Petals of Titanium -- My Life as a Mecha Setting Bridge Bunny Quest

Rather than risk a reprimand and your concerns being dismissed again, it might be better to simply do more of the work yourself -- it's clear to you that this level of subterfuge is unlikely to be coming from some paranoid smuggler with a rudimentary encryption suite. The more you look at the junk data, the less certain you are that any of it is actually junk; a shockingly large amount of information is buried in this garble, and it will take more time than you have to sort it out, to say nothing of cracking the analogue code that the information is disguised by underneath. But you're certain that if you keep at it, you can at least get enough work done that it will be impossible to dismiss as something not meriting further scrutiny.

You focus your attention on what you think is a single complete block of data you've pulled out of the mess, hoping you have a large enough sample size to work with. To your unhappy surprise, it's easier than you expect: It becomes apparent, before too long, that the code you're looking at is derived from an obsolete, pre-Civil War Imperial Navy protocol that your software suite still has on file. It was abandoned by both sides for the simple fact that both sides had full knowledge of it. Apart from this clear lineage, however, you're having a lot of trouble getting any specifics, meaning that this is unlikely to be anything originating with your own side. You've identified what seem to be a series of numbers, however, and when plotted on a table, beside some of the accompanying data, it almost looks like…

You gasp audibly. It's not incredibly loud, necessarily, but it's loud enough, when First Officer Grayson happens to be drifting past on his way back to the command chair. He had been hovering over Anja's seat, conferring with her as she relayed a status report from the mecha squad, presumably still in the midst of their recon sweep. Now, he's staring at you, a look of curiosity on his face.

"Something wrong, North?" he asks. Then he frowns, putting a massive hand on the back of your chair in order to lean over your shoulder and get a look at your display. "What's this your working on?" he asks.

"It's something we picked up up about two hours ago, sir," you say, trying not to glance nervously over at Mazlo.

"We just… picked this up?" Grayson says, brow creasing with concern. "From no clear source?"

"No, sir," you confirm. "The mecha squad relayed it in one of their sweeps, and it wasn't any clearer once we picked it up on ship-scanners a short while later. It looked like it was more than just scan noise, so--"

"Ensign, I believe I told you to disregard that signal," Mazlo snaps, face colouring. He shoots you a deeply disapproving look, before shifting his attention up to Grayson, looking as though he's about to apologise for your time-wasting, but when he sees the First Officer's expression, he stops, mouth still open.

"You told her to disregard this?" he says, quiet, and uncharacteristically unsmiling. He jabs a sausage-sized finger at your display. "This?"

"Sir?" Mazlo asks, plainly taken aback.

"Sub Lieutenant, what does this look like to you?" Grayson grips the base of your display, and reorients it so that it faces toward Mazlo.

Mazlo's eyes screw up in confusion as he notices that he is clearly not just looking at random noise or garbled civilian communications, then go wide as he makes out what you've uncovered: What, by all appearances is a list of ship names accompanied by a list of encoded coordinates. "... oh." It's all he can seem to manage, the word coming out small and defeated as he seems to deflate. At Grayson's continued, expectant silence, he seems to realise he's expected to answer. "They… look like they could be fleet movements, sir," he says, with extreme reluctance.

"Yes," Grayson agrees, releasing your display. It slowly eases back into its original position, dictated by your height and preferences. "It looks a great deal like fleet movements. Encoded with a protocol that decidedly is not ours, encrypted to read as scan-lag in case of interception, and originating from who knows where."

The entire bridge is deathly silent, and Mazlo's ordinarily tan features are paling visibly. Grayson visibly takes a moment to take a calming breath, looking very much like a man who does not enjoy being angry, but is having to struggle against it nonetheless. "North," he says, finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do we have any idea where this came from?"

