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

At one point, you considered travelling past the mecha deck on your normal traversal through the ship to be an odd detour. When did that change, exactly? It's not something you consciously decided. But it's worth the wasted minutes carved out of your meagre free time, when it lets you catch a fleeting glimpse of Lori. Make brief eye contact. Exchange a curt greeting. You're both being professional, but this practise hardly violates that.

You've more or less come full circle, you realise, from trailing along behind Anja as she takes this same out of the way route to see Sub-lieutenant Ito. Or, to yell at Sub-lieutenant Ito, as the case was. A sincere part of you misses Anja keenly, wishes she were here. You know she'd want to be here.

Through the main hatch to the mecha deck, you can see the regular beehive of activity, maintenance crew flitting around in three dimensions, their actions centre around the three silent mecha anchored at vigil in their docking bays. As you glide past, you just barely catch a glimpse of blonde hair, you think, although you can't quite be sure if that was Lori or not.

"Hello, Ensign North," says a familiar, calm voice from near the hatch.

"Hello, Guardswoman J6," you reply, automatically, still staring out of the corner of your eye at the mecha deck, until it's entirely out of view.

Wait.

You grab hold of the nearest handhold, dragging yourself to an abrupt stop, and whirling around in zero gravity to stare at the white-haired girl floating in a small rest alcove in the hallway. Her orange and gold pilot's uniform is almost absurdly obvious against the white and blue of the Rose's bulkheads, but she hangs onto a convenient handhold with complete nonchalance, the other hand holding a water pouch to her lips. "When did you get here?" you ask, after a moment of startled staring.

"Approximately two hours ago," J6 says.

"Why?" You can't for the life of you think of why she might be here.

J6 shrugs one-armed. "I'm helping."

Forcing yourself to readjust to her pulling-teeth style of answering questions, you ask: "Who are you helping, and with what?"

As expected, she takes it completely at face value, showing no sign of offence. "I'm helping Ensign Loboda. She doesn't like the improvements to Mecha Docking Station 003."

"You made alterations?" you guess.

"Nothing outside of operating standards, or that would be incompatible with the ISM32 Banner series," J6 explains. "She has found it difficult to work with, however."

You push yourself closer to her, getting out of the way of the direct path of egress. "Maintenance couldn't fix it?"

J6 seems to consider this for a moment. "I dislike it," she admits, "when I make a change that they roll back."

You fight down an urge to laugh. "So you got called all the way back here just for that?"

"Lady Perbeck asked for it as a favour," J6 said. "There was never going to be a better time." She falls silent for a thoughtful half second, before adding: "I am... anxious about leaving her Highness unattended for this long. I will return to work in a moment, then head back to the Hawthorne."

"Do you think that we'll be attacked again en route?" you ask, frowning.

"No," she replies, shaking her head minutely. "I don't. I'm worried, though. Anxiety is an emotional response." J6 adds the last sentence as though you might not understand this. Although, you suppose, it must be common for people to fail to ascribe emotional motivations to her, of all people. Looking into her pale eyes, there's no hint of any such emotional turmoil. They're as flatly unemotive as ever.

"You must be concerned about the battle," you say, thinking ahead. Everyone else is.

"I wish she were back at Iapetus," J6 agrees. "Anywhere but here. Protecting her will be harder with the losses we took. I'll still have to, though. What happens to me doesn't matter, as long as she lives."

You eye her with a degree of uneasiness. You're aware on one hand that laying down her life for her charge is the sworn duty of an Imperial Guard. On the other, the flat determination in her voice is worrisome. "Would her Highness like you saying that?" you ask, carefully. You're friends, but this is a subject you don't know how far you can push.

"No," J6 agrees immediately. "She doesn't. That's why she needs to live." A beat passes, her eyes suddenly distant. "It's why I need her to live."

You give a small, discomforted nod. When you speak again, your voice is quiet. "There are people who want you to live too."

