Chapter 5 Third year mid-term exams Consciousness crept back to Max, a slow dawning in the darkness behind his eyes. As his lids fluttered open, the world remained obscured by a frosty haze, the residue of cryo-sleep clinging to his vision like the last vestiges of a forgotten dream. The chill seeped through the very walls of his pod, whispering tales of empty space and eternal cold just beyond the glass. His hand lifted, an almost instinctual response to push against the confinement, but he halted mere inches from the surface. A shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature ran down his spine. "Ship breach means instant freeze," he reminded himself silently, his breath fogging the inside of the pod. He imagined the -455 degrees lurking like a silent predator outside, and his fingers curled into a fist, stopping well short of the glass. "Don't panic, Max, you got this," he coaxed his racing heart, repeating the mantra that had carried him through countless simulations. Somewhere on the ship's vast network, instructors were observing, evaluating every move he made. It wasn’t really -455 degrees, and there wasn’t a hull breach, but he had to pretend that there could be–that was exam scenario. He was on a scout ship, and he had been in cryo for three days, and the ship was in space, several thousand miles from Destiny. The launch, the trip out to parallel the Destiny’s course, crawling into a cryo pod, and being put to sleep gave the exam a very real feel that focused the cadets attention. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Max centered his focus. This was no ordinary exam; it was his third-year mid-terms, the exam was stressful, and would have long-reaching consequences. Failure wasn't an option—not when every decision edged him closer to his goal or sent him spiraling towards a future spent hauling cargo instead of exploring new frontiers. Though, there were worse things than a cargo pilot, you could score low enough and end up flying a public shuttle–basically no more than bus driver, or maybe even worse than that. You could score just above being thrown out of the Academy and be assigned flying the harvesters that collected crops from the farms. "Focus on the parameters," he chided himself, his training kicking in. The TX-1 Scout Ship, tasked with long-range reconnaissance missions that spanned lifetimes was even harder to fly than a fighter. The weight of such a journey thrilled him, he wanted to fly a scout ship more than anything. "Activate the control panel," Max thought, pulling himself back to the moment. He reached for the interface that should've auto-engaged upon his awakening. With a deft touch, he brought the panel to life, dragging it across his chest to get a better look at the readouts. Data streamed across the screen, a symphony of numbers and statuses that spoke the health of the ship in a language only those with the intense academy training could comprehend. Though, there was some numbers on the panel he didn’t know, but he wasn’t being tested on those yet. He still had six more years at the academy, and many more classes and exams to get through before he was a fully trained pilot on the most advanced machines the human race had ever built. He studied the control panel; Oxygen levels? Stable. External temperature? Within safe margins. Hull integrity? Check. Hazardous materials? None detected. Each finding was a silent victory, a green light that propelled him forward. He pushed the control panel away with more confidence than before, his heart rate slowing to its usual disciplined cadence. "Alright, let's do this," Max muttered under his breath, fingers wrapping around the emergency release handle with practiced ease. There was a moment's hesitation—the kind that came from knowing this single action would propel him into the crux of his exam—then he pulled. With a hiss and a shudder, the pod acquiesced to his command, and the lid began to slide away, revealing the familiar confines of the scout ship's cryo-vault. It was time to face the rest of the test, to step out and prove he was more than just another cadet. He was ready to claim his future, one calculated decision at a time. Max's movements were deliberate as he eased himself upright, the last of the cryo-induced haze dissipating from his vision. The chill of the pod's interior gave way to a faint warmth as he surveyed his surroundings. A row of frosted pods lined the chamber, each containing a fellow cadet lost in artificial slumber, their chests rising and falling with the rhythm of the life support systems. He swung his legs over the edge of the pod, his socked feet touching the cold metal floor. With a steadiness that belied his inner tension, Max moved along the aisle, casting quick but thorough glances at the status indicators on each pod. Green lights blinked back at him—no emergencies, no unwelcome surprises. Brock wasn’t here, the Marine Cadets faced their own challenges on another scout ship. Turning away from the restful tableau, Max approached the hatch leading out to the ship's main corridor. He eyed the sealed portal, every sense heightened by the simulation's