You hesitate momentarily, glancing back over your readouts, although you know what your best answer will still be. "Not exactly, sir," you admit, before adding: "... but it's a long-range transmission, and the recipient -- the intended recipient -- is probably nearby. "

--

"Ma'am, at approximately 0632, ensign Song's unit relayed scan data including a strange signal. I believe that it appeared to be so degraded that the ship's filters flagged it as scan-noise at first." Captain Andre nods her understanding. A mecha's scanners and computing power is never going to match a ship's. And Song pilots an unmodified ISM32 Banner -- a famous, general purpose mecha with an illustrious service history, still in active use by both incarnations of the Solar Empire, but well over ten years' old by this point. It's a strange sort of irony to think that the mecha's weaker scan processing had been the point of failure for the otherwise engenius hiding method. That, and a lucky observation by you. "I noticed that the scan-noise seemed to be slightly too random to be natural," you continue, "and so I examined it more closely."

"It was at this point, then, that you reported the anomaly to Sub Lieutenant Mazlo?" Andre interjects. You fight the urge to wince. Behind you, Mazlo stiffens slightly.

"Yes, ma'am," you confirm, and you can feel his level gaze boring into the back of your head. It was never specifically your intent to make your superior look incompetent in the eyes of the captain and first officer. Arguably, how things happened weren't even your fault -- Mazlo had recognised what you'd found, in the end, once he'd seen the preliminary results spelled out so clearly for him. There is a version of these events where you got this far, or perhaps a little farther, quietly brought the signal's true nature to Mazlo's attention, and he was able to pass the information on to your mutual superiors. Good will for him, and a pat on the head for you. Now, inadvertently, you have earned the ire of the man you directly report to.

"And, despite his firm suggestion that you turn your attention elsewhere, you persisted." Captain Andre is middle aged -- somewhere in her 60s. All gaunt face and bony limbs, she gives the impression of constant weariness even when she hasn't been woken up after less than four hours' sleep. She's fully dressed now, sitting strapped in behind her desk. Another feature of the ship that seems largely for the optics of the whole thing. You have to admit, however -- hanging where you are, in the middle of Andre's office with her sitting on the other side of it, already in full uniform, complete with officer's cap, the optics are working.

"Yes, ma'am," you admit. You try to ignore the certainty you feel that Mazlo is currently imagining having you thrown out of an airlock. "It… seemed genuinely promising, and I thought that if I had a chance to look at it more closely, Sub Lieutenant Mazlo would agree that it might be important."

"And," she says, with the barest trace of amusement, "He didn't explicitly order you to stop, and you thought you could get away with it." You feel your face heating, but she holds up a pale, bony hand to head off the response that you didn't know how to begin anyway. "But, you looked into it further, and you found…"

"A data transmission, ma'am," you say, grateful for the reprieve. "Encrypted to look like meaningless scan-noise. And then encoded from there, with a protocol based on Imperial Navy 22, but heavily modified in a way the manual doesn't recognise. I did what I could, to see what might be in it, and what I have determined is that, while I have not managed to pull specific digits out, the data appears to be a series of ship names as well as coordinates."

"Fleet movements, intended for someone nearby to receive," Andre says, and you nod. She sighs, and rubs a hand over her eyes, fatigue seeming to land heavily on her shoulders all at once, in spite of the weightless environment onboard the ship. "Is Perbeck coming back in or not?" she asks, suddenly addressing Grayson.

He shakes his head. "Lady Perbeck says that she intends to extend the squad's current sweep, in light of this news."

"I'll call her after this," Andre says, her voice close to a growl of frustration. The command structure of the Rose has the slight, awkward complication that, despite being afforded the courtesy title of captain, Andre's actual rank is only commander. While this was normal for a ship the size of the Titanium Rose, it was the same rank as Lady Perbeck's. And despite Andre having some years' seniority over the countess, she is the rare senior naval officer without title, knighthood, or powerful family, placing her decisively beneath Perbeck both in social strata as well as useful connections. Combined, these factors make pulling rank somewhat uncomfortable, even if naval tradition dictates a level of deference to the captain of the ship. You don't know the details of how precisely a lowborn officer made it this high without either being obtaining at least a knighthood or marrying up, but a lot happened during the war.