Her eyes snap back to you, and she sighs, nearly undetectable, before slowly draining the last of her water from her drink pouch. She pulls the tab away from her mouth, and gives another shrug. "Sometimes desires are mutually incompatible."

You feel your shoulders sag a little. "I know." You understand duty, and you understand love.

She looks at you for a further moment. "Even if they are, I'm... glad for you, Ensign North."

"Glad for me?"

"I'm glad you talk to me. I'm glad you're..."

"Your friend?" you offer, smiling a little tentatively.

She nods as she considers the word. "Yes," she decides. "I'm glad for that."


"She's kind of eerie."

Mere minutes after talking with J6, You look around to find the vaguely familiar face of Ensign Loboda looking back at you. Obviously Saturnian, startlingly blonde and probably a little taller than you are, if either of you had been standing instead of floating. She jerks a head in the direction that J6 just departed in. "Does she ever smile?" Despite the fact that she's talking directly to you, there's a restless quality about her that's almost off-putting. Her dark eyes can't seem to stay on your face when she's speaking to you -- or on you at all, instead darting around to points of interest distractedly.

Getting hung up in conversation with J6 is fine with you, but Loboda is a relative stranger, and you're not sure you like her tone about your friend. This is eating into your rest time between shifts. "Guardswoman First Class J6 is an extremely dedicated officer, in personal service to our princess. She's saved this ship and everyone on it." You don't feel the need to furnish Loboda with the details that, specifically, J6 saved the ship from your long lost sister, the Divine Navy pilot.

Loboda raises a hand as if to ward off your veiled displeasure, grimacing in a self effacing way. "I didn't mean-- ugh. Sorry. I didn't mean anything about it. You're North, right?"

She can read your uniform as well as anyone can, but you accept the nicety for what it is. "Yes. You're Ensign Loboda."

"Yeah, that's what they call me," Loboda confirms. "Sorry if I'm a bit of an idiot right now. Kind of on edge, from that last fight, and the prospect of risking my life for Titan." She makes a face at that.

You frown a little. "I beg your pardon?"

"Titans already feel like the entire planet revolves around them, yeah? This won't help matters." She grins again, and you can tell it's a joke, but it still bothers you, thinking of Anja's large and extremely vulnerable family.

"My best friend is a Titan," you say, simply. "Her family is still there. And I lived around the planet for almost ten years. I know a lot of people there."

"Wait, I--" Loboda looks half frustrated, half stricken, unsure how to respond to this. Then she laughs. "Ugh. Don't take that too seriously. I'm from Enceladus -- bit of a backwater, but you know how it is, with us and them. Or, you would if you were Saturnian. Obviously I don't want anything bad to happen to them!"

"You were just saying how you'd always wanted to visit it, too," Sub-lieutenant Sylva comments as he drifts by. "Hello, Ensign North."

"Hello, sir." You offer him a salute.

Meanwhile his fellow pilot merely turns slightly pink and gives him a glare. "Shut up, sir," she mutters, a strange combination, if you weren't well used to the standard Saturnian lack of formality. Sylva certainly doesn't seem offended. She glances back to you. "He's from the inner planets too," she adds, unnecessarily. It's all over his accent. "Martian, like the commander."

Pausing on his way through the hatch for the sake of the conversation, he offers you an awkward sort of smile. Maybe because of your strange conversation previously, maybe just because he's an awkward person in general. You suspect a little of both.

"Anyway, I'll get to see Titan soon enough, after we win," Loboda decides.

"You seem confident," you can't help but comment, noting the difference between her and everyone else you've spoken to.

"Hey. We kicked ass back at Iapetus, didn't we? Sure, the zealot bastards killed too many people, but we made them pay for it. Even if they blackened our eye a little on the way, we'll win at Titan too." The boast has the air of slightly disingenuous bravado. She's trying to convince herself as much as anyone, but you can't help but find it endearing.

"A little too confident," Sylva mutters.

