Author: Jon Chaisson

NOTE: This is a key scene in my current novel I’m working on, and I think encapsulates the theme of the entire project. I also think it’s something that’s become a bit of a personal motto of mine over the last couple of years. It’s a scene that immediately came to mind when I read yesterday’s news announcement. I try my best to be optimistic, but I refuse to be a pessimist if things go south.

*

Stars, wasn’t sure if it was the grav meds being slow to kick in or that she really was that exhausted. They’d landed at Faroe Base over an hour ago and the upper brass had already departed the stash to have their meeting in one of the inner four ships here on the tarmac, but they’d neglected to give Maris – or any other captain, for that matter – any further tasks other than to split their assignments between standing guard outside or manning the comms inside. It was exactly the kind of quickly tossed-off micromanagement that drove her crazy, but she had too little brain space to bother with it right now.

She stepped out the side entryway to the Ravel Blue stash and took in several deep breaths, reacclimating herself to the air. It wouldn’t help her disorientation, but it would at least calm her down. What she really wanted was to head back to her bunk, lock the door, and sleep for the next two days, but there was still far too much to do. And she’d already chosen to ignore any potential hails from Colonel Jaffrey during that stretch of time regardless, because she was plainly out of fucks at this point.

Her comm buzzed twice. A double-tap silent hail. She unclipped it from the side pocket of her uniform and glanced at it, and knew who exactly who’d sent it: Dani Gataki. He was on flight tower monitor duty with Lee Cheng right now and most likely saw them pulling in. She was tempted to respond in kind, but now wasn’t the time. He’d understand.

“You’re looking like shit,” Captain Beecham said, stepping out of the stash and sidling up next to her. She didn’t look nearly as exhausted, but the constant grav change was starting to get to her.

“I’m feeling like it,” Maris muttered, rubbing at her sore eyes with the palms of her hands.

“You want to sit?”

Maris snorted. “If I sit, I will not be getting back up,” she said. “Thanks anyway. Just…waiting for all this shit to end so I can bind off and pass out.” She pulled the water bottle from her side pouch and took an extended gulps, hoping the liquid would help. She was very tempted to take a seat on the fold-out bench someone had taken from inside the stash, but instead propped a leg on it and leaned forward against her knee. “I am so thankful upper brass is heading eastside when all this is done instead of heading stationside again.”

“Hmm. The trips are taking a toll on them as well, I’ve noticed,” Beecham said.

“You know what they’re up to?” It was a blatant attempt to get her to spill information, sure. But she had to try anyway. “Aside from having all these hushed-up meetings, that is.”

Thankfully, Beecham was the kind of captain who would gladly share the information with someone who deserved it and sat close to her on the bench. “Word is that Nima Federation is causing trouble again. Yes, yes…they love to make a noise every couple of years or so. They miss us, I guess? Anyway, what I’ve gathered from other ravels is that Nima is planning something big this time. My assumption is that they might want to reannex us back into the Federation whether we agree to it or not.”

Maris exhaled slowly. She’d heard the same rumors several times over the years, countless versions of them, but they all had the same theme: Nima Federation had been hit hard financially and politically when Galactic House had granted FairIsle its full freedom fifty years ago and had never fully recovered. FairIsle was not just a waystation with a planet but a major transportation hub, a military power, and a leading partner in their sector’s economy. And every few years, almost like clockwork, Nima would get restless and start some stupid shit, like a needle skirmish or a hostile takeover of a minor station, and FairIsle would have to come in and clean up their mess.

“So what’s different this time?” she said.

“The difference is that they’re meaning business now. They’ve already taken over Pioneer and Leicester in the last year, and those are close to Anais Gate exitways. Like, extremely close. And they’ve been hinting that Atelier might be next.”

Atelier. That would be extremely dangerous indeed. That was a ship dry dock station…one that FairIsle used from time to time.

No fucking wonder Force and High Command were losing their shit.

Maris exhaled and pushed herself up again, the muscles in her lower back howling in protest. “And that’s why they’re sending us pilots from Selvedge,” she said.

“That’s the reason gate travel has been heavily monitored this past year,” Beecham said, purposely avoiding answering her comment. “They believe Nima’s going to make good on their threat this time.”

Maris let the wave of anger wash over her in silence. She wanted to scream, wanted to hunt down Jaffrey and demand why he and upper brass were being so damned tight-lipped about it. They were putting several ravels in danger with this passive-aggressive scheme.

“If you could…” Maris started, her voice low and quiet. Reached up to her comm again and turned it off this time. Scanned the immediate area, looked around the sides of the nearby stashes for anyone listening in. Turned back to Beecham, who was watching her with interest and concern. She finally allowed herself to sit down next to her.

“If you could…” she started again, her voice a whisper. “Would you do the right thing?”

“Without fucking question,” Beecham responded.

“As would I,” she said, and gave her the slightest of nods. “Let’s keep in touch.”