Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality.
-Emily Dickinson

-October 17th, 2110-

The android known simply as ‘Sara’ sat upon the floor of the Aphelion’s bridge. Her perfectly constructed legs were folded and crossed beneath her, and her hands rested gently upon her knees. Each hand faced with the palms upwards, and the thumb and forefinger of both touched together to form a distinct ‘O’ above the palms. The remaining three fingers pointed straight out, and were pressed lightly together. Her back was erect and rigid, yet the line of her shoulders was relaxed and tensionless. With her eyes closed, and her nose turned slightly upward, the Buddha himself could not have sat in a more perfect Lotus position.

No interruption of breath, nor tremor of a heartbeat disturbed Sara’s perfect serenity. Time passed in a fluid, organic stream across the android’s digital consciousness—just as it had done for over two years now. Only in brief, scheduled intervals, had Sara left her meditative state, and then only to check upon the disposition of the Aphelion and her crew, as well as to intake the minimal amount of sustenance required for her systems to function.

“Attention. Destination threshold reached.”

The neutral, computerized voice of the Aphelion’s computer immediately opened Sara’s eyes. Adjusting instantly, she was greeted by the flash of the interior ship lights, and the rhythmic staccato of the red warning beacons. The computer continued its singular proclamation five more times. With the message’s end, Sara stood—an angelic wraith rising up from the floor.

Dressed in a form-fitting blue flight suit and seamless wedge-boots, Sara turned on her heels to a panel on the bridge’s wall. Pressing a short series of commands, the large heat shields that obscured the bridge viewports shuddered, and began to withdrawal with a low grown of long-stationary servomotors. As the metal panels retracted, the darkened interior of the bridge was flooded with the light of a billion stars, and the blue hue of the gas giant, Calpamos, that hung directly off the bow of the Aphelion. Though still thousands of miles away, the ringed planet looked as if it could have been merely plucked from the star field, and held delicately in the symmetrical palms of the android’s hands.

For a moment Sara regarded the celestial body. Her bright, silvery-blue eyes were an eerie match to the hue of the planet. Her programing acknowledged that such an event as this would possess inherent significance to a human, and instructed Sara that if she had been able, she would have felt emotions such as awe, delight, anxiety, and…

“Fear.” Sara said aloud.

---

“Ah, fuuuu…” The word disappeared into a wrenching gag, followed by the rough sound of dry-heaving. Captain Lena Pretorius leaned against her vacated hypersleep pod, bent at her waist, and somehow managed to empty even more from her stomach. Thankfully, Sara had had the forethought to place a pan beside each of the crew’s hypersleep pods for this express purpose. Though Lena was thankful for the android’s attention to detail, she was in no state to thank her now.

Lena was covered in a cold sweat with her toned muscles quivering. Her auburn hair hung about her face in damp tendrils, and her green eyes were bloodshot and swollen. That she was dressed in only the revealing, flimsy, white undergarments designed for extended hypersleep did not even cross her mind. She was in too much pain for that, and besides, the rest of the crew were similarly adorned, with most being welcomed by the same severity of shock of reanimation.

“The shock will wear off shortly, Captain. Drinking water, along with other vitamin supplements, will speed the process of recovery.”

Lena turned her head fractionally from where it hung. She looked into the perfectly flawless face of Sara, and scowled.

“Thanks,” Lena managed with a wry smile. “I have done this once or twice though, Sara.”

The android nodded her head. “My apologies, mum. I meant no disrespect.”

Lena waved the apology away. “No worries.” On unsteady legs, Lena stood, and regarded the android more fully. Around her, the sounds of the rest of the crew awakening rung grimly off of Aphelion’s utilitarian interior. “How are we faring?”

Sara smiled. “All appears normal, Captain. Systems are within nominal ranges, and there are no deaths to report among the crew. The computers report that we are on course, though Mr. Kasparov will have to confirm as much.”

“Very well. Give the XO your report. We’ll have our briefing shortly, after everyone has had a chance to shake out the cobwebs.”

Sara bowed slightly, and strode away to carry out the orders.

Lena watched the android go, following her as she wove her way through the rows of hypersleep pods. The Executive Officer, Preacher as Lena had joined in calling the ex-Colonial Marine, was down near the end of the bay. From where she was, Lena couldn’t see him, but she wondered all the same how the man was making out.

Wonder if those prosthetics are glitchy after hypersleep? She thought with a subtle lift to her brow.

A fresh wave of nausea almost brought Lena to her knees, and forced any further contemplation about the XO to an abrupt end. Groaning, she shuffled to a communication panel, and depressed the ship-wide transmit button.

“This is the captain. Wakey-wakey, and all that. There will be a briefing in the cafeteria in twenty minutes. Be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed…” Lena almost released the transmit button when the image of Sara crossed before her mind. With a roll of her eyes, the captain continued. “…And don’t forget to drink plenty of water, alright? Captain out.”