Loboda sighs. "Yeah, you've been saying. How about a bet, then?"

You blink. "A... bet?"

"Yeah, a bet," Loboda agrees. She shoots you a winning smile. "Ensign North as our witness. We'll each put up half a year's salary -- if we both live, I win. If at least one of us dies horribly, you win."

"I'm fairly certain that's against regulations," Sylva says, although he seems amused.

You look at Loboda sidelong. "Doesn't that mean that you don't actually have to pay if you lose, one way or another?"

She sighs. "Well, yeah, but you didn't have to say it out loud. He might have still gone for it!"

"Exactly how gullible do you think I am, Ensign?" Sylva asks.

Loboda shrugs, grinning lopsided at him. "I said might. You never know, sir! The stress of being an incurable downer might have gotten to you. How would I know?"

He shoots you a look, almost as if to say 'do you see what I'm dealing with here'. You find yourself oddly unsympathetic. Loboda is perhaps a little abrasive, but you wouldn't mind some of that optimism around the bridge, these days.

"Well, sir," you say, "it probably would be against regulations. So it's just as well."


"Of course I have a copy of my reports, sir," you tell Lieutenant-Commander Owusu, facing the familiar glow of your tablet. "Is something wrong with your copies?" You're in your cabin, once again forgoing some of your thinly allotted sleep time. This time, to take a call. Not that it's that much of a sacrifice, admittedly. You haven't been sleeping well -- persistent headaches that flare up unexpectedly throughout the day have been bothering you at night, even thoughthey're manageable enough while you're working. You haven't experienced anything quite like it since your years in officer's college, studying to qualify for your speciality. Even floating in your cabin with the lights turned down, your tablet set to red light mode and turned down to its lowest setting, nothing seems to ward off the effect.

"Ideally not. I have them in a sealed, encrypted packet. That means there's no way to check on the individual files, though -- we had a hiccup with data transfer leaving Iapetus, and the crew has only just had time to notice." He shrugs languidly, handsome features not looking particularly worried. "Worst comes to worst, I want to make sure I can rebuild it. You used the protocols I told you to in all your work?"

"Yes, sir," you confirm.

He nods. "Well, that's all very reassuring, Noth. By the way, how has your ship's special visitor been getting on?"

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Special vi-- You mean Guardswoman J6?"

"Yes," he agrees, mildly.

You frown in some suspicion. "Sir, did you call me to help you keep tabs on the Princess's bodyguard?"

"Well, not entirely."

"Why, sir?"

"You're going to have to get used to taking directives you don't understand, once you're off the front lines, Ensign," he says, still good naturedly enough. The implication that you can't is a little annoying.

"I suppose so, sir," you reply, coolly.

"There's a good chance, of course, that none of it is going to matter. To me, anyway," he admits. "I expect losses among pilots will be quite high."

It's not the first time you've heard this assessment lately, but hearing it from him, and so flippantly, ties your stomach into a knot. It's not just the Lieutenant-commander you're thinking of. "You're a skilled pilot, sir," you point out.

"Skilled pilots die the same as terrible ones," he notes. "I've seen that data your sister provided -- I can't talk about enemy fleet composition, but as you can probably predict, it's enough to be worrisome."

"Please try to stay safe, sir."

"Well, if you're worried about that promotion of yours, I did send the recommendation ahead. So even if I do die, as long as we stop Titan from being glassed, you'll likely still receive recognition."

For a moment, you can't even properly process the insinuation. When you can, you find yourself incensed. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" you ask. The anger seems to make the slight throbbing of your head increase, blood pounding in your ears and tightening the invisible vice around your skull just a few more millimeters.

He looks at you, slightly amused. "That should be interesting."

"You're an ass."

He blinks, not having expected that, whatever he had been expecting. Then he bursts into laughter. It has the slightly hysterical feeling of tension being released more than genuine mirth, but to your annoyance, you can't help but note that he does have a nice laugh. For all his cool detachment from the prospect of his own death, he seems to have needed this enough that you find it hard to begrudge him.