Andre's steel-grey eyes -- almost exactly the same shade as her hair -- go back to you. "Your… initiative may not be entirely regulation, North," she says, "but I won't lie and say I don't prefer this to flying into things as blind as we were. Well done, and don't do it again."

You fight the urge to fidget under her gaze. You're not entirely certain how to take that last comment. Fortunately, there's only one response required of you. "Yes, ma'am," you say.

"North, you're dismissed, return to your station. Grayson, go back to the bridge for now, and inform Perbeck that I'll confer with her there shortly."

"Yes, ma'am," you say once again, this time in unison with Grayson, your own high, clear voice almost lost in his baritone rumble.

"Sub Lieutenant…" her gaze flicks over to Mazlo, and to his credit, he doesn't flinch. "I'd like a private word with you, before you go back to establishing the connection to Phoebe that I expected you would have waiting for me hours ago."

You don't hesitate to snap off your smartest salute, and follow Grayson back out into the shaft.

--

The Battle of Navi debris field
The Phoebe ring
Outer Saturn System

The Imperial Civil War was fought in all corners of human-occupied space. Following the death of the previous emperor, the twelve Archdukes and Archduchesses of the Imperial Electorate had been faced with a dilemma -- while they could appoint anyone belonging to the twisting, byzantine branches of the Family Imperial, in actual practise, the selection needed to be someone with enough influence that all of the major players in the empire could at least respect their rule. This time, there was no easy choice. The emperor's preferred successor had been his son, a volatile firebrand with a strong martial bent, who openly talked about punishing 'deviant members of imperial society'. The Electors, hoping to avoid putting such a temperment on the throne, instead chose his half-sister -- a solid, staid, altogether unremarkable woman of middling talent and little charisma. A compromise empress.

The spurned prince had immediately declared the decision invalid, the Electors illegitimate, and named himself to be the rightful emperor on the back of the Cult of the Divine Emperor that had been quietly growing in power for decades. Entire fleets and colonies were wiped out in the coming years, and swathes of Earth and Mars are to this day scorched stretches of glassed earth. At that time, all of the various imperial governors, families and military outfits were forced to choose a side.

Saturn got off largely unscathed, with only three major actions before the loyalist governor firmly asserted control of the remote system. Half the major moons of jupiter are ringed with the remains of shattered war machines and habitats alike, and Ceres in the asteroid belt is a cold grave for two hundred thousand souls. There are only certain, specific places in the Saturn system were the grim wreckage of the war remain. The debris field from the Battle of Navi -- in truth, a poorly planned, chaotic battle fought some distance away from the tiny moon of the same name -- lays strewn across the Phoebe ring, disrupting the naturally occuring dust ring with its passage, creating comms interference and the physical hazard of the debris field itself slowly but steadily moving inward, moving fast enough for the densest portion of the debris field to overtake Phoebe roughly once every two years. An annoyance, and an unhappy reminder, for most who encounter it.

For the officers arrayed around the conference room of the Holy Solar Empire ship HDMS Amaranth, it has proven to be an opportunity to come close to their intended target while remaining substantially hidden. The facility's long range capabilities, while impressive, do not infer the same sort of special powers of detection on their short range scanners or technicians, so long as the covert task force doesn't do anything to betray their presence early.

Sir Ivanov, Captain of the Amaranth and commander of the assembled task force, leans over the table the holographic representation of Phoebe, ignoring the moon itself to highlight the trailing orbital habitat. Pushing 100 standard years, he shows no sign of retiring anytime soon. "We know from intercepted transmissions, that they leave only a skeleton crew on the actual moon, and their entire senior command structure is housed on the station." He smiles grimly -- the heretics' communications were laughably easy to intercept and decrypt. It was as if they've learned nothing in their ten year reprieve. "We hit it hard and fast, before they can bring a proper defence to bear. It's not fortress grade. We have enough firepower to overwhelm their defences. What little they have."