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Lena stood before the drink station in the cafeteria a changed woman. Freshly showered and dressed in a grey Wey-Yu t-shirt, an old vintage leather bomber jacket, thick black thermal leggings, and knee-high leather boots, she looked every bit the salty, modern space-jockey. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and she wore only mascara upon her face to accentuate the catlike tilt of her eyes.

With a hand resting upon her hip, she watched as the computerized drink dispenser spewed forth a black, steaming liquid that passed for coffee. As the machine finished, Lena took her mug, and plopped herself down into one of the chairs.

It was only then that she realized she hadn’t even gone forward to the bridge to look at the view of their approaching destination. The disgusting feeling that always accompanied her following a long stint in hypersleep tended to have that singular, dominating effect on her thoughts, so she merely shrugged at the realization. There would be time aplenty to view the grandeur of the gas giant, and the moon of LV-223 that orbited it.

All that there was to do now was to wait for the arrival of her crew so the briefing could begin.

“You ain’t goin!”

Georgia Triskin’s voice cracked, her anger twisting her face as she decried her daughter’s decision.

“Ma...”

“No! Ah forbid it!”

Alice fought with the temptation to shout back. She didn’t blame her mom for worrying, how could she?

“Ah’m not a kid anymore, it’s mah decision. And ah wanna go.”

Her mother, realising anger wasn’t working, changed tack, her voice was lower, gentler, “please Alice, don’t go, they can get another mechanic, someone who doesn’t mind the risks.”

Alice stood, shaking her head, “there ain’t no risks ma, and you saw the pay grade, ah can’t say no, you can move outta here, get a nice place, maybe with a view.”

Georgia was almost pleading now, she sat at the table and gestured for her daughter to join her, Alice didn’t.

“Ah’m happy here, I don’t need no fancy apartment, don’ do it, please…”

“It’s too late, ah already signed the contract, ah’m goin’.”

She flinched as her mother stood, “get out!”

“Jus-“

“OUT!”

The plate smashed against the door as it closed behind Alice’s retreating back.

***

Secure against the cold, empty hunger of the ether. They weren’t asleep, not really, the state of existence they enjoyed was not something so natural as sleep, it was a void, a temporary suspension of life. There was a click, and the gentle sound of technology coasting gently into action. Automatic systems began the delicate process of reviving their fragile organic charges, slowly returning colour to their skin as warmth seeped into their limbs, leaving the frozen stasis that had kept them in its embrace for the last two years.

A gasp of escaping oxygen announced the termination of the revival process. The pods, state of the art, opened with barely a sound beyond the hiss of sudden condensation against the super cooled glass. A small control screen glowed gently on the side of each pod, each with an expired countdown, their awakening cycle complete, their work done.

***

Retching broke the silence, Alice, unlike most of the others, hadn’t even managed to make it out of the pod before the nausea had overwhelmed her. Simply sitting up had been enough to make her head spin and her stomach heave. She hung over the side of the pod, dishcloth fashioned, as a thin stream of stomach acid and bile trailed from her mouth to the pan. It was solely through good fortune that the pan had been precisely where she had aimed her vomit, more concerned with getting it out of the pod than looking where it was going to land.

She groaned, “ah guess you were right ma.”

She was so wrapped up in her own suffering that she proved mostly oblivious to what was going on around her, eventually however, she summoned up the strength, and the courage, to actually climb out of the pod, or fall out of the pod, as it were. She used the side to haul herself back up to vertical, and glared across the room to the draws containing clothes. They seemed unfairly far away. Slowly, she let go of the pod, standing straight and fixing her gaze on the wall ahead.

“Just a hangover, you can deal with a hangover.”

She made it to the other side without incident, it seemed that, unlike a hangover, the nausea and disorientation brought on by waking from cryo-sleep was short-lived. It was a huge relief to finally touch the cool surface of the white wall opposite, and feel it click as it extended smoothly, presenting her with some clothing more modest than the skimpy cryo approved wear she was currently attired in.

***

A short trip to the engine room, to check on her baby, and now significantly more comfortable, albeit still clutching a glass of water like a life preserver, Alice was in the cafeteria. She was clothed in the regulation mechanics overalls, though without the presence of hissing machinery, had left them unfastened, tying the arms around her waist to bundle the rest of the outfit there. A Wey-Yu t-shirt covered her upper torso, while her feet were encased in a pair of heavy, steel toe-capped work boots.

She still felt ill, but it had faded from its previous heights to a dull throb at the base of her skull, and she did her best to ignore it for now. She collapsed into a chair and propped her feet up on the table beside it. “Well cap’n, ah’m ere.”

She flicked off an uncertain salute, clearly not accustomed to it, or sure whether or not it was required, but willing at least to make the effort, until she knew where she stood with the captain anyway.

