#vergial

(( Written with permission - @vergial ))

Today we were tasked with the salvaging and rescue of cargo and crew aboard a transport ship located in declining orbit of a Class II gas giant. Considering half the ship was missing due to battle damage, atmospheric burn and related incidents, we managed to recover approximately nine tenths of the crew. A majority of this crew, however, consisted of passengers, begging the question why a scout ship would even begin opening fire this was in.

The captain and key personnel are unaccounted for. We are thus left using partial manifestos to reestablish ownership over the recovered cargo. Unlike the crew and carry, the cargo has mostly been recovered and returned to the rightful owner while we await a proper cargo vessel to return them to the proper channels.

There are several unclaimed items. At the lack of any proof they even belonged on the ship, I’ve taken the liberty of sending an LR communication to verify they’re not part of any trade or delivery that has records elsewhere. 

One item is a small egg contained in a portable incubation tube of sorts. As would be reasonable, I’ve taken it on myself to watch the egg until it’s hatched. This is partially to sate my curiosity, and partially because nobody else claimed ownership of it. Seeing my experience with tube-grown life, I find a trickle of curiosity over this thing. Lost in space, almost turned into a debris. 

Fascinating how curious the odds can sometimes be. 

That being said, simulated flight-records indicate the scout ship might’ve been manned by fresh blood, judging by their lax accuracy and hectic attack pattern. Instead of targeting weapons, shielding, critical passage ways or the very obvious bridge and observation deck, most of their attacks hit either thick plating or redundant systems.This may explain why they made no change of tactics when our vessel entered visual range. 

On one hand, I find myself insulted. I am grateful to have saved so many lives, but to find them lost by the hand of such green foes is akin to slamming a man to death. 

On the other hand, this limited combat experience is fantastic for getting my own fresh blood to learn some vital basics and the weight behind their actions. Simulations and books can only go so far. 

The bird dumped a spoonful of high fiber diet down her gullet and chewed loudly. It was so crunchy one could read every crack and crunch from her animated visage and its many artistic contortions. 

“So how exactly do you.. chew?” The person next to her asked. The crewmember tilted his head slightly, trying to make sense in the bulging and contortions her beak was able to make.

“Doh ask me questiohs I duh haf answers to.” She replied mid-swallow, letting off an exhausted sigh as it settled down. “I mean you chew just the same, so what’s the big deal?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure there’s an anatomical difference between how...” He stopped midway and his curious brow shifted up, down, inwards and outwards. With a finger on his lips, he tried to express how vexed he was. “I mean I’m not a doctor, but...”

“But what?” The bird continued to scarf down the food with reckless abandon, more interested in emptying the bowl than doing herself a favor.

“Don’t birds usually just... eat and swallow?”

“Where did you grow up, a bird hospital? And I’m not a bird. Or would a laser pointer help with your cat problem?”

“You’re a civ, pipe it down!” 

As tensions rose, the bird only peeked from the corner of her eye. She didn’t let it show, just tried to finish her meal and slide off. But she didn’t get there.

“I’ve been on this vessel longer than you, poop deck.”

“What’s the deal with that, anyway? What are you, a prisoner?”

The bird finished the bowl of crunch and slammed her hands down. Yet before she could pipe out a word, there was a call behind her. A stern lady, at that, who quite violently pulled her over the bench and into the aisle. All too familiar with the hand on her shoulder, the bird relented.

“If you can’t keep it down, Ophinia, don’t lunch here. You’ve got a room, use it.” The hand threw the bird further down the aisle.

“You know you’re not my boss.”

“I am, however, high enough on the chain of command to tell civilians to vacate mission critical space. Consider yourself confined to your quarters until this has been discussed with the proper authorities.”

“Vergial doesn’t have to know.”

The lady crossed her arms and straightened her back, trying to appear larger as she frowned firmly. “He doesn’t have to. You’re old enough, and troublesome enough, that this will be settled without his involvement.”

“Fine, whatever. Enjoy yourselves. Just boot me off the damn ship if it’s such a bother to keep my around!” The bird stormed off, heavy bootprints every step, a huff every yard. 

