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Futuristic The Black Divide (Paused)

ArcticFox

Dreamer
Zyrina Centrich
25
Captain of the Eleos

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It was early in the morning. Fourteen days ago, your ship left Earth and its sprawling orbital stations behind, a six-month journey ahead of you. Unfortunately, already, the engines are clicking with an odd, reverberating sound that shivers through the plate-metal floor of your quarters.

Your door chimes with a notification that Oscar, your XO, is outside, but you have been up for a while now. You know your engines, even if you're not the engineer in charge of them. You can hear when they're not at peak performance.

Breakfast was a nutrient bar and a bottle of recycled water, coppery and cold against your teeth: eating in your quarters might be a little depressing, but it's quick. You open the door to find Oscar leaning against the door, rumpled and tired from his night's watch. "Hey, Captain. We ready?"

And that's Oscar calling you Captain again.

- You prefer to be called Captain anyway.
- You prefer to be called by your first name.
- You prefer to be called by your last name.
- You prefer to be called Boss.
- You prefer to be called Ma'am.
- You prefer to be called something else.
 
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The food itself isn't bad, but I miss the camaraderie of a mess hall dinner. Mealtime banter, storytelling, and bonding can make even the blandest MRE taste decent.

Unfortunately, I don't have time for that today.

Oscar walks in as I'm wiping the crumbs from my lips, and his formality elicits an exasperated smile. "You don't have to call me Captain, I told you. Z works just fine," I remind him, though wonder if the nickname will ever actually stick. "But I'm ready, yeah."

As I finish my meal, I look up to Oscar standing in the doorway.
 
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Oscar's your XO, but you treat him like a person and call him by his name; it's only fair to want the same from him.

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Oscar blushes a little, the familiar pink spreading across his olive skin. "Uh, that is, Z. Anyway." He glances down at your clothes. "I should have known you'd be good to go. You look good. I mean, you know. Ready."

Captains can have whatever dress code they want on their ships, and you're no exception. How do you expect you and your crew to dress?

- Strict uniforms, like you are in military.
- Uniforms for the branding.
- Casual clothes.
- You don't care.
 
Oscar is obvious when flustered and it takes everything it me not to play up on that—I usually take any chance I can to bond with my crew, and he's fun like this—but we have a job to do. The teasing can wait.

"Ready and stylish," I add, gesturing to my branded uniform. It's up to my crew what they wear—I've since abolished the dress code, giving them free reign—but I prefer my uniform to anything else, appreciative of the creativity put into it.

Stepping through the door, I motion him to follow. "They say the Captain is never late, but let's not test that theory too much," I say.
 
Some of the other merchant vessels may think you're not a real captain, but you know that clothes don't give you leadership skills.

Oscar's clean and always within regulations, but other than that he doesn't seem to notice that his dark, curly hair is going wild with static.

Oscar, as your Executive Officer, is responsible for monitoring the ship while you're asleep or off duty, for collating reports and information for you, for keeping an eye on the crew and passing on any concerns he can't deal with himself, and, if he is to be believed, for making sure you have time to eat and sleep.

When he manages to get all that done, you're not quite sure. Regardless, Oscar is a man of habit, and in the two weeks since you left Earth the two of you have fallen into a routine of walking the ship each morning, addressing any issues that the other crew have mentioned overnight.

- You've been doing it for years.
- You've been doing for a couple of round trips only.
- This is your first trip through the ship actually.
 
Aside from eating meals together, checking in on the crew is one of my favorite activities. Unfortunately, I'm often too sluggish in the morning to walk the ship myself; I need routine prompting to start the day early. As such, Oscar is key to maintaining this newly-formed, often sporadically successful, schedule... even if I'm mentally cursing him into an abyss every time my alarm wakes me.

I'm rarely put together at this hour but on good days, like this morning, my body doesn't mind the lack of sleep. How Oscar manages everything that he does is beyond me.

"What's first on the list?" I ask.
 
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As you get started, it becomes clear that you won't have a quiet morning. Oscar's touchscreen organiser glows in his hand with densely packed text.

"We have a lot. One piece of good news, though: I haven't heard anything from our passenger, Mr. Bigshot from De Rege Technologies. Uh, Victor. Once Roshan installed those extra brackets to keep his cargo in place, he was a lot happier. As happy as he gets, anyway."

Victor Palladino is your current passenger, along with his company's confidential cargo. Your assignment is to transport him and said cryopods to De Rege's offices on Vesta Station, out in the asteroid belt.

The fees from signing the corporate contract paid for half the fuel and supplies for this trip alone. With the actual fee for the job, you'll be making one hell of a profit. So long as nothing goes wrong: the fact that Victor hasn't found anything to complain about overnight is a minor miracle.

Oscar's already jumped on to the next topic, however, and waves his organiser at you so you can see the T-PES logo on the screen.