The sleepy emptiness of hypersleep unconsciousness was washed away from Diego, both smoothly, and with a rising sense of disgust. It was like cleaning mud from a root: the initial form was unclear, and potentially disconcerting, but the root itself, once clean, was just as ambiguous, and ugly anyway. It could make you wonder, somewhere in that unorganized id, what the point of cleaning the thing was in the first place.

The Aphelion was not a root, and it was not ugly, but the feeling of activity and consciousness after so long of severe stasis could certainly make it feel as such. Diego retched quietly into the pan next to his bed, coming up with nothing but a little foamy spittle. It was mostly dry heaves, so he drank water, and found he felt better in no time. He waved away the bot and anyone who dared come near him as he settled himself. Diego opened his eyes with a faint sense of control, his breathing seemed to return to normal and his heart had steadied. He lifted his hand in front of his body, and stared in dismay. It twitched and shook of it’s own accord. Diego felt a little shame then, but mostly fear.

“Would this be permanent?” he asked himself. “No, couldn’t be.” he rationalized. Diego could continue without worry if he just assumed it was a side effect of the hypersleep, albeit an unprecedented one. Diego noticed Juan moving over to his storage compartment at the wall. The two had become rather close since they met a year prior to the mission. Juan was an admirer of Diego’s work in Columbia, beside that he was intelligent and respectful. It was all that was needed to form a friendly bond—well, that and their shared tongue.

“Juan , ven conmigo después ya está. Debemos bajar a la armoria y llevar el equipo para todos los demás. ¿Tienes cigarrillos?” Diego spoke with a rhythmic, rolling Spanish, the one he’d been speaking all of his life. The question, which punctuated his move to his own storage compartment, came as an afterthought.

“No, Boss, sorry. There might be a machine around here somewhere.” Juan responded.

“I doubt it,” Diego said with a sigh, his voice a creamy mixture of a Hispanic and English accent, of generally indecipherable origins. He opened the storage container to find his clothing, high leather boots, and a Wey-Yu security badge. Beside those were his 10mm glock, and an extended magazine, both tucked neatly into a velvet upholstered box.

After Diego and Juan had their clothes on, the two made their way down the hall to the armory.

“Don’t you think we should head to the bridge? Meet with the Captain first?” Juan asked as he walked up to one of the cages.

“Maybe. I don’t want to take any chances, though. The Prometheus was lost for a reason, and it wasn’t because they took the wrong turn in Albuquerque.” Diego quipped as he opened the cage and started placing some pistols in a crate, along with extra magazines. Juan piled body armor on a cart after arming himself.

*****

The duo came into the newly christened security crew quarters armed and armored, with more armaments to share. The rest of the security team members began arming themselves, cracking wise and complaining, as was the soldiers right.

“Ladies, Gents, this is it. This is what we've been working for, our lives have led up to this very moment. Whether this is the moment of your lives, just another job, or the pathway to your dreams I expect the same out of all of you. Don’t fuck it up. Stay vigilant, stick to teams of two, remain calm, and be judicial. Head to briefing with the Captain after you’re ready, then we’ll meet back here in an hour. Check-in every hour on the hour. You know your orders.”

Diego spun on a dime and exited the room.

*****

Diego entered the cafeteria as he tried to attach his Wey-Yu security badge, made even more difficult by his unstable hands. By the time he had it fixed on he was in front of the coffee machine. He poured himself a cup then turned back to the rest of the room, realizing there were people in it.

“Well, morning Captain.” He said with a little smirk just before sipping on the coffee. Diego made his way over to the table with a little bit of a swagger, his glock’s magazine swaying with his hips, just barely jutting out from his bulky form. His arms were free of any protection, aside from the scarred skin on his forearms, which were harsh reminders of his night in that doomed station. He rested them on the cool table as he sat in the chair nearest the captain. He sipped on his coffee a few more times, peaked back up at the captain, and spoke with a childish self-consciousness, “fancy meeting you here”. He chuckled with a tinge of shame, and managed to entertain himself with the half-decent nourishment of the shit coffee.

Raymond Charles, Pilot

“Dreams are strange, in hypersleep – or so they've always told me; I'm not convinced I'll ever know myself... seeing as I've never had them. But you? What might you tell me of yours?” I paused in that moment, hand cradling the mug of coffee, a particular arch of my eyebrow – just enough!-- to register my interest at the question; she leaned back, settled into the comforting depths of warm black leather, steepled her fingers and propped them beneath her chin. Watching, as she was wont to do after asking a question.

I did not respond at once. Rather, took a slow sip. Waited. She seemed convinced I needed encouragement (you should know me better by now, woman!); tilted her head to the side and added encouragingly: “Or perhaps I merely forget them, is all... because there is always -something- to be found in the darkness, wouldn't you say?”