His fingers flicked left. Left. Left. His eyes darted up to down, left to right. Distracted, no, absorbed by what he was reading. Until a sharp voice hissed behind him.

“As much as I understand the desire to keep tabs on your crew, captain.” The lady’s voice started, before a sharp set of fingers plucked the datapad out of his hands. “There’s no martial court that will defend reading the dairy of a teenage born and raised on one of their vessels.”

“She’s hard to read. And her intentions could be...”

“Captain, let’s omit the pleasantries and drill right to the core. That’s why I was selected, no?” She asked him, eyes half-shut with a laser focus to them. “As second in command, I insist that you avoid earning a reputation as distrustful. Your crew stands behind you.”

“Her status as crew...” The feline tried to defend himself. But as he regretted picking her, she continued proving why she was the lady for the job.

“Is still disputed. Your claims and, shall I say, nudging to keep the paperwork halted are suspect, Vergial. You cannot, let me iterate that, cannot, simply stall bureaucracy to avoid facing the facts.”

“She is a commendable pilot.” He insisted, his cool as slick and untouched as her own. To any but the keenest eyes, they seemed unphased on both sides.

“Her abilities as a pilot are not in question, captain. What is in question is the legality of, how does it go... forcefully drafting a civilian. You cannot force her to stay on board. The martial court would prefer having no civilians on board as well. Especially not for this many years.”

“Don’t antagonize me, commander. My rank goes beyond mere captain, and your position here is at my whim.” He continued, with a tone in his voice as flat as the walls and floor.

“Allow me to explain why this is a problem, captain. She is, for all intents and purposes, adding additional strain to our food supply, occupies a... relatively lavish room, and has been using a multitude of our equipment. If your hope was to force her to enlist on the premise of being too knowledgeable on your vessel, I will inform you that will not slide.”

The first cracks showed as he took a deep sigh. Though as she thought she had attained a victory, he leaned in, his leer ever firm and unmoving. “Commander, allow me to repeat myself. I will not be told how to run my ship.”

“I would naturally be eager to file my report and personally drop the case. Provided I, as they say, be let in on what you are cooking. Because if you’re hoping to recruit an ace pilot without proper consent, I will obstruct your plans. War is no reason to forgo manners and law, captain. Or to read a girl’s diary.” 

With those words, she pressed the diary back into her hands and walked off, leaving him with the sharp echos of heels clicking off the floor plates. He waited until the automated door started to close itself, before his eyes rested on a single word on the diary pages.

“Does she truly think I’ll risk my life and limb for a single pilot? With such low regard, her loyalty might be in question.” With a swift flick, the diary landed on the bed, shut off. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and absorbed the energies of the room and the ship itself. “But all the clout in the world wouldn’t stop a report written by her.”

With firm steps, he excused himself from the room. Wandering eyes scanned the halls to make sure nobody else was spying on him. Then again, who would be out here, on the so-called daytime quarters during the daytime hours? Other than someone hoping to confront someone else on something. Which, to be honest, if what he was worried about in the first place. 

“Her performance is, shall we say, above average?”

The captain only looked up for a brief moment, before his eyes drifted back to the results screen. The small screen on his lap was too warm for this to be comfortable, but seeing the positions shift - sans one - was too engaging to seek another position.

“How did 21 go for her, anyway? Since she’s been cleared to fly and all.” 

“Above average.” The captain dryly replied, before tapping the screen. “Not as good as yours truly, but she scored in the top percent.”

“Wow, really... I mean, that’s impressive sir.” The subordinate cleared his throat and tried to devise a means to shift conversation, fast. “Is there a reason you’re actually attending this, sir? Don’t you have more pressing matters?”

“I want to see how she does. It’s like she can see five seconds ahead. Even the drones can barely keep up.” Was the muttered response, half swallowed by the hand covering his mouth. “She’s a natural.”

“Better than you, or...?”

“Not better. But the groundwork is certainly more solid. Her ship maneuvers in ways it shouldn’t. By the time she’s combat legal she’ll already be an ace.” He continued to muse, hand rubbing his cheek. Sinking into his chair, he wondered if he could dare.