"There were some T-PES reports that came in last night, I've sent a summary to your account."

Trans-Planetary Enforcement and Security are militarised police of the Big Black. They're funded by the Earther government, and begrudgingly tolerated by the Martian colonies. Perhaps at one time in history they were a force for good, sworn to protect the shipping lanes and the miners, but now they're much more likely to take a bribe than attempt real, honest paperwork.

- You prefer having the option to bribe them anyway.
- You wish you could rely on them.
- You wonder what made them change.
- You don't care.
 
While I don't have time to converse about Victor, I am grateful that his grievances have been addressed. Things are easier when he's quiet.

"Mmm," I frown at the news. The T-PES has always seemed a mystery to me: Did they really used to be a force for good? If so, what happened? Could they ever change back?

Yet, more than I am curious, I wish I could rely on them. Though, I'm sure there are some decent folk within the T-PES.

"I guess I'll deal with these, then," I say absently, ready to thumb through the reports. Hopefully, there's nothing too eventful to deal with in the paperwork. "Unless there's something more pressing I should work on first?"
 
The Big Black changes people: sometimes for the best, but often not. But that's theory and thought. Oscar is still reporting to you as he walks you round the ship.

"More pressing matters, yes: Roshan wants a hand in engineering, Shiori says you need to report to medical, and Dylan's got a supplies issue."

He pauses, and glances up and down the corridor with cautious golden eyes. Your footsteps echo with a metallic twang, and he adds quietly, "Eira's planning on doing some course corrections, so you probably want to check on her too."

- Ask about the supplies.
- Ask about the engines.
- Ask about the medical.
- Ask about the course.
- Don't ask, just go.
 
I'm on board and ready to go down the list of responsibilities, when the thought of entering Medical stops me short. I grimace. "Shiori isn't wanting another check-up, right?" I say, finding the tests unnecessarily boring and not ready to hear yet another lecture about the effects of my secret sugar stash.
 
Oscar laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"Don't shoot! This is all they've told me. I can go investigate a couple of them before I turn in for my sleep shift, but it's you they want to see."

- Send Oscar to check up on someone.
- Send him to bed.
 
My grimace turns into a sheepish smile. I hate to put more work on Oscar, but... "You wouldn't mind checking in on Shiori for me, would you? Pretty please?" For emphasis, and maybe another laugh, I clasp my hands together and bat my lashes. "I'll owe you one."

Or twenty, considering how often I try to use my executive officer as a means to escape the risk of medical exams. I'm not sure, but Shiori has to know by now that I've been avoiding the medical ward.
 
Oscar bumps his fist lightly against your shoulder.

"Right. You're the captain. You just look after yourself."

He's the one who's stayed up all night writing reports, negotiating with checkpoints, planning resupply locations, and whatever else he finds to do, but then he rarely gives himself a break. This time, though, he slips down one of the side corridors towards the med bay.

You're alone in the corridor now. When you walk, your footsteps echo on the burnished metal plating, and without the distraction of conversation you can still hear the odd rattle from the engines of your ship. Above your head, the name of your ship is proudly etched onto the wall: something Roshan had insisted on doing freehand, with a laser. His penmanship is remarkable, with flawless calligraphy that reads:

- What's your ship's name?
 
I breathe a sigh of relief; lecture avoided, at least for now. Though, as he heads toward the med bay, I can't help but feel a little guilty considering all he does for me outside of handling my personal problems, too. "Thank you, Oscar!"

I'll have to find a way to repay him. Maybe the next time we reach port, I'll treat him to a drink. Or food. I can't remember if Oscar drinks, though a drunk Oscar sounds super funny.

Focus! Focus. I have other things to do than fantasize about our next crew outing. The eloquent label of "Eleos", commonly referred to as The Eleos, makes me smile. Perhaps a trip to Engineering will help alleviate, or at least distract me from, my guilty conscience.
 
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The Eleos is a good ship. Reliable. You're happy your name is on its papers.

Captain Zyrina Centrich of The Eleos, the thoughts fill your head as you walk toward the engines. But you weren't always a merchant captain. You had a life before, one that is sometimes startlingly easy to forget, out here in the Big Black.

- You were in the First Colonial Militia.
- You were an heir to a corporate family fortune.
- You were a doctor.
- You were a researcher.
- You were a navigator for a big company.
- You built ships.
 
As I walk through the halls, the quiet gets me and memories of home slow my steps. It's been a while since I've seen my parents and younger sister, who I selfishly dumped my responsibilities on before practically running away to explore space.

My feet carry me to a stop. I wonder if she's holding up better than I would have, had I accepted my role and inherited the family fortune. Does she enjoy the wealth, the glamour, the strict regulations of appearance? Or does she yearn for something less restrictive like I once did?

Does she miss me? Does she hate me?