premise of danger lurking beyond. Despite the quiet hum of the ship's systems suggesting normalcy, Max’s training kicked in, compelling him to prepare for the worst. His fingers traced the cool metal of the weapons locker before pulling it open with a decisive click. Inside lay an array of weapons, each meticulously maintained. He selected one, feeling the weight settle into his palm. He wasn’t as comfortable with the pistol as he should be, using weapons was Brock’s thing. "Fourteen-hundred years," he whispered to himself, grounding his role in the simulated reality. That much time could change everything, even bring enemies aboard. But no alarms sounded, no warnings flashed. It was unlikely, yet still, the protocol was clear. Sidearm now secured at his hip, Max reached for the hatch and paused, a frown creasing his brow. Twice now, he'd nearly let the rush of adrenaline dictate his actions. Shaking his head, he chided himself internally and redirected his attention to the medical locker. A swift movement and the small container popped open, revealing neatly organized rows of stim-pills. He plucked one from its slot, the pill small and innocuous, yet potent enough to kickstart his system back to peak performance. With a dry swallow, the pill went down, a bitter taste lingering briefly on his tongue. The effects would be immediate, sharpening his reflexes dulled by the extended sleep. "Focus," Max commanded himself silently. There was no room for error, not here amidst the silence of sleeping cadets, not when his future hung in the balance of this test. With a steady exhale, Max grasped the hatch handle, his sidearm cool and reassuring in his other hand. The metal clunked softly as he twisted it open, allowing the dim light of the corridor to spill into the cryo vault. His eyes darted left then right, taking in the stillness of the passage. It was clear, no signs of intrusion or disarray—a good sign. He stepped out into the corridor, the soles of his socks whispering against the cold floor. The quiet was almost deafening, with only the soft hum of the ship's systems punctuating the silence. Max stood motionless for a moment, attuning himself to the ship's heartbeat. There were no irregularities, no clangs or whooshes to suggest anything amiss. Confident but cautious, he moved toward the bridge with swift precision, keenly aware of every camera that marked his progress. Protocol was etched into his muscle memory, and each step was measured, each action deliberate. Once inside the sanctuary of the bridge, Max sealed the hatch with an authoritative click. He crossed to the pilot's seat, its familiar contours inviting him to assume control. From the side-pocket, he retrieved the laminated check-list, its edges worn from countless hands before his. The list was extensive, and he worked through it systematically—life support, navigation, communication systems. Each tick was a silent victory, a confirmation of his competence, and the minutes stretched into an hour. With a satisfying click, Max slipped the check-list back into its designated pocket. The ship was ready for flight. He looked out the view window, and his breath caught in his chest. Another ship was just coming into view several hundred feet to starboard. The ship was slowly spinning, and was engulfed in blueish-yellow flames. Panicked, Max keyed the com-link on his helmet. “Tower, tower, tower, this is Cadet Archer, there’s a ship on fire to my starboard, we need emergency crews immediately,” shouted Max. “Roger, Cadet,” replied Tower Control. “There’s nothing to worry about, it’s only a simulation.” Max stared out the view widow while his heart beat like a jackhammer. It looked so real. The hatch to the bridge slid open behind him, and an instructor entered carrying a clipboard. “Settle down, cadet,” said the instructor. “That’s the Marine Cadet’s mid-term exam.” “They have to fight a fire?” asked Max, incredulously. “It’s a special training ship, it can simulate hull breaches, electrical fires, meteor strikes, and much more. The Marine Cadets are being tested on their ability to respond to a catastrophic ship fire. Next semester you’ll spend some time aboard that ship learning to react to navigation, engine, and electrical system failures.” Max couldn’t take his eyes off the burning ship. “Are you sure they’re okay? The instructor’s eyes flicked up at the window. “Oh, they are most definitely not okay. If you look hard enough, you’ll see one of the cadets tumbling off into space, now, let’s concentrate on your test results. Your score is 95." Max’s eyes widened. “You’re going to go get him, aren’t you?” The instructor shrugged. “Probably, eventually. He forgot to check his safety line’s clasp and it came loose.” Max continued to stare out into space until the realization of his score sank in. “Wait…What? A 95? What did I do wrong?” The instructor paused mid-scribble on a clip-board and peering over the rim of his glasses with a look that straddled the line between stern and instructional. "Where's your boots?" he asked, tapping the clipboard for emphasis. Max looked down, the stark white of his socks glared against the