Tang, commander of the first of the Amaranth's escort ships, frowns, pointing down to the defence equipment "Lightly defended or not, sir, those anti-space guns they have moon-side can tear through Green's mech squad if they get half a chance." Ignoring the deeply uncharitable look Commander Green is now shooting her, she continues, "I would respectfully suggest, sir, that we make sure to time the attack as soon as the communications complex has gone out of range. This rock doesn't even have a ten hour rotational period, and that's less time than I'm comfortable with, even if things go as simply as planned."

Ivanov looks from her to Khan, her counterpart from the Amaranth's second escort, seeing agreement on the younger woman's face. "Agreed," he says, after a moment. Fortunately, as Tang has just pointed out, due to the habitat stations' orbit being technically around Saturn rather than Phoebe itself, it is impossible to put it in geosynchronous orbit with the communications and observational facility itself.

"That will give the facility on the moon half a chance to send a distress signal to the rest of their fleet," Green pointed out. He hovers a distance away from them all, scarred and weathered as he is solidly built, the sleeves of his brilliantly white Holy Navy of Correction uniform rolled up past his elbows, muscular arms crossed over his chest.

"We're here to put out their eyes and ears in the outer system," Tang says, her thin lips pressing together with dislike. "Our orders are to carry out a surprise attack, not specifically to avoid all detection after the fact." Ivanov often thinks it's fortunate that the Amaranth, a Flower-class light carrier, houses the entirety of the task forces mecha forces, limiting Tang's exposure to the gruff mecha commander.

"If we can do it without immediately putting their entire fleet on high alert," Green counters, "then that's what we should do. And there's the other complication. The lieutenant just came back with a report."

Ivanov turns to look at the most junior officer present, a serious young woman, her complexion and hair a smart contrast to the sleek white lines of the pilot suit she still wears. Green's lieutenant is some sort of rising star pilot, who has been leading the scouting passes that they've been carrying out around the installation, and so far, doing them well in that new prototype model of hers. Ivanov had raised an eyebrow when Green took a message partway into this meeting, and again when the girl had arrived, but Green is steady enough, even if he does like his theatrics. "Report, Lieutenant," he allows.

"Sir!" she says, clapping one arm across her chest, fist clenched, in the new style salute favoured by the emperor. "We have detected enemy mecha moving ahead of a scouting ship, heading in the direction of Phoebe."

"And you can be sure you weren't seen?" Ivanov asks, frowning. A patrol ship at this particular time was not part of the plan, even if a scouting vessel is unlikely to truly change the balance of power. Even one carrying some token force of mecha.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant confirms, with enough youthful earnestness that he feels suddenly twice his actual age. "I had us cut comms traffic while we were in range, to prevent accidental discovery. They seem to be doing reconnaissance sweeps around the ship. Two Banners and an unfamiliar unit, and we couldn't get close enough for a clear scan, but the ship is either a Ranger or a Herald class."

"A ranger would certainly cause more trouble," Khan say, thoughtfully. The lighter, more traditional Herald class, despite having a similar scan signature and confirmation, is poorly equipped for combat against even a solitary warship, for all that it's faster than sin.

"I have my own suggestion in light of this, sir," Green says, moving over to the planning table. "It's a long trip out to Phoebe from the inner system, and they're probably on patrol -- months onboard that ship, eating nothing but zero-g slop and seeing nothing but the same four walls the entire time." He grins at this, and rueful smiles are exchanged around the room from everyone but Tang, who is still glowering at him. It had been an exceptionally long voyage from Jupiter. "If we wait for them to dock with the orbital station, they'll be helpless. Half the crew will be off getting drunk or finding what entertainment they can, and I'd be surprised if the mecha crew weren't right there with them. They'll never be able to respond in time. How close are they to the station?"

"Six hours out, at their current speed, Commander," Green's lieutenant says, obediently.

He nods, adjusting the hologram to show the passage of time. Phoebe and the habitat spin at numerous times their normal speed as he does so.

"In six hours, those AS guns will have the area around the habitat in range again!" Tang protests.