“Perhaps, or maybe just more darkness?” Yet the words were spoken only to the blank emptiness of swirling walls, the room and my thoughts and existence altogether running away, dripping and pooling – sluicing in ever growing streams toward the drain at the floor of the room he found himself thrown to; the only sound that of the dull thud of plasteel bars slamming-to as he lands, and so I watched – watched in detached interest as the figure clasped his hands over his ears. Shook and quivered, crying perhaps. But I could hear nothing. Only see the tears, watch as they ran down the yellowed surface of scum-coated tiles... could almost hear each droplet as it hung – balanced – for but a moment before tumbling through the edge of the drain and beyond. Then he turned, turned and... and as I looked at myself, I felt the urge to scream. To reach out and erase, to shove away the blank face of sealed lips and lifeless eyes. It was me. It was not me. I shuddered, then cursed as I – too – felt myself shoved into the room; hurled from whatever strange plane from which I had been watching, and crashing toward the outstretched arms and babbling, toothless mouth of this abomination.

And then Raymond woke. The room was quiet. Nothing but the gentle hum of machinery, quiet pulse of the ship's life-support systems cranking away. Easing his feet over the edge of the pod, he pushed upright – thanked the gods for the lack of nausea (he was an old campaigner, anyway); bare feet planted on the coldly metallic tiles. Pushed upright.

It was odd, Raymond considered, as he plodded past the remaining pods – all empty – toward his locker. Late to the party, apparently. Overslept, perhaps? Was that even possible? He should have been woken precisely along with all the others...

Despite pushing these thoughts from his mind -- instead mechanically dressing and heading on toward the canteen -- he could not help but feel a singular sort of unease. The emptiness of it all, as though perhaps he had been duped – tossed out into space on an entirely empty vessel. Left to drift for years and then...

I saw her – maybe I was not alone after all! But the unease did not leave, only grew – grew as I increased my gait and strode on toward the departing woman, took a turn down a corridor and found myself face-to-face with... the same blank stare. Empty eyes, a toothless mouth spread wide in smile as the featureless face moved as if to swallow mine. The arms swept upward and about, crushing me in a cold embrace that cut off all air at once... and just before the jaw opened wide – grew to unholy proportions – then I heard the soft voice of the psychologist once again.

“Raymond! Raymond!” Several loud clicks – snapping fingers. I blinked. Saw her face. Blinked again. Saw -its- face. Blinked again. Saw white.

*****

Raymond woke with a curse and a sudden start upward – too fast! His head connected with the solid lid of the pod, a dull thud resonating as his torso was slammed back to the cushion at the unexpectedness of the blow.

“Christ...” was the murmured expletive, one hand reaching to rub at what he reckoned would soon enough create a sizable lump; he couldn't quite help but roll his eyes at the soft chime of the pod computer, followed by the gentle tones of a synthesized voice:

“Good day, Raymond Charles – Please be patient; wait for the final system check before your pod opens. Feelings of claustrophobia are not abnormal at this stage. Shall you require a sedative, to ease the transition?”

“No, damnit” was the grumbled reply as the pilot began tearing away at the pads and wires secured to his chest, then reached for the small bottle of water he had brought into the pod with him some two years past... Hangovers and Hypersleep – they both had one thing in common, anyway. And why the hell couldn't the goddamn computer offer a man some painkillers? Sedatives. Shit. It could feel free to shove those up its hypothetical ass...

By the time the pod had finally opened, Raymond was three-quarters of the way through the bottle, up and on his feet with a grunt as he stalked toward his locker. The nausea wasn't so bad to fight off... not when you'd been there plenty of times before; a few of his fellow crewmates – shit! Couldn't remember a name amongst them!-- but a few didn't seem to be doing quite so well.

I played my usual game. Looked uninteresting and uninterested. Kept that sternly standard face that the uninitiated seemed to consider “angry”; convenient, anyway? Not entirely untruthful. I certainly was in no mood for pleasant conversation so soon after waking from some two years of insanely over-complicated dreams. Two years!

“Christ...” Raymond muttered under his breath again – barely audible to anyone who might be standing near – before clutching his hands over his ears and shaking his head several times. How many times -had- he been in that room? It was difficult to say. Perhaps it had been the same dream, over and over and over.

*****

At least the coffee in this canteen was real enough. And convincing enough. And the people, too, though I was quite content to mind my own business. Wolf down several helpings-full of what passed for ham and eggs, suck down just as many helpings of the diesel-strong ship's coffee.

“Good for what ails ye...” I muttered to myself, before offering a perfunctory nod to anyone I might pass on my way out of the canteen, final, steaming mug of brew in hand as I stalked off for my personal sanctuary. I couldn't quite help but hold back a smile as the soft buzz of my internal speaker announced Annie's awakening – I'd been forewarned it was best to schedule start-up protocol for AI implants a good ten minutes after awaking from hypersleep at the least.

“Good morning... What's the word?” The response was immediate.

“Well Sir, to be precise, it is currently fourteen-oh-seven on earth, which I would scarcely consider morning...”

“Shit, Annie – forget about it! What's the word?”