dark metal floor. The rules were clear—boots off before entering cryo to prevent restricted blood flow during the long sleep. But now, the very rule meant to preserve his life had nicked his chances of acing the exam. His regulation boots were still in his pod. "Uniform infraction," the instructor's voice cut through the silence that had enveloped the room—a silence that seemed to amplify Max's error. "Five-point deduction. Go get your boots and head to the mess hall," came the final directive. "Wait with the others." Max nodded, swallowing the lump that formed in his throat. Protocol was protocol, and there was no room for oversight when lives might depend on such details. Without a word, he pivoted, his socked feet whispering across the deck plating as he retraced his steps back to the cryo chamber to retrieve his boots. The walk to the mess hall was a march of contemplation, each step a reminder of his failure to live up to the academy’s standard of excellence. Max's mind was already sifting through the horror of facing his peers. This exam had been easy, everyone else surely had 100’s across the board. He would be the laughing stock of the Academy. He stopped to look at the leaderboard posted in the mess hall, and sighed a breath of relief. There wasn’t a single score above 95 on the board. Everyone had some mistake they’d made, and some were as dumb as him forgetting to put his boots on; one boy had even mixed up the stim-pills with laxative pills. “Next time,” thought Max. “Next time I’ll be perfect.” Six years later… Six years had honed Max into a figure of unwavering dedication, his every action steeped in the precision that had become second nature. Now, encapsulated within the frost-kissed cocoon of his cryo pod, he voyaged through the abyss, tethered to the silent heartbeat of the scout ship. The vessel itself was like a phantom, coursing through the vastness of space on a whisper of power. It skimmed darkness, invisible to all but the most deliberate of encounters, an echo of Earth's ambitious past and humanity's enduring spirit of discovery. These ships, originally built as the first colony ships, were now re-designated as scout ships to serve the far larger and more advanced Titan-class ships. A low hum, almost imperceptible, vibrated through the hull—a lullaby sung by the passive scanners that diligently cast their invisible nets into the void. They probed the darkness for anomalies, for celestial interlopers that might dare disrupt their journey. The technology was ancient by most standards, yet it was tried and true, the quiet guardians of the crew’s suspended lives. Max, even in the depths of induced slumber, seemed to mirror the ship's vigilance. His subconscious, ever alert, ran protocols and scenarios in dream-like sequences, rehearsing the moment of awakening that would eventually come. The very essence of who he had become over these last six years—an embodiment of meticulous care and steadfast resolve—persisted even here, in the chasm between moments, between breaths. For three centuries, the scout ship had been pulling ahead of Destiny, its older yet swifter sister. Though built for speed, this journey was not about the haste but the stealth, a silent glide through the cosmic sea where time stretched endlessly. This was the ultimate test of endurance, not just for the machines, but for the people they carried—their hopes, their ambitions, and the weight of their potential futures. The ship was alone, entirely autonomous from the Titan-class colony behemoth it had outrun with ease. No transmissions betrayed its location; it was a secret traversing the stars, safeguarded by the expansive cold vacuum that cradled it. And in the quiet of the control room, indicator lights blinked softly, as if in recognition of the solitude and the magnitude of the mission. They served as a quiet testament to the journey thus far and the careful preparations made by the hands of a young cadet who had vowed perfection. "Next time," the echo of a promise once whispered within the confines of this very ship, reverberated through the ship's memory logs—a digital witness to the metamorphosis of Cadet Max into Commander Max, the leader who would emerge ready to face the unknown with the lessons of the past etched into his very being. Max's eyelids fluttered open, the icy embrace of cryo sleep retreating as consciousness took hold. His breath fogged the glass above him, a reminder of the cold void that had been his silent companion for three centuries. Muscles ached with the memory of stillness as he pushed against the inner surface of the pod, the hinges releasing with a hiss. The glass slid away, and Max inhaled deeply, savoring the recycled air tinged with the metallic scent of long disuse. He eased his legs over the side, bare feet touching the cool deck. The ship had evaded the asteroid two hundred years ago without his intervention; it was designed to protect even in slumber. But now, it was time to return to duty. His trust in the last-minute additions to his team was threadbare–he wouldn’t be waking them. The thought of Captain Harris and the life left behind on Destiny