"You have been spending time with Lady Perbeck," he says, using her actual title for once.

"Not lately, sir," you reply, primly.

"Well, that's not a surprise," he admits. "Knowing you both. I really do hope you try your best not to get blown up, North."

You shrug a little helplessly. "I don't steer the ship, sir." Which as a statement is perhaps cruel to the helmsmen, who certainly tries. But the responsibility for you not blowing up is something of an unfair expectation to put on your shoulders in particular, you think, under the circumstances. Although, are you really at your best at the job you do have, with your head the way it is? Resignedly, you mentally promise to speak to the medical officer at the earliest convenience, to see if you can at least get something prescribed. You don't want to get everyone killed with an amateaur mistake because you're overly tired and not sleeping well.

"I'd miss you if you did," he reminds you.

"When you say that, sir, it feels like you're jinxing me." Although, privately, you do appreciate the sentiment, if not the continued focus on the probability of your horrible death in space.

He smiles. "If one of us dies, you have my permission to say I told you so."

"This arrangement seems familiarly one-sided," you comment.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, sir."


You're soon glad for your decision to seek out the medical officer. The problem only gets worse.

"Stress headaches," he tells you. "You're not the only one." Then he gives you authorisation to fabricate a prescription of painkillers. Nothing that will impair your performance, but it should give you some peace of mind.

On your way, it occurs to you that you're heading straight for the very same bay in which you once discovered J6 in the midst of an attack, following the battle where Sub-Lieutenant Ito had died. She's gone back to the Hawthorne, true to her word lingering no longer than she had to. Still, you're almost not surprised when you stumble across someone else occupying one of the medical fabricator machines.

Lori floats with her back to you, dressed in her ship-uniform rather than her flight suit, keying something into the machine she's anchored in front of. You're not trying to snoop at what she's doing, but you can't help but noticed that, repeatedly, an error message is flashing on the fabricator's display, which she is clearing with her command override.

"Hello, Lady Perbeck," you say, announcing your presence and offering a salute as you float over to your own machine, beside hers.

Lori gives an almost guilty start, before returning the salute automatically. As she does so, she's unable to clear the error message, and it blinks repeatedly on the display. RECOMMENDED DOSAGE EXCEEDED. RECOMMENDED DOSAGE EXCEEDED. RECOMMENDED DOSAGE EXCEEDED. "... Ensign North," she replies, before hastily clearing the message. A packet of what are unmistakably pre-flight stimulants enters the production queue, and her machine quietly whirrs to life.

The stimulants are hardly dangerous, and are derived from caffeine. But they're strong enough that how many one is supposed to take in a given period of time is regulated. A regulation that apparently allows for the commander of the mecha squad to override the ordinary safety restriction. You deliberately do not look at Lori, as you key in your own prescription. A part of you hopes to imbue the act of entering your authorisation into the machine with a degree of passive aggressive disapproval, as you receive a much friendlier chime in response.

Were you off ship, you would chide her for endangering her health like this. You've been together just long enough that that's your right. Here and now, though, that would certainly be crossing the line you two have carefully toed by letting your romantic entanglement affect your professional interactions.

She seems to sense this from you. Or, perhaps, you simply provide a likely conduit for her own discomfort with what she's doing. Lori speaks quietly, voice swallowed up by the combined sounds of the two fabricators by enough that it's unlikely to carry past the two of you. "My health doesn't matter if the fleet is destroyed, Amani."

You didn't expect her to use your given name like that. The bit of familiarity catches you off guard enough that you blurt out a more honest answer than you had intended to, speaking in a cross whisper. "It matters to me. This isn't like you!"