I slap my face between cold hands at that last thought, refusing to indulge in such pessimism. I haven't heard from my sister in a long time, but I like to think she's proud of me for making a name for myself separate from our parents' status. I'm proud of myself.

"Okay, Z, time to get to work," I audibly tell myself, as if just thinking it won't change gears enough to push the memories aside.
 
The family fortune that your parents held was built rather questionably. A socialist answer to dwindling resources and mechanisation, underemployed workers and cramped cities: twenty families all living as one, pooling their skills, their resources, their love and compassion. And your grandparents on the top of it all. You acted as caretaker for the group for a time, until it was enough.

All that is in the past now. You've got a ship to command, and a crew that needs you.

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You head down to the belly of the ship, where Roshan monitors and maintains the essential systems: propulsion, gravity, and life support. As you get closer, the odd whining quality to the sound of the engines becomes clearer.

When you reach the engine room, Roshan is nowhere to be seen, though you can hear rattling and banging as if he's taking out her aggression on some part of your ship.

- Check his maintenance routine on your personal computer.
- Yell for him.
- Climb over the equipment and follow the sound.
 
"Someone's grumpy," I note, peering about in effort to find my engineer. The easy approach would be to call for him—surely, Rashan would answer, right?—but that takes the fun out of things, and I'm starting to wake up from my early morning.

So I try to scout him on my own, hoping to figure out what he's doing, exactly, before interrupting. That and I'm feeling a bit playful; with one less stop on my itinerary thanks to Oscar, I might could do with a prank or two. Depends.
 
You head around his workstation, sprayed as it is with crumbs of half-eaten protein bars and pencil shavings, and clamber athletically over the engine to follow the sounds of one very frustrated engineer, all the way to the south access tunnel.

The panel that normally closes it sits leaning against the wall, with a toolbox open and half-empty beside it. Now you're closer, you can hear Roshan singing a song to himself in a hodge-podge mix of a bunch of languages you don't understand. He's translated it for you before: it's a counting song taught to children of the Belt about stars and colonies.

He catches sight of you as she reaches for a laser-guided cutter, and swears in surprise, dropping his tools and hitting his head on the low ceiling of the tunnel.

"Zyrina! Ow. Give me a second."

He shuffles his way out.

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When he emerges, he looks ruffled but energetic, as usual. His pale skin has the desaturated sheen of someone who grew up off-world, but it's never seemed to slow him down.

"So. Zyrina. You're here to give me a hand, right?"

- Ask about the engines.
- Ask why are the engines breaking so soon.
- Say you want to help.
 
I wish I remembered the song because, to my ears, it's quite catchy. I find myself humming along to the tune, though I don't quite hit all of the notes.

A hand flies to my mouth, stifling a laugh. "Are you okay? I didn't meant to scare you," I say, but then shake my head. "Well, I did mean to scare you, eventually, but not when you were at risk of hitting your head. Sorry, aha..."

When he's ready and addressing me, I offer a smile. "Yep, here to help! But, uh, why is the engine breaking so soon? Wasn't it in good condition not too long ago... or something?"
 
"It's complicated," Roshan says, and heaves an over-dramatic sigh. He takes you over to his workstation, where he taps a couple of commands out to bring the power logs up on the main screen.

He points to the regulator power readouts. "It's a parts issue. We've been using Dubrovnik since they cornered the market on price, but they're not known for their longevity. Right now, it only affects efficiency, but it's the first sign that it's going to degrade further. Then blow. Then leave us dead in the water."

- Ask him to repair it.
- Ask if there's a replacement on board.
- Say you should by something more expensive next time.
- Something else.
 
"Well, that's not good..." My brows knit and, admittedly, I can't think of an answer. Engineering isn't my field, even though I can tell, most of the time, when something is amiss. "Do we have any replacements on board? I really don't want to deal with the Dubrovnik getting worse down the line, especially with our current hotshot on board."
 
Roshan grimaces. "Yes, but then we won't have a spare part for later in the journey. On the other hand, it'll mean we get moving faster now, and get a head start on the schedule."

- Keep the spare for an emergency.
- Help him repair the part.
- Help him replace the part.
- Tell Roshan to replace the part now.
 
I pinch the bridge of my nose—What the heck am I supposed to do?—and take a calming breath. I just have to think.

"What if we alternate them at signs of wear?" I ask, hand falling away. "I'll help you repair the Dubrovnik, but if you notice it's starting to accumulate stress later, we swap it with the spare to alleviate some of the pressure. It might take a bit longer, but is that a possible option?" Victor likes to complain, but I'd rather him point out discrepancies than have The Eleos get stranded in space because I was too impatient—that wouldn't be good for anyone.
 
"Captain..." Roshan sighs, placing a hand on your shoulder. "With all due respect, it's clear you know nothing about engines. It's gonna take a whole day to replace the engine part, during which time the ship cannot move. I don't see it helping the pace at all."

- Insist on it.
- Do something else.
 

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