"Yes," Green agrees, "but I'll take a few fixed guns we know about ahead of time over a ship loose in the equation. After they're docked, we can't afford to wait for the planet to rotate all the way around again -- we'd go outside our time window. So we'd need to hit the lunar installation first. Hard. Take out the guns and the comms. The station will be easy meat then, with that speedy little ship still strapped to it. We'll have to deal with the mechas in the station, but I'll take those odds."

Ivanov looks between Green, with his blunt confidence, and the silently fuming Tang. Khan is quiet, as usual, and her attention is entirely on Ivanov himself, clearly awaiting his decision. "Green has a point," he allows, finally. Tang stiffens, but maintains her composure. "The last thing we want is an unpredictable variable. We've received our confirmation from Forward Command that their ships are in place, and they're relying on us to disable this station." The message, beamed in from long range, heavily encrypted and disguised as mere scan-noise, has only been fully decoded in the last hour, but it confirms what Ivanov had hoped to hear. "The commander of that scouting ship will have to order shore leave once they dock. They'll practically have a mutiny on their hands otherwise."

--

Aboard the HIMS Titanium Rose

News that the captain has declined to allow shoreleave is met with a fairly apocalyptic air onboard the Rose. A pall of bitter disappointment hangs over the mess hall, tinged with fear and confusion over the ship having been placed on alert almost immediately afterward. You're back in the bridge after this, your regular duties altered in order to staff every station fully in anticipation of things going south on the approach. While every crew member has not been given all the relevant information, enough rumours have circulated around that people are getting an idea.

A space first class, who plainly thinks you're too far away to hear her, is leaning on the edge of a table nearby, muttering to her companions about "silly green ensigns out on their first voyage, jumping at shadows and ruining things for the rest of us." You elect to pretend not to hear it with as much virtuous stoicism as you can muste, rather than offering a reprimand -- harmless griping isn't your primary concern at the moment, after all. And a large part of you genuinely hopes she's correct.

"Well, North, you've really stuck us in it now, huh?" Anja says, beside you, without rancor. "No shore leave and we might be blown up by an enemy mystery fleet at any moment." She quickly downs the contents of her meal pouch ominously labelled POULTRY DINNER with speed born more out of experience than of enthusiasm. It's the worst one, and no one wants it in their mouth longer than absolutely necessary.

"It's not as though the second part couldn't have happened without me finding it," you say, keeping your voice low.

"Well, sure," Anja agrees, after swallowing, with a face. "But at least I could have been in the middle of a slightly decent meal by then. Ignorance is bliss, North."

"Are you going to drink that coffee, Anja?"

Both of you look up, startled, at the bedraggled man in a pilot's suit who's just drifted over to your table. You instantly salute, and so does Anja… albeit less sharply than she would have with any other superior officer. "Well, I was," she admits, "but I know a man in need when I see one. Here."

Sub Lieutenant Ito returns your salute, nearly missing the tossed coffee pouch on his first grab, but hangs onto it rather than drinking it. which he wastes no time in pulling open -- it's fortunately already heated. "One is not enough for right now," he mutters. His own pilot's suit is somewhat less ornate than Perbeck's -- Ito comes from a respected military family, but he's hardly a countess. He's broad shouldered, of middling height, and of clear East Asian ancestry, ordinarily possessing a sort of jocular intensity that now you only catch flashes of, as he shoots Anja a grateful grin. "I swear, she's going to be the death of me," he says, after finishing the coffee with frightening speed. "And Song. But, Song will literally let it kill her before she lowers herself to complain."

"... Lady Perbeck?" Anja ventures, looking torn between amusement and genuine concern.

"Yes, Lady Perbeck," Ito agrees. "She's running us all ragged. Including herself. " He indicates the coffee pouch. "She's giving us a short while to eat and wash and take care of the other necessities, mostly because the chief convinced her that she needs to give the units a good tune up if we're going to be pushing this constantly. I could have married that woman then and there, honestly. I'm going to try and convince the Commander to at least have a coffee and a meal replacement bar. She won't leave the mecha deck, says this all gives her a bad feeling. We've got the emergency stim patches, but you go crazy just surviving on those."

"Hey, I was willing to give up this coffee when it was for you," Anja complains. "Not so you can look like a diligent second-in-command."