“Still fully integrating with ship's systems... but thus far everything checks out. It seems the engineer has already checked in with the power system – everything online and fully functional; ship's logs state you are to be expected for briefing shortly.” I curled a lip a that. Briefing my ass! Two years asleep, and finally a ship worth flying...

“How short is short?”

“Probably enough time for whatever it is you intend, Sir.”

By the time Raymond had finished his customary inspection of the ship's bridge – -his- particular station in particular (as well as another mug of coffee) – he seemed in a much more amiable mood. The disconcerting years of hypersleep were already a distant memory, and it was with a bit more purpose to his generally jaunty stride that he stepped back into the canteen – grabbed another mug of what he'd by now become convinced was straight caffeine in liquid form – and straddled the first available chair without much ceremony; arms resting against its back, steaming mug held out before him (clothes a bit disheveled – the standard of perfection clearly leaving much to be desired; shirt far from tucked in, sleeves loose and dangling – not to mention the rising lump, evidence of his close encounter with the pod's glass exterior). Only then did he pause to give a further glance to the crewmembers who had assembled thus far.

Smoking hot somebody – mechanic, engineer maybe?... gorgeous doctor... stunning captain... someone else, all-to-perfect... I narrowed my eyes briefly – tried not to stare -too- obviously hard – yeah, too-perfect. I'd seen enough Synthetics to know one when I saw one. Interesting. She looked like one hell of an expensive job, whatever the case. Hell, what'd I gotten myself into? I was feeling a bit outnumbered.

But one of the faces seemed familiar – Natan, ship's navigator. At least I'd managed to remember that much. I raised my mug in the man's direction, offered a friendly nod, but beyond that didn't speak.

"Do you have to go?"
"It's my job, Dad."
"But-"
"I have to go."
"...Okay."
"...I love you."

"I love you too."
******

Zelda gagged as oxygen filled her lungs, and hurled over the side. The splash of whatever was in her stomach echoed through the room. She heard the others moving about and reluctantly crawled out of her pod. Her eyes struggling to open, she felt her way to the shower and mashed the a button. Scorching hot water cascaded over her body and she slowly realized that she was dressed. She stripped and flung the clothes out the door. Once she was showered and dressed in jeans, sneakers, a plain white Tee shirt and a Weyland-Yutani Jacket, she made her way down to the systems room “This is the captain. Wakey-wakey, and all that. There will be a briefing in the cafeteria in twenty minutes. Be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed…” “…And don’t forget to drink plenty of water, alright? Captain out.” Zelda grabbed a water bottle out of her locker on her way out. She logged on and checked everything out. Operational. She nodded to herself, satisfied. She exited the room and walked down the corridor. She walked past a window and stopped, backtracking. She gawped at the gas giant, Calpamos. A sight like that reminded her how much she loved her job. She continued towards the cafeteria, coming across several other crew members, but too lazy to acknowledge them. Hyper-sleep had that affect.

She opened several panels built into the wall along the way, adjusting some things by flipping switches and mashing some buttons. She took the elevator up to the cafeteria, finishing off her water bottle and tossing it in a trash bin. She felt much better as she entered the cafeteria.

"Mmmm... yaaahhherlll... huhhh...mrrr... unnngh... "

This may or may not have roughly translated to, "I'll be along later Dr. Lasker. Nothing would make me happier, than to have you adjust a thing or two on my... Equipment." Then again it may also have translated to, "On the way, Captain Pretorius, wakey-waking this very minute - right on it ma'am."

Or really it may have been just a string of nonsense syllables that burbled past John Paul's lips as his conscious mind attempted to drag itself from the morass of cryosleep (this latter option being the far likelier choice). With no small effort of will, he tried to focus on something that was not the bile creeping up the back of his throat, leaving a nasty bitterness coating his mouth. He smacked his lips and cringed, not entirely sure which sensation was worse: the foulness that turning his tongue all fuzzy and thick, or the way his stomach roiled in his gut like a seriously pissed off and rabid chihuahua.

But through it all, one voice still managed to push through the queasiness and the ache. One dark eye opened slowly, the tiniest glimmer of something mischievous playing in their depths as one corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. It was a soft feminine voice, lightly and exotically-accented to the man born and raised in the deep South, and it was a really nice way to wake up, even if it was a simple report: no deaths in transit, the Aphelion was on course and the navigator would be confirming their trajectory imminently. John Paul was grateful Lena sent the android, because while he definitely did need the captain's report? Yeah, he needed Sara's expert help even more.

But that wasn't really going to stop him from some cryo-waking grins.

"OH GOD! Sara? Sara!? OH GOD WHAT'S HAPPENED!?" John Paul wailed as he sat up straight in his cryobed, his mouth a rictus of horror as he lifted his heavily-inked and handless left arm to his face. "SARA! What... WHERE'S MY HAND?"

Dark eyes wide, his gaze darted to his shoulder, and he let loose with an inarticulate howl. "MY ARM!?" he screeched, his gaze darting between the roadmap of scars and ink, and the impossibly beautiful face of the android woman. SARA WHERE IS MY ARM!? IT WAS ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE CRYOSLEEP! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!? AHHHHHHHHHH... !"