Lori looks at you, then away, a frustrated set coming into her shoulders. She shifts slightly closer to you, so that when she reaches a free hand over to put it on top of the one you're using to anchor yourself on the nearest handhold, your bodies block the action from the hypothetical view of anyone in the hall.You're about to question the action, but she traces a long, elegant finger slowly along the contours of each of your knuckles. You're momentarily stymied by how good it is. Eventually, you collect your wits, even as she continued to trace that oddly intimate path.

"We're on duty," you remind her. Part of you hates yourself for saying it.

She frowns, but you recognise the expression. Self recrimination, nothing directed at you. "This isn't like me," Lori admits. "None of this." She doesn't, notably, take her hand away. "The last time I felt this bad about a battle was Ceres," she admits, finally. "Back then, I had nothing to lose. My family holdings were gone. All of Mars was gone. My father. My cousin, in a different way. Once the fighting started, I almost couldn't imagine it would ever end. They say there's still a massive ring of twisted metal and corpses floating around that rock, another half as many down on the surface. The difference between Ceres and Titan, though, is that we had somewhere to go after Ceres. We might both be dead shortly, Amani."

You draw in a deep breath, hold it for a moment, then let it out. "I know. I know we might all die. Everyone keeps talking about it. I can't keep thinking that way, though. It's exhausting!" She blinks at you, surprised. You didn't raise your voice, but there was a stridence to your tone that she's clearly not failed to notice. "I'm sorry," you say. "I just want to do my job. My part, as best I can -- it's all I can do. And hope that's enough. You promised me a dinner after all this."

She sighs, shoulders slumping a little, hand stilling over yours. "No, I'm sorry. It's not as though you're not under pressure as well. I just needed..."

"It's alright," you whisper back. "I know." You exchange a quiet moment, her blue eyes looking into your own dark ones. It's not a long moment, but you see some of the tension finally go out of her face. Slowly, she pulls her hand away, and you can't help but feel a pang.

"I'm going to feel like a complete hypocrite the next time I reprimand someone for lack of decorum," Lori says, indulging in a tiny sigh..

"I'm sure you'll rise to the occasion anyway, ma'am," you reply.

She quirks a smile, but with the title, the wall of professionalism slides back into place between you nonetheless. "I suppose I will have to, North."


Titan
Underground

Empress Solana Hyperion III sits stiff-backed on the throne, decades of politics, war and bitter disappointment keeping her true thoughts from her face. Her surroundings possess an austere grandeur. The walls around her are covered blue tile chased in silver, an ornamental sunburst set above the throne on the wall behind her. It's all set off fetchingly with the darker tones of the floor tiles. It's also an imitation of the current official Imperial throne room, onboard the largest of Titan's orbital stations far above. She wonders if the man she's conversing with knows that. Certainly, he must guess that she's not in such a vulnerable position as she would be in orbit, and her being in a hardened bunker beneath Titan's surface isn't so unpredictable. Even if he doesn't, though, the official throne room is a pale imitation of the original, in orbit around Earth, currently in the possession of Solana's treacherous cousin.

Solana is nearly 70, and it shows in a way that no amount of life-extending treatments can disguise. A certain weariness, in her movements a thin fragility to her limbs. The faintly unearthly appearance of the Helios bloodline hasn't entirely abandoned her, though, and her red-brown eyes are bright and piercing as they stare at the display in front of her.

The grey-haired man looking back at her is handsome in a gracefully aging way, smartly dressed in his stark white Divine Navy admiral's uniform. He obviously sits onboard a warship -- one of many poised to destroy everything Solana has worked so hard to preserve, and the people she's promised to protect. Dress his immediate surroundings up like a study all you want, you can always tell.

"Thank you for taking the time to speak with me, your Majesty," Duke-consort Renaud Grangier says, a polite smile on his lips. "Your highness." The latter is directed at the tall, thin young man who stands at her side, hands clasped behind his back military-style. Prince Corona, Solana's eldest grandson, looks a great deal like she does. But the glare he directs at Renaud is far more nakedly hostile than anything she is giving. The only recognition he gives to being addressed is a nod so shallow as to be nearly unnoticeable.