"Maybe I don't like your tone, Ensign," Ito says, mustering up some mock severity.

"My mistake," Anja says, nodding repentantly. "Please, go get fucked, sir."

"Anja!" He hisses, looking around, plainly concerned for her being overhead. "What someone hears that ?" He looks at you briefly, noting your poorly disguised shock at the exchange, as if wondering whether you might snitch them out.

"It's not too likely anyway," Anja says, philosophically. "Shore leave's been cancelled, remember?"

He stares at her blankly for a moment, mouth slightly open. Then his lip twitches, and seemingly less than a second later, he's doubled over, laughing so hard that he's actually drifting away from the table. Anja quickly joins in, leaving you to uncomfortably sip your JUICE, CITRUS primly, while all around others stared and wondered what on earth could have been so funny. They don't stare too long, however. The laughter has a slightly hysterical edge to it -- people find relief where they can.

"Well," you say, only a little stiffly, after they're finished. "Good luck on your next sortie, sir."

Ito shares a look with Anja, possibly amusement at your expense. "I appreciate that, North..." he says, grabbing back onto the table before he can float back out of range. He flashes you a grin, looking a little more like himself after the laughter. He's sporadically, strikingly handsome, usually only when he smiles like that. "... But I prefer to make my own luck."

With that, he flips himself around, and pushes himself off with a backward wave at the two of you.

You both watch him go until Anja abruptly makes a disgusted sound, crumpling up the packaging in her hand. "I hate it when he tries to act cool," she says.

--

"We have a transmission queue already established," the bored, thin-faced commodore says on the display screen. "And we will certainly add your scan data to the list, but I don't see that it is of as pressing a concern as all that, commander." He has been pointedly referring to captain Andre by her serving rank for the entirety of the conversation, seemingly annoyed even by her request to speak to him immediately.

"Lord Cadorna," Captain Andre says, carefully. "The reason for us being sent out on this patrol was to safeguard against possible enemy encroachment. We have obtained what may well be evidence of such. It is imperative that high command receive this data, or at very least the intelligence of its existence."

"Yes, Commander," Cadorna says, derisiveness even more open now. "I'm sure you consider your orders to be of paramount importance. We have our own tasks to see to here, however." It seems doubtful that the sort of passive observation that Phoebe is undertaking -- inter-planetary observations of Jupiter and the Holy Empire controlled asteroid belt -- would be of the same urgency for high command to receive as the possible existence of an unknown fleet somewhere within transmission range of far Saturn Orbit.

You sit at your bridge station, awkwardly staring at your display as the conversation plays out. The exchange has been excruciating from the beginning; Lord Cadorna almost immediately took pains to subtly inquire after Andre's family consequence, or lack thereof, his demeanor becoming more condescending by degree as the conversation went on. Never mind that this poky station and desolate moon is perhaps the least prestigious post a commodore could be given, doubly so for one who is also a lord. It still puts him far above the position of a lowly serving officer promoted for nothing more significant than valour in the face of the enemy.

Seeing Andre appear unconvinced, Cadorna sighs. "The debris field from the Battle of Navi is passing very close at the moment, Commander," he says. "It creates all number of interference and false positive on scan. If I had my station leap to full alert at the first sign of trouble every time, we'd certainly be in poor shape."

"... as you say, sir," Andre says, with a smile so insincere it's actually painful to look at. "In the meantime, however, to be on the safe side, our mecha squad will be running regular reconnaissance sweeps into the debris field."

The commodore's own smile is equally false. "If it helps your peace of mind, commander," he says. You consider whether this exchange would be going better were Lady Perbeck present -- quite possibly, although it would have been humiliating in the extreme for the captain to ask such a thing of her.

Out of the corner of your eye, in the CiC, you can see Anja frowning at her screen, and leaning over to confer quietly with Grayson, who touches his own headset, and glances apprehensively up at Captain Andre. "Ma'am," he begins, with some clear trepidation in interrupting the conversation, strained and unproductive as it's proving to be, "Ensign Song has detected a moving target within sensor range of the moon."