crept into his mind like ghosts in the machinery. Three hundred years had passed since those orders were given—a lifetime measured in heartbeats and dreams, all vanished like stardust. Max shook off the nostalgia like an old coat, focusing on the present. Steps measured and quiet, he approached Brock's pod and keyed in the wake sequence. The glass parted, revealing Brock's inert form which quickly gave way to a pair of alert eyes that mirrored Max's own determination. "We're at the way-point," Max announced, his voice betraying none of the heaviness of his thoughts. Brock nodded, his body unfurling from its prolonged confinement. Meanwhile, Max moved through the ritual ingrained in his muscles: check the other pods, secure a stim-pill to sharpen senses dulled by time, arm himself from the weapons locker, and consult the logs for anomalies. Caution was not just protocol—it was survival. Minutes later, Brock stood by his side, alert and oriented. "You haven't started the wake cycle for the other pods," he observed, a question hanging in the silence between them. "I'm not going to," Max replied firmly, turning towards the hatch. Brock's hand fastened around Max's wrist, halting him. Eyes downcast, he gestured to Max's feet. "Where's your boots?" Max let out a chuckle, rife with irony, as he eyed his sock-clad toes. With a sheepish grin, he retracted his steps, reclaiming his boots from the sanctuary of his pod. Slipping into them, he faced Brock's skeptical gaze. "I was just testing you," Max quipped, deflecting the oversight with humor. "Sure you were," Brock retorted, though the corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. They shared a moment of levity, a brief respite from the gravity of their mission. Boots secured and readiness restored, they prepared to face the next chapter of their odyssey—one that would test the limits of their endurance and the stalwartness of their resolve. Max's grip on the sidearm tightened as he and Brock opened the hatch, a silent understanding between them. Their movements were synchronized, borne of countless drills and a shared determination to face the unknown. With a nod from Max, Brock keyed in the release sequence, and they pushed through into the sterile corridor that led to the bridge. "Clear," Max whispered, as they stepped across the threshold, his eyes scanning for any sign of intrusion. Brock nodded, following suit, his own weapon held at the low ready. They moved with purpose, their boots thudding softly against the metal floor, the hum of the ship's systems a constant companion. Reaching the bridge, Max sealed the hatch behind them, the lock engaging with a definitive clunk. The familiar array of screens and consoles greeted them, bathed in the dim glow of standby lights. Max turned to the navigation console, fingers dancing over the controls as he brought up sensor readouts. We're going back into cryo in a few days. Next leg of the mission will be 2,500 years in cryo." "Understood," Brock acknowledged, though his brow furrowed as he peered at a different screen. "I don't see any indication a colony ship passed anywhere near here." Max paused, considering the data before him. "If they were headed to that solar system, they would have rotated the ship by now and began their braking procedure. It takes a very long time to slow a Titan-class ship down." His tone was matter-of-fact, yet tinged with an edge of concern. "The sensors haven't picked up any indication of braking burn from another colony ship," Brock confirmed, his voice carrying a hint of unease. Max nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the sensor data. "I don't see anything either," he murmured. "A burn from a Titan's engine would be visible to the naked eye." The ensuing days passed in a rhythm of routine and vigilance. Max and Brock divided their time between performing meticulous maintenance on the scout ship and monitoring the sensors, their vigil unyielding. The close quarters of the ship fostered an air of camaraderie, yet the weight of their isolation loomed large. The moment of truth arrived when they got their first clear look at the destination—a young yellow star surrounded by the chaotic dance of forming planets. The sight was breathtaking, but the beauty belied the danger lurking within the asteroid field that enshrouded the system. "We need to get closer," Brock mused aloud, studying the latest sensor data. His suggestion carried the authority of experience. "I think we should set our next waypoint for the edge of the asteroid field, then look for a way through to that gas giant." Max considered this, his gaze fixed on the swirling mass of rock and ice on the screen before him. "I don't know. I'm not convinced. I think closer to the sun might be safer. And we'd be able to collect hydrogen easier to refuel." "Both paths have risks," Brock conceded, still scrutinizing the data. Max nodded, a sense of resolve settling over him. "Keep an eye on me," he said, his voice steady. "I'm going to go deep." He was referring to the state of hyper-thought, a cognitive dive into the vast sea of information they had gathered—a risk, but necessary. "How