"Talking hardly seems to be what you've come all this way for, your grace," Solana replies. It's an odd bit of polite fiction they're both engaging in, respecting titles that have been declared completely illegitimate in their respective Empires. Solana, obviously, is not a 'majesty' as far as the Divine Emperor is concerned. And she herself ordered the Grangiers to be stricken from the rolls of Imperial nobility. They'd held an Imperial Elector seat, the same as the Songs or the Raos. Then, at the onset of the war, Duchess Lorelei Grangier had defected to the Holy Empire where the rest of the 12 person electorate stayed loyal. It had earned her clemency from the traitors, and the crippling intelligence she'd provided them had gained her the governorship of Jupiter.

"Perhaps it's odd in this day and age, your Majesty, but I prefer speech to slaughter."

"Indeed. I assume there is a point you've come to deliver, however. Whatever your... preferences, your Grace, I do have defences to coordinate. You are approaching Titan with a large attack fleet." In truth, Solana wants to keep this conversation going for as long as possible. She holds out precious little hope for a diplomatic outcome, but any moment she can buy is precious beyond anything. Despite her words, and despite the resplendent Grand Marshal's dress uniform she's currently wearing, Solana has never pretended to be a military woman. She is not the one who will be managing the defence of Titan. Renaud, no doubt, is well aware of this.

"Directly to the point. I like that." Renaud gives her a weaker smile, before saying, slowly, "I am here to offer you terms, your majesty."

"Terms of surrender?" She narrows her eyes.

He takes in a small breath, steeling himself, before he says: "You will lay down all arms. Stand down all fleets. Deactivate all automated weaponry, turning all these over to Holy Solar Empire prize crews. You will recognise Saturn and all the Solar System as the sovereign territory of the one true Empire. You will renounce all claims to the throne, and agree to accompany me back to Earth, in order to formally bow before my Divine Emperor. In return, your people will not be harmed."

Solana takes a moment to digest this. Before she can open her mouth to reply, however, Prince Corona makes his own voice heard, almost vibrating with indignation: "You invade our borders -- what little you haven't already stolen from your rightful Empress, you attack our colonies, you murder our citizens through your barbaric battle tactics, and now you arrive here, on our doorstep with a fleet and start making absurd--"

"Corona!" Solana attempts to glare him silent.

"This is too much to be borne, your Majesty!' he insists to his grandmother. "You can't really expect me to hold my tongue when he addresses you with such--"

"Enough." At the sharp word from Solana, Corona falls silent, mouth stilling in mid-sentence as he comes back to his surroundings. His middling complexion darkens with embarrassment and, to a degree fear. Solana holds his gaze for long seconds, unwavering, before ordering: "Leave us."

"... at once, your Majesty," Corona says, bowing stiffly. As he leaves the room, Solana is aware of Renaud's unperturbed gaze on her. She spares a bitter thought for why, precisely, her niece is her current choice for successor, rather than any of her direct descendants children. Daystar would have kept a cool head. She hopes that girl lives through all this, and not just for personal reasons.

"I apologise for that outburst," Solana says.

"None are necessary, your Majesty."

"I must, however, still refuse," she says, calmly.

Renaud nods, looking entirely unsurprised. "Regretful."

"But, you knew I'd have to give this answer when you made the offer. Do you even have permission for any of this, from my cousin, from the military?" She looks at him keenly.

Renaud shakes his head slowly. "My orders are... different. But everyone else is very far away, and I'm here. If I secured a peaceful victory after what happened at Iapetus, it would likely be accepted by His Majesty. You still feel you must refuse?"

"Yes." Solana nods grimly. "But, you expected as much. You've made a grand offer you knew you'd never have to make good on. Does this salve your conscience for what you're about to do, your Grace?"

"No more than anything else, in the end. I regret what has to happen next."

Solana frowns. "But, it still has to happen at all?"

Renaud's smile thins out. "I stand by my family, your Majesty."