That last crie de coeur was belted out to the ceiling above, head back and mouth wide - but he really couldn't keep it up long. The cry of horror slowly turned into a throaty laugh, as his head fell forward to his chest, dark eyes glancing up to Sara's face with a wicked little grin. Nothing pleased him more than the realization there was some sort of genuine reaction on Sara's face; though whether it was a grimace of disgust, or horror, or if she was simply wondering what the hell could have happened to the Executive Officer's brain during his long sleep, that she somehow missed...

"Good morning, Sara," Preacher murmured in his thick Alabama drawl with a grin, his one arm lying in his lap now as he swung his legs up over the edge of the cryobed, feet dangling almost to the ground. "I've missed you, and thanks for the report, and... Would you be a doll, darlin'?" He nodded toward the prosthetic hand and arm, lying next to the thoughtfully laid-out bucket. Only organics traveled in the cryobeds, non-organic materials not faring so well in the primordial soup that bathed and nourished the human body during its long, cold sleep.

"Please, give me my hand at least," he asked with a sheepish grin as he held out the stump of his wrist, the organic surgical interfaces along bone and nerve and muscle radiating around the scarred flesh. "Or I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you out, ask you to hold the puke bucket for me. And you are looking far too lovely and pulled together, to get all... Spattered... "

**********

Two functioning hands made a lot of thing easier, thank heaven for the fact Sara had a solid sense of humor for an android, or... Or well, maybe she just didn't give a good damn - a thought he didn't like near so much as the first, but it wasn't like he'd ever really know for sure.

The uncertainty didn't make his shower and shave feel any less amazing, or the sudden hunger snarling in his empty belly any more manageable. Dressed in a long-sleeved black Wey-Yu T-shirt, tan cargo pants and Burberry replica aviator boots, Preacher stalked his way to the cafeteria.

"Ooorah Devil Dogs!" Preacher barked as he passed the security team with a wide grin, and then headed straight toward the coffee dispenser not a few of the others had already helped themselves. He didn't think twice about the so-called "quality" of the stuff - he'd long since lost his taste buds to the Corps. He nodded to most everyone in the room, his wide, easy smile greeting each in turn.

"Morning, ma'am," Preacher said to Lena as he lifted his coffee cup with a respectful nod, and then settled easily into one of the chairs around a large table. "I'm hoping coffee counts as water... Sorta... In a way... Sara's already let me know about the importance of vitamins and electrolytes, and I swore I'd be all over those nutrient-dense donuts as soon as they're up!"

He grinned as he set the coffee cup on the table, reaching into his cargo pocket with only a whisper of a whir from his prosthetics when he pulled the Bible from its confines. One booted foot across his knee as he settled in his chair, Preacher easily pulled the ribbon from where he'd left it in the book of Isaiah, and nodded over to the Security Officer. "Morning, Diego, and isn't it another lovely day to be floating in a tin can in the void of space?" He chuckled softly, his dark eyes falling back to the smaller print of Chapter 40.

Lena hadn’t to wait long for company. The crew ambled into the cafeteria, with many bee-lining to the “gear-oil dispenser,” as she had done. She smiled, and greeted each as warmly as her still pounding head would permit.

When Alice gave her the salute, Lena leaned forward in her chair and feigned dramatic indignation. “It’s good to see you up and about, but for fuck’s sake don’t salute me, Alice. God, you’ll have everyone thinking I’m some Jarhead like these characters…”

Lena winked good-naturedly to Alice, and pointed up to the members of the security team that had just entered the cafeteria like a human tempest. Among the small bunch of Colonial Marines, her eyes found Diego, and she returned his smirk with a smile of her own.

“And a good morning to you to, D.” She said as the security team leader took a seat beside her. “I haven’t seen you in years, and you look so…so preserved. Whatever you use to keep that skin of yours so radiant, I simply must have it.”

She gave the man a playful nudge with her elbow, and snorted a light laugh when his coffee edged just barely over the rim of his cup. Lena glanced over to Olivia with a knowing look, having heard the medical officer’s proclamation of “smooth” in response to Diego’s sarcasm.

“I know right? The pinnacle of wit, and not even half an hour out of the cryo-bed.” Lena rolled her eyes before continuing her jest. “We’re in for such a treat on this mission. The company couldn’t be better.”

Several more of the crew filed in, and Lena nodded in greeting to each. It was nice to see that her team was punctual, and seemingly no worse the wear from their long slumber. The Aphelion mission was a serious one, and Lena got the sense that the crew understood that. Even still, it was good to see some humor and life in their faces. There would be time for more sober interaction soon enough.

