cabin, Walden was surprised to find that the corridors, pitch dark when he’d arrived, now glowed in a comfortable half-light. The air had a metallic tang, but the environment was surprisingly clean. As he followed in Bronson’s wake, he glanced back and saw the other two men break off down a side corridor.

"Where are we going?" he asked his former subordinate, who clearly wasn’t worried about him.

"You’re going to meet the others and explain what brought you here," Bronson said, glancing at him. "Get ready for a long walk—we only use the lifts in emergencies."

"How many people are still living on the Elmo?" Walden asked.

"A little over fifteen hundred."

"That many were stranded here after the battle of Trilunnis?"

"Not exactly, but close," Bronson replied, giving Walden an appraising look. "It’s no secret, and that list you pulled shows you have a pretty good idea already. Our leaders abandoned around three thousand people after the battle. Most of the Elmo’s Fire stayed intact; we managed to seal off the damaged sections in time. After that, we just waited for rescue."

"Which never came," Walden whispered, feeling the hopelessness of those left behind.

"Which never came," Bronson echoed bitterly. "Those were hard times."

"You said three thousand were left here, and now there are fifteen hundred. What happened to the rest? If they were like us…"

"They weren’t like us," Bronson cut in. "They were only stationed here after the quadrit experiment."

"So you know about the quadrit experiment," the former commander concluded.

"Of course. What did you think—that we didn’t analyze what happened?" Bronson’s voice took on a proud, slightly challenging edge.

"That’s not what I meant," Walden shook his head, "but you still haven’t answered the question. What happened to the missing fifteen hundred?"

A shadow of a smile crossed Bronson’s face.

"What do you think we ate?" he retorted.

Walden froze. At the question, he stared at Bronson in stunned silence. Seeing his reaction, Bronson stopped too, turning back with a grin that showed off his white teeth.

"Don’t take everything so seriously," he said with a grin. "On a Navy Carrier stocked to supply eight thousand, no one turns cannibal—except maybe for the flavor." He arched an eyebrow as he said it.

Walden’s face still didn’t show any relief. Bronson’s expression darkened, and after they started walking again, he continued:

"Actually, two thousand people have died on the Navy Carrier over the past twenty-four years. Like I said, most of them were from the personnel stationed here after the quadrit experiment. But we’re not immune to disease and infection either. And before we fully understood our situation, there were… other losses. Unfortunately."

"What do you mean?" Walden pressed.

"Our bodies have been regenerating faster over time—as you’ve probably noticed yourself," Bronson said, glancing at him. "In the early years, we didn’t understand why. A lot of people died because they had artificial medical implants. The trauma from the rejection process killed them."

The grim statement was followed by a heavy silence that Walden finally broke.

"Three thousand survived, two thousand died, and now only fifteen hundred remain—something doesn’t add up."

"One little detail is that you’re including yourself in the headcount," Bronson said with a faint smile. "The other is that you’re not the first to come back."

Walden stopped in his tracks again, then hurried to catch up.

"There are others who returned?" he asked eagerly.

"There are," Bronson confirmed. "You’re not the only one who thought things through. Of course, they weren’t easy to spot among the simple opportunists."

"So there were those, too…" Walden murmured, staring ahead.

"There were," Bronson nodded. "But now fewer and fewer show up. The scattered radioactive contamination tends to keep the curious away."

"I noticed it myself on approach," Walden remarked. "Where do you get the material for that?"

"The emergency reactor supplies our power, since firing up the main engines would be too conspicuous. The backup generator is an old atomic reactor, originally meant just as an auxiliary power source. It produces a lot of contamination—and that works in our favor right now."

"What happened to the ships of those who returned?"

"We’ve accumulated a fairly impressive fleet in the hangars," Bronson said. "Mostly shuttles—and a few cargo ships that we still use."

"What do you use them for?" Walden asked.

Bronson gave him a sly smile.

"Like I said, we’re not cannibals," he said with a widening grin, "not even for the flavor. And food synthesizers don’t restock themselves. But here we are."

Walden immediately recognized the room they entered together. It had once been used for crew assemblies. Now, at one end, there was a raised platform like a podium, with orderly rows of chairs facing it. Most of the seats were occupied. Many of the people looked young, with several Trikkis among them. Both men and women turned to look at him. Most of them seemed youthful, though a few were clearly in their fifties or sixties.

So some did assimilate, Walden thought.

He followed Bronson up onto the platform and, at his gesture, took a seat. Bronson stepped to the edge of the podium and raised his voice:

"Ladies and gentlemen!"

To an outsider, it might have sounded theatrical, but here it felt natural.

"We knew we had a visitor coming, but even I was surprised by who it turned out to be. Unlike me, some of you probably recognized him at first glance. For the rest of you, let me introduce Colonel Walden, former commander—and later deputy commander—of the Elmo’s Fire."

The introduction was met with loud murmurs and shouts; the reaction was clearly hostile. Bronson raised a hand in a broad calming gesture before continuing:

"I understand the anger, but let’s try to stay rational. Let’s consider every perspective before we judge. First, let’s hear from someone else. Coleman?"

He nodded to a man seated below, who slowly got to his feet. He shot Walden a sharp look before surveying the room.

"All right!"...