Andre turns in her seat, frowning at him, while on the other side of the call, the commodore didn't even pretend to be annoyed. "And she's sure it's not just hot debris?" A certain percentage of spaceship debris destroyed in battle could continue emitting some sort of signature long, long after the ship had been blown to pieces. This made the debris fields much easier to track, but also made it difficult to differentiate quickly on a conventional scan between such an object moving quickly through space and something like an enemy machine.

"She's… quite certain," Grayson says.

"Give me her channel," Andre says, turning back to the front of the room. The large screen showing the commodore's face is resized to half its original width, and beside it, a mecha visual readout screen appears, divided into four quadrants. In one, Ensign Song's intense, excited face can be seen from front-on. In another, a visual feedout from her mecha's single, high powered optical lense shows the immediate surroundings being piped into her helmet's VR display. The third and fourth show statistical readouts, and a copy of her scan screen, respectively. On the screen, Song can be seen flying through a field of twisted metal and polymer. In the distance, the black, pitted surface of Phoebe can bee seen, the lights from the communications towers and observatory on its surface blinding against its flat black surface, and the rotating disc of the orbital station is clearly visible revolving around its spindle, a bit like a children's toy left spinning in space. Beyond that, Saturn stays fixed in space, small and distant with its seemingly pristine rings. The target she's tracking through the debris is highlighted on the scan as a flashing red point moving through a three dimensional cloud of similar points.

She's talking into her helmet's microphone, excitement thick in her voice. "... ut I've found something, Commander!" she says.

Lady Perbeck's unhappy reply comes through for the entire bridge to hear. "You're ahead of formation. Pull back and wait for us to catch up."

"They'll get away!" Song says, sounding horrified. "I'm nearly there, I just have to--" she gasps, suddenly, as she flies between two moving pieces of spaceship hull, and catches sight of something fast moving and humanoid shaped darting out of view. "Contact, Commander!" she says, excitement mounting. "There's someone out here!" A moment later, another shape darts into sight, and Song begins to take fire.

"What is happening, Andre?" the commodore finally snaps. He can see Andre's reactions, and those of the shocked bridge crew behind her, but not what's being see.

"Mazlo, establish a stronger link with the station and steam the commodore what Song is seeing," she says, her voice strangely steady.

"Yes, ma'am!" Mazlo says beside you, still plainly stinging from the private reprimand he received earlier.

Andre presses a button on her workstation, even as the commodore's expression turns from a scowl to gaping, wide-eyed horror. "All hands, this is the captain speaking," she says, and you know that her voice is being piped into every compartment of the ship. "We have confirmation of unknown enemies in the area and are now entering into level 1 battle readiness." You can imagine the controlled chaos her words cause, as the entire ship drops everything to take up their battlestations, most of them wondering desperately what could be going on.

Perbeck's voice comes back on, as Song evades, trying to return fire with her ISM32 Banner's anti-mecha rifle, the rounds missing the slight, darting figure of her target by a wide margin. "Song, report!" she snaps. "Report!"

"I have engaged one enemy machine, Commander. They're fast!" All at once, something slams hard into the back of Song's Banner, sending her view spinning crazily. A second red, flashing dot has appeared on her scans. "Two! Two!" she shouts.

"Ito, you're closer, move in to support her!" Perbeck orders.

"Lady Perbeck, we are aware of the situation and taking appropriate action," Captain Andre tells her, even as Ito acknowledges Perbeck's command.

"Understood," came Perbeck's harried response.

"I want scans showing me all active combatants in the area," Andre says, eyes not leaving her workstation. "And I want to get confirmation on the model of those things she's fighting."

"I'm working on it, captain!" you tell her, honestly. The debris is making narrowing things down very difficult, with stray shots from Song's erratic skirmish sending debris scattering in all directions and fouling things further.

"Point-defence systems are fully live, captain," a voice says, from somewhere at the back of the room.

"Weapons systems online," chimes in another.