When the XO entered the room, and gave his loud greeting to his brothers and sisters in arms, Lena couldn’t help but laugh. The camaraderie that existed in the Colonial Marine culture always amazed her, and it was something she very much admired. It was a rare thing indeed, especially in the sometimes ruthless corporate world of Weyland-Yutani, to see people that considered the well-being of the people on their right and left first, before themselves. Though she had never been in the military, it was a quality she told herself to exemplify.

“Good morning, Preacher.” She said, giving him a smile. “It sounds like you gave Sara as much of a start as anyone can with an android. Kudos for that.”

“Mr. D’Angelo’s attempt at humor was most unexpected,” said Sara, who seemingly materialized from thin air. Her demeanor was pleasant, and the flawless face was affixed with a smile. “Though, due to the level of stress hypersleep can exert upon the human mind, it was a circumstance that could have very easily been a reality.”

Lena lifted a brow to the android, and gave Preacher’s leg a light kick with her boot. “Isn’t Sara such a charmer? It’s amazing that our feeble human brains just don’t leak out of our ears while we sleep.”

Sara’s face took on a concerned air. “Oh Captain, I meant no disrespect…”

“I was joking, Sara.” Lena interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Only joking.”

At that, Lena looked down to her watch and frowned. “Sara, do you know where Reddick is?” she asked, speaking of the Aphelion’s mission supervisor. “Times a-wastin’.”

“I do believe,” the android said cocking her head slightly, “that he is still making himself ready for the briefing. I imagine he should be along presently.”

Lena’s expression soured at the thought of the company man’s disregard for her orders. It was a small thing, to be late for a briefing, but all the same Lena had little doubt it was a way for Reddick to exert his authority. Saying nothing to Sara in reply, Lena merely brought her cup to her lips once more, and set back to take in the conversation around her.

As Zelda entered the cafeteria, she gave a faint wave to Lena and made a B-line for the coffee machine. Several minutes later, she felt refreshed and raring to go. Coffee really could do wonders. She properly greeted everyone, eyeing up Preacher for a couple minutes before even saying anything to him. She wasn't the kind to get nervous, about anything really, especially a guy. But there was something about him...

Get a hold of yourself dammit, you're not in middle school and you're not a girl anymore. You're a woman. An engineer in fact. So just go talk to him.

She scolded herself, taking a sip of her coffee. But she couldn't. She was petrified, she was even getting sweaty.

Oh God, I stink like a sewer when I start to sweat.

She rushed into the cafeteria bathroom, drying her underarms with some towels.

"Jesus what is wrong with me?"

She asked herself in the mirror. She had never reacted to anyone like this, not even her Dad. She shook her head hard, as if she would dislodge the feelings from her brain, and went back into the cafeteria. She went back into the cafeteria and joined the group. She hoped nobody noticed her little...episode. She sat down at their table and finished off her coffee.

"Everyone sleep well? I imagine so, since we've been asleep for two years...Holy crap, I'm 33 now. Wait what month is it? I may still be 32."

Zelda wasn't a huge fan of waking up a different age, but what are you gonna do. It's a fact of life in space. Through a window she spotted their destination, LV-223. It looked rather dull compared to the celestial body that it orbited. But it was a moon, and moons aren't all that interesting. Except this one was. She saw everyone here except one. Reddick. She shrugged and leaned back in her seat. He'd show up sooner or later.

The Security officer chuckled at Lena’s jest. It was expected, predictable, but sweet nonetheless. Diego sent an indirect glance at Dr. Laster as she and Lena continued the barbaric back-talk known as sarcasm. It was the vail of the hopelessly stupid, the sword of the hopelessly pretentious. But, it seemed to suit this group fine enough. The hypersleep had already taken it’s toll, as the Highwayman does, leaving them with dull eyes, and even duller wits to boot.

Yet, the preponderance of such ponderings, made with dull perceptions, could have easily been countermanded by the torrent of character the XO, Preacher, brought in behind him. John Paul D’Angelo represented the ultimate pride and shame of the Colonial Marines, plus everything in-between. He meant so much to so many people, it was actually quite mind-boggling to even begin parsing out what it all meant. And, the true dilemma was that John was not the only one. Every Marine who had died or suffered to bring humanity so much closer to the stars was a burden to behold. They are the scar that never goes away, the soaring reminder of our ambition and it’s cost. Diego was lost in that bloody mindscape when John came up beside him. He snapped from that world of loss and sorrow and his eyes came to rest on John’s mechanized arm, as if it wanted to pull him back.

Diego’s dark eyes scanned the XO, from the buzz cut top, to the steel-toed bottom. He watched the bible, which suited the country bumpkin so well Diego could almost laugh, flip open, it’s soft pages fluttering from one fine phrase to the next. Diego took another sip of his coffee when John spoke to him.

Diego smiled in response, swallowed the coffee in his mouth, and nodded. “Aye, at least this tin can is floating toward something. I mean, if I woke up in another space station in the next five years I’d probably throw myself out of the fucking air-lock.” Diego whispered to John Paul, ending his grisly joke with another light chuckle.