“Which implies you’ll let he fly underage... into combat?” The crewmember asked, his face plastered with confusion.

“No, no, of course not.”

“Of course not. Not like the captain’s little girl will be risking herself, no matter her skill.” The pilot meandered on, as the captain became ever more distracted by his thoughts.

“I might buy her that leather coat she’s been eyeing.”

“Why, sir? Your little girl in need of pampering?”

“She is not my little girl. She’s crew. But unlike yourself, she doesn’t have the luxury of family. And I sternly recommend you drop the tone before we have a problem.”

“Yessir. Either way, I came to see what was up, and now that I know...never thought I’d see you proud of someone, sir.” The pilot heel-turned and tried to take his leave. Before he got anywhere, the captain muttered on.

With the creature hatched and a library of information on her species, we’ve begun the process of accommodating it. Apparently their needs aren’t too complex, and we should be expecting signs of basic intelligence soon enough. The habitat staff finds it somewhat distasteful to harbor a child in this fashion, though they in the position to argue.

Her species is that of Shiloniap, though the p is often replaced with an ‘n’ for simplicity’s sake. What a curious way to handle your own species’ name. 

Shilonians are unusual. They’re hardly involved in galactic affairs, and have quarantined their planet from outsiders. This appears to be rooted in religious and historical beliefs, though there are ways for outsiders to enter. It has been decided that contacting them about the child is the best way to handle this.

As it happens, their lax attitude towards space has put them quite close to a few objectives. Using some gathered intelligence, it’d make a good place to break and weaken the pirate lines and rout them. The recent quiet is best broken on our terms, and attacking near neutral space will catch them completely off guard.

Augmenting this decision is recovered intelligence from the destroyed vessel, which was mostly tasked with a stealth regroup. It’s presence near a celestial body tell me this ship was probably a throwaway for a numbers-based attack, begging the question where their more effective forces will be moving from.

Or why their route took them this deep into federation space to begin with.

The Admiral took his seat besides the soldiers, pilots and cleaning crew. The mess hall wasn’t a place of splendor, the higher dining rooms were given that luxury. However, Vergial wasn’t a man to savor the gifts of life, only the gifts he’d earned himself. It made him relate-able to his men, despite his often harsh but fair attitude. 

Usually he remained quiet and stoic, and now he was absorbed by a folder of papers. Pictures and details that attracted the eyes and leans of the people flanking his space.

“So, Admiral.” The pilot started his query. “What’s it all about?”

“Shilonians. They’re in a blind spot of the Federation due to their isolated nature. Never learnt anything about them until now, as the GF would prefer they’d get steamrolled so they can use the planet for more... productive purposes.” The gray feline’s tone was dour with a hint of annoyance. “Of course they can’t take action themselves. One doesn’t simply invade personal space.”

“Oh, yessir.” The pilot sat himself back down and returned to his bowl of heated liquid. It had little too appraising about it, and its bland taste was a blessing. 

“What part are you at?” The other, yet unremoved soldier asked, peering over the sheet.

“Their external relations. No major representatives, tight border patrol, visa’s more limited than breakline. It makes me wonder why there’s even an egg floating around anyway. They’ve more in common with those low-tech agricultural cults than any true space-faring civilization. That despite their proximity to two of the largest armadas in the galaxy.” He huffed, flicking a page to the soldier’s discontent. 

“Sounds boring.” The eating soldier muttered as he returned to his dish. 

“The architecture is quite interesting. Ornamental with a flare for brightness. Garish and blaring to the eyes. Of course, you can never quite tell with closed societies.”

“You can say that again. I hear enough about people falling for tourist traps.” 

The Admiral was unamused by this response and folded up his document, leaving behind the food he’d yet to eat.“I was more referring to limited exploration space for the archivists and observers. Rare is the planet with a mono-cultural civilization. Even the Federation cannot pretend to be homogenized.”

“Mind if I question your mentality, sir? Because I fail to see why this is so important.” 