"Commander Andre, I did not give you permission to power up weapons in my space!" the commodore says, torn between directionless fury and obvious confused fear.

"Respectfully, sir," Andre says, "I do not require such permission prior to formally entering the docking sequence. I suggest you take your own measures."

Lord Cadorna stares at her for a moment, deciding how he should take this. Action and common sense wins out. He turns away from the display, and begins barking out his own orders, and the call cuts off. Beside you, Mazlo is already in contact with his counterpoint on the station, presumably undertaking the task of coordinating with your allies against this threat.

On the screen, Song is fighting for her life. Whatever is firing at her, in terms of speed and maneuverability, it's in an entirely different class than Song's Banner, try as she might, and she is taking numerous minor hits from a caliber weapons. "ISM47 Vespula, ma'am!" a voice calls out. "A scouting model the enemy developed during the end of the war!" An image flashes onto one of the large screens -- a mecha with long legs, a sleek confirmation, and three ocular cameras set at different angles in its head.

"Well, who else could it be?" Andre sighs, if not taking the confirmation that this is a Holy Empire incursion in stride, at least readily accepting it.

"I'm almost within range to assist," Sub Lieutenant Ito's voice adds. You wonder whether he might already be too late -- Song's very clearly in over her head. Even as you watch, she takes a direct hit to one of her limbs. You feel a little guilty for the thought a moment later, when, in one of their darting passes, Song manages to boost forward at precisely the right angle, extend her Banner's offhand monofilament blade, and score a deep cut into the fragile frame of one of the enemy Vespulas. It spins away wildly, venting atmosphere and meca fuel into hard vacuum.

"One enemy down!" Song shouts, sounding equal parts terrified and exhilarated.

"Good," Perbeck says. "Now pull back toward the ship!"

Rather than respond, Song screams: Something fast, faster even than the Vespulas, has just gone active on her scans, and darted in close, dodging both her fire and then her attempted blows at melee range in order to drive something that looks very much like a five metre long spike through her mecha's chest. Through the cockpit. The last image any of you have of Ensign Suyin Song's face is intense fear, followed by a horrible slackening, before the feed finally cuts out.

You try to focus on your work. On your display, there are still numerous hits on scan which you can't confirm one way or another, made worse as the station begins launching mechas of its own from a hangar. Ancient ISM07 Lancers -- good machines in their day, but substantially outclassed by nearly anything that's come after them. Something large lights up in the debris field, taking all your attention.

"At least one enemy ship!" You say, but already, there's a heavy impact and a flash of light from the observation platform on Phoebe's surface, its shields flaring in a way you're not entirely certain they can duplicate; a direct hit from a warship grade railgun.

"North, where are we on those scans?" Andre asks sharply, sparing a moment to look in your direction, in between issuing complex repositioning orders to the helmsman. She's clearly hardly pleased about the pilot's horrible death moments before, but she didn't survive the Civil War by letting every individual death bog her down. Your scans are still only two thirds complete, and that remaining third is the hard part. Going through the standard procedures will eat up precious seconds you might not have, but the scans it produces will be high fidelity and reliable. There are ways you know off the top of your head you can shave the time down, but they all have their drawbacks.

[ ] Do it by the book
It will take as long as it takes, but you'll be able to trust the display data.

[ ] Skip redundant testing
You can shave off a significant amount of time by skipping over certain checks and processes. Fast, but with a higher chance of false positives on the scan.

[ ] Patch together the ship's completed scans with the mecha squad's
The mechas have weaker, shorter range scans than the Rose, but you can chain the two sets of data together to produce something workable now. Very fast, but with poorer fidelity predictive tracking for things like velocity and flight paths over distances.

[ ] Network with Phoebe
The scans that Phoebe possesses -- the station as well as the lunar platform -- are far more powerful than anything your ship has in terms of raw data processing. With the connection Mazlo has already established, you could theoretically take that and use it to create a fast, very high fidelity map of the battle space. However, integrating disparate hardware and software from different eras is always risky, and there's a chance that something will go wrong or cause delays. A high risk, high reward gamble.