long?" Brock asked, his expression serious, knowing well the dangers of a deep mental excursion. "Start emergency procedures to bring me back if I exceed 23 seconds," Max instructed, already feeling the edges of his consciousness expand at the prospect of delving into hyper-thought. "Understood," Brock replied, his hand hovering over the medical kit, prepared for any eventuality. Max's trust in Brock was implicit; it was Brock who would pull him back from the abyss, should he linger too long in the depths of his own mind. Max's eyelids fluttered closed, and his breath steadied into the rhythm of one who stands at the edge of a boundless chasm. The transition was swift; consciousness plunging into the depths of hyper-thought where physical confines disintegrated. Brock watched, vigilant, as Max's features slackened, a syringe in held in his hand pulled from the inner lining of his jacket. The tool was a lifeline, a necessary precaution honed from experience. In the vast expanse of his mind, Max became untethered from time, his essence melding with the celestial dance of asteroids encircling the young solar system. Patterns emerged—a cosmic ballet choreographed to the silent music of gravity and inertia. His perception accelerated, tracing the orbital paths with precision that defied natural law. An anomaly crystallized amidst the ordered chaos, an aberration in the sequence that tugged at his subconscious. He reached for it, the threads of understanding just within grasp, but the cosmos pulled back, luring him deeper. A moment's hesitation, then surrender to the void—blackness enveloped him. "Max?" The voice seemed distant, a tether from beyond the abyss. "Max!" Consciousness crept back reluctantly as Max's eyes blinked open to the sterile light of the ready room. Brock loomed over him, worry etched deeply in the furrows of his brow. "How long was I gone?" Max inquired, his voice rasping, throat dry as though he had shouted into the vacuum of space itself. "Thirty-two seconds," Brock responded, the relief in his tone tinged with concern. "I had to give you two doses to get you back." Max sat up, trying to shake the cobwebs of otherworldly thought from his mind. "I went deep," he admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if to anchor himself to the present. "We have a problem." Brock's posture shifted, the marine’s training kicking in, ready to address any threat. "What is it?" he prompted. Max’s focus sharpened as the puzzle pieces fell into place. "The other colony ship is in there, hiding behind the gas giant. It's waiting for us," he revealed with an unsettling certainty. Brock's expression turned skeptical. "How do you know?" he asked, wondering what evidence could be gleaned from such an abstract journey. Max leaned forward, his hands gesturing as if to paint the picture that only he could see. "The pattern of asteroids that orbit behind the gas giant is 8-3-2-9-4-3. They're harvesting asteroids while they wait," he explained. "It's subtle, almost imperceptible, but the absence of expected motion—it's a tell. They've disrupted the natural flow, and they don't even realize it betrays their presence." Brock absorbed the information, his own tactical mind processing the implications. Silence hung between them, charged with the gravity of discovery and the weight of decisions yet to come. The metal deck hummed beneath Max's boots as Brock's measured strides echoed in the sterile silence of the ready room. The rhythmic pacing was a metronome counting down to an inevitable encounter. "Do you want to head back to Destiny?" Brock's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and concerned. Max stood firm, his gaze locked on the star map that painted a corner of the room with a holographic dance of celestial bodies. "No," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of command mixed with the weariness of one who'd brushed minds with infinity. Brock stopped pacing, turning to face him fully. He was a portrait of readiness, every muscle tensed for action, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt at Max's decision. "We're not going to try to sneak in either." Max's hand hovered above the console, fingers poised as if to draw strategies from the scattered constellations. "We'll take the scout ship to just outside the asteroid field and stop." "Stop?" Brock's brow furrowed, the question unspoken yet hanging heavy between them. "I'll take the shuttle and go visit them." Max turned from the map, his resolve hardening like the ice. Understanding dawned on Brock's features, his stance relaxing slightly as strategy overtook surprise. His response was a mere nod, an acknowledgment of orders to be followed, of trust placed in the hands of a companion who had seen beyond time itself. “Things might change in twenty-five hundred years,” said Brock. “Let’s not make any final decisions until we arrive.” Max conceded. “I agree, let’s get back into cryo, the next leg of the trip is going to be a long one.” Max and Brock returned to their pods, and as they descended back into sleep, the ship silently slipped back into the anonymity of the darkness of space.