The gray feline got up from his seat and took a long hard look at the soldier. He had long figure that, at this table, the rumors and musings would be at their strongest, yet, in the back of his head, he knew that didn’t guarantee the obvious being kept in mind. “The Federation doesn’t extradite prisoners to unclear judicial systems. And I will not hand over a Federation citizen without a clear understanding of what state I’m handing to.”

“Huh.” The pilot nodded and pursed its mandibles together. “Guess she would technically be one, being born in Federation space.”

The Admiral was slightly disappointed. But equally, he was late. Spending time not eating lunch with an appointment immediately after is a fine way to miss out on meals.

Research does not bode well. I’ve decided to play a ploy of sorts. By subtly requesting a list of missing persons from the Shilonian homeworld, I can evade handing her off. I won’t ditch a fresh soul in the grinding of uncaring bureaucracies, especially not one backed by cultural bias.

Apparently Shilonians have a distaste for Starborne offspring. This would explain the egg’s transit, and I cannot help but feel partially responsible for allowing this problem to form. 

Aside from this, the Federation opposes the plan to take military action near their planet. I can understand that bolstering or staging an assault near that location would certainly warrant suspicion, but what planet isolates itself and proceeds to claim diplomatic dominion over neighboring systems? 

Still, their recommendation is to push from friendlier territory, so we have a legal defense should proximity grow too intimate for them. 

By the time we arrive, I’ll have the required information to handle accordingly regarding the child as well as the sweep. For now, preliminary intelligence suggests that my hunch is at the very least plausible, judging by manifesto anomalies.  

13:00 Standard Time. Following a light lunch and a few minor course corrections, the Admiral of the Wayward takes seat behind his desk and peers over several forms. None of them are particularly inspiring or mentally stimulating. Seen before, to the extent that he expertly skims only the most important details and approves where possible.

His hand feels old, aching for something refreshing. Having a natural grey fur didn’t help this feeling of being too old, and every look in the mirror augmented his sense of being past his due date. He never quite figured out what part of that was the usual worry of ambitious youth and his more suicidal side. Adjusting the forms into a neat pile with a few taps on the desk, he peered at his thumbs, wondering about the other Admirals that keenly hired people to handle - and he only uses the term in the most derogatory fashion - the ‘mani-pedi work’ for them. 

His eyes so sharply focused on his thumps, they instantly noticed a stir. His desk ornament, an egg encased in glass, sandwiched between two lumpy lids of metal, had shown a few cracks. Keen eyes didn’t notice them prior, as the ornament showed so little life before there was no need to double check. Mental note to self: train to always double-check ‘the usual’. 

With a detached and scientific eye, the Admiral admired the egg as sharps fall off, bit by bit. A tiny beak was pecking and drilling at it sharps. subsequently revealing pinkish parts. It was rather moist, slimy even, appearing vulnerable as it was innocent. 

The glass silenced its cries, worrying him. His strong hands pinched the top lid, which had a green light glowing. “Ready” it instructed. He knew not what that meant, only that most things tended to breathe, and an airtight incubator may not provide life support. On the other hand, how could the spacefairing man be certain this thing shared the same atmospheric needs? 

If anything, that just made it all the more interesting.

He removed the egg, planting the shell on his desk, uncaring about the filth it would leave behind. His curiosity was peaked by the harmless creature that was inside the egg. Contrasting to most ‘fresh’ life he’d seen, this one wasn’t able to speak or focus too well, seeming almost lost in its own body. 

While he continued to observe it, a spare hand hovered to a panel on his desk. “Doctor Wales, send someone over with a cup or something. The egg has hatched, and I’m certain you’re just as interested as I am in learning the nature of our guest.”

It hatched. This is no surprise, as I anticipated it proceeding flawless. The creature inside is colorful, small and weak. It is unlike anything vatborn. I wonder if life is usually this helpless. I am strangely enthralled. Especially since the good doctor hasn’t a clue what it is. I’ve authorized sending a long-range communication to request the medical profiles of more exotic races, specifically shape-neutral and bird-like races. 