Onboard the HIMS Titan Rose,
Approaching Titan

You thought that the atmosphere on the bridge was tense before. This goes beyond that. The atmosphere holds a strange mix of grim determination and silent panic, fear in just as much evidence as anger at the invaders.

Once again, you're out ahead of the fleet. This time, however, you very nearly know that you're going to find the enemy. And you all know what will happen after that. You were chosen for this task because of the quasi-stealth system. No one quite expects that you'll go completely unnoticed, so instead they're banking on the fact that the Rose is at least hard to hit.

Beside you, the most consistent source of noise is Mazlo, in constant contact with the fleet, relaying information back and forth with Andre. They're a study in contrasts -- Captain Andre is a reassuring island of weary calm. Mazlo has an almost desperate look in his eyes, and you're entirely certain that he's lost at least some weight, giving his face a hollow, sunken look. The family from the photo briefly swims into your mind everytime you look directly at him. It's hard for them not to -- it isn't their fault that their husband and father has mistreated you, and they certainly don't deserve to die for it.

Saturn looms as large on your display as the Earth does in your fuzzy memories of the black skies of Luna. Beside the pristine beauty of the gas giant's famous rings system, Titan looks small and drab and unpleasantly yellow. But that soggy, unbreathable mudball and the many points of light surrounding it are home to 30,000,000 people.

"The Steel Violet is reporting heavy fighting," Mazlo says. "The Inner Fleet is taking a hammering. They have to worry about not destroying the habitats." It goes unspoken: the enemy isn't concerning themselves with this. You almost swear that, as you watch, you can see one of the points of light vanish. It could have been your imagination, or any number of other reasons, but in your heart of hearts, you can't help but think with a surge of stomach clenching bleakness: Less than 30,000,000 now. You think of the naval station you spent the latter years of your childhood on, and wonder if it's gone.

The Rose's cautious, circling approach finally brings it into range of what looks like battle wreckage. Stray bits and pieces. Broken ships and mecha, still hot on your scans, but largely harmless. Or so you think. Then you spot it.

"Unidentified ordinance approaching!" you say, pinging both Captain Andre and the Active Defence station at once.

"What is it?" the head defence officer asks, frowning. "That signature doesn't look like a mine."

"Treat it as one!" Andre demands. They scramble to hasten their response.

In the end, it's not as if they were ignoring your warning. Active defence is ready to intercept the object, when things go a bit sideways: It detonates well before the standard range for just about any smart mine you're aware of. There's just enough time to register an electromagnetic pulse of some strength, when it hits the Rose.

The ship shudders, lights flicker, life support takes on a stranger sort of whine as backups kick in. Your display goes dead, comes back, goes dead and comes back again. Mazlo gives a pained cry as high pitched feedback, loud enough to be audible to you, plays through his headset. Then everything settles back to something resembling normalcy. The extreme range of the blast means that it wasn't quite as effective as it could have been.

"I want a full status report immediately, station by station," Andre says, not missing a beat.

Everyone chimes in. Various stations report minor abnormalities, but nothing catastrophic. Then it's time for you. Scan systems recovered successfully, with no visible loss of data.One thing that does cause a bit of alarm is an error message indicating that half your sensors are out... which proves to be a false positive. One that keeps returning after several minutes every time you dismiss it. That's going to be distracting, if not actually actively hazardous, you hope. You could probably deal with it by rebooting the scan suite, but you don't even want to ask for permission to do that now — it would be actively suicidal, and just introduce a much larger problem, considering that that pulse will likely draw attention to you sooner rather than later.


Going into the Battle of Titan, how do you deal with this annoyance? You think you can function with it, but you also think that there's a workaround you can quickly implement to disable that error, which shouldn't affect much of anything else. This will have an affect on your performance throughout the coming battle in either case.

[ ] Work with the issue, you're good enough

[ ] Resolve the problem with a weird workaround, you're good enough