For now, we’re keeping it quarantined for the obvious reasons. Equally, we’re attempting to profile its genetics, so that we can, should a race come forward, begin a search for any potential relatives. 

I am still not sure if I would have preferred non-sentient life.

To the best he knows, the creature is stable. I thought a man with more appreciation for life would be the first to raise the question on the ethicality on handling a creature we have no detailed medical profile on, however it is just as likely that my curiosity has rubbed off. Naturally, he could just be hesitant to object to my opinion on the matter. 

I doubt he’ll be too protective of it, considering its odd habit of biting and snapping at things with its beak. Even dogs don’t go from womb to biting that fast. Not that it bit out of aggression or anything, it just seemed to enjoy biting. I’ve seen enough itchy trigger fingers to know the difference between a man driven by aggression or pleasure, which is honestly not a property I thought could be projected onto a newborn.

I’ve been informed that egg-based life tends to emerge more finished, though this is barely any help without a more extensive profile on the life-cycle of this being. The equivalent of claiming a cruiser has a higher than average speed, while knowing nothing of the average speed to begin with. Encouraging, certainly, but to someone familiar with century-old lifeforms, the standard deviation remains as extreme as before. 

On the other hand, I much prefer this small, fluffy thing to the usual slimy husks that roll out of tubes and wombs. Less mess, less worry. 

Although keeping everyone on station might be hassle. Even the most stern faces crack at the mere idea of getting to see the little thing. Except those who’s natural habit is not to tend to children. An unexpected but educational moment, I can’t deny that. 

(( Written with permission - @vergial ))

Most of our temporary passengers have been handed off. Remaining cargo has also been transferred, though the egg has been left with me on my request. As nobody has made a claim on it, I can continue to sate my curiosity. Not to mention it’d become a staple desk ornament at this point. The physicians can’t make heads nor tail of it, but that is to be expected when the egg in question could be of any race.

Present me with a plate of metal and even I couldn’t tell you what ship it came from. And most rumors that it’s some shape-shifting man eater have subsided due to its... seemingly inert state. The incubator insists everything is fine, and who are we to argue technology tailored to a species we cannot even identify?

With this transfer of weight, we are plotting to return to major frontline operations. A minor interruption has done little to dent the schedule. Morale is high, even with several passengers succumbing to their wounds before proper transfer. Harsh reality must’ve sunken in proper, though once their own lives are at right they may start to feel the true fears of frontline combat. This vessel may not be a fighter, yet that does not assure it will survive a fight without damage or collateral. 

There isn’t much else to mention. Things tend to be quiet outside of the rumormill’s endless creaking.

There is, of course, one detail. That is the complication of whatever’s inside the egg. As time passes, I find myself confronted with the logical question: what then? If it is sentient, then this ship is no place for it. Neither does anyone here have the time to tend to it. If it is not, then a stupid animal would only get hairs in the cracks and equipment. 

Looking at it from that light, holding onto it was a foolish idea. Perhaps I’m hoping its something to get me killed, or something more exciting than the bleak rush of combat. Or perhaps the desire for a surprise that isn’t necessarily lethal. 

Hm.

Could also be my desire to understand greater cultural contexts. The egg does remind me of that prop in that play. How did it go? 

“It was, it is, and it shall be. For the greatest limitation in life is that it only is now and then and for a little while, never knowing its origin and never understanding its path and never comprehending its consequences. Everything begins and ends, yet it can only begin to perceive the path, which too ever changes too fast for any mortal coil to grasp onto it. Like a man tempted to grab a river’s droplets, know where the sea begins and ends and where the water sprouts from the earth, the answer is more oft that of arbitrary habit than factual truth.”

Ugh, those books. They say there’s more to it, but all I see is roundabout ways to state the obvious. The uncertainty principle already lays out the inability to know everything at once, and now some poor sap wants to make a living complaining about it. Although the date implies it was far before modern particle sciences. 

So let me try. 

I wonder if his words inspired my existence. People asking questions tends to lead to answers, more questions, experimentation, the creation of fast food life. Perhaps that’s the idea of books like those? To realign people who can’t see past pragmatic