While suicide had certainly crossed Diego’s mind before, this particular occasion was purely a joke. That, however, did not mean the statement was vacuous. Diego didn’t want to work for Wey-Yu any longer, not after this job. Over the past decade or so Diego has learned that working for a large organization, like the CIA, or Wey-Yu, or for the Columbian government was never stable. One way or another someone like Diego was a liability, a risk never worth betting on. Wey-Yu probably expected him to die on this mission, just as the CIA had expected that to happen on his last mission. Of course, he had no way of knowing that for sure, but his instincts were on fire, he could practically smell the corpses of Prometheus’ crew from the surface of LV-223.

Diego lifted his mostly empty coffee cup to his lips as Sara responded to the captain. Reddick, that’s where the answer lied. If Diego wanted to know the truth, he was the man to go to. After Diego swallowed the rest of his drink the cup was kept near his mouth for a while longer as he thought of how to approach Reddick, or, in the worst scenario, how he would find this information himself. His hand started to shake, and the coffee cup therein. Diego slammed the cup on the table to stop the shaking, and held his head down; the tittering warmth of embarrassment coursing over his spine, sieging his composure through pure attrition.

"'Attempt,' Sara? An 'attempt at humor?' Ouch... " Preacher murmured under his breath as he read on, shrugging good-naturedly as internally he dedicated himself all over again to proving his personal hypothesis - that an android really could spontaneously generate a sense of humor given the right impetus. He still hadn't found the fulcrum that would move an android, but Preacher was a patient man...

One artificial fingertip stopped on the page where his eyes last roamed, and he gave Lena a sidelong glance. A soft smile rested on his face, though something icy lurked behind his dark eyes while she spoke with Sara about Reddick. Preacher truly appreciated his captain, but even more than he liked her? Even more than that, he respected her too. Lena Pretorius was one of the most skilled pilots he'd ever met, military or civilian, and a natural leader who sincerely cared for her people. Talented, skilled and personable - that was a precious rare triad of traits to find in a boss.

So yes, John Paul was more than happy - proud even - to be the right hand of a captain he respected, and the obvious lack thereof in Reddick pissed him off. Oh sure, the "mission director" likely thought his slight was a subtle dig, a miniscule reminder for Lena where the true power aboard the Aphelion lie. Well, provided of course Reddick gave a thought for what he was doing at all, and wasn't just outright dismissing her and the rest of the crew...

"Hmmph." Preacher laced the ribbon back to the page where the 41st chapter began, aviator foot falling to the ground as he pushed the Bible back into his cargo pocket, buttoning it back up again. As naturally as if they were the limbs he'd been born with, John Paul laced his fingers behind his head as he slouched a little further into his seat. And as naturally as he breathed, that same easy grin slipped back into its proper place.

Fuck James Reddick.

"Sergeant Winters!" he called over to the CM squad leader with a laugh, "You hear Mr. Sandoval? Consider this a standing order: if your boss takes a stroll toward an air lock any time soon? Intervene!" Diego had sunk back into some moody funk or other, likely pondering all the possibilities, angles and approaches he couldn't do a damn thing to change anyway. Didn't mean Preacher had to leave him there.

Preacher's gaze turned toward the pretty Engineering Officer with the sparkling smile who, strangely enough, seemed worried about her age. For the life of him he couldn't see why she'd think twice about such a thing; a mirror should tell Zelda all she needed to know about the complete lack of age ravaging on her face.

But it was the Russian navigator's unexpected and oh-so-literal explanation of the intricacies of time dilation that just tickled him. John Paul chuckled warmly, meeting Natan's expectant smile with his own - and then biting his lip, hard, to keep from laughing out loud as the young man's wandering eye for the ladies got him cold-busted by the good doctor. "I from Russia?" Like no one had noticed that quite yet - and really, was that all the explanation a guy needed, to talk his way out of awkwardness with the ladies? He'd have to give it a try some time.

Sure, it was probably fortunate for Natan that it hadn't been the Captain or Sergeant Winters who caught him eyeballing them - but no matter. Preacher just didn't have it in him to leave the poor guy hanging there long, lost and flailing and being Russian and all.

"So what kind of time are we talking about here, before the Prometheus' landing site is found?" he asked crisply, letting his hands fall back to his sides and standing to his feet with a grunt. Preacher strode to a nearby counter, pressing a latch to let a small door slide away to reveal a plate of donuts - or at least, what the Aphelion interpreted as donuts, or donut-like. He shrugged as he picked up the plate with one hand, claiming what might be interpreted as a "glazed donut" with the other as he returned to the table.

With a sly grin, Preacher leaned over beside Zelda to slide the plate to the table. "And if you like," he whispered to her with a laugh as he stood, "We can order up some synthetic frosting-like, find a flare in the emergency packs, maybe do up a birthday cake more-or-less-sorta right?" He smiled contentedly as he made his way back to his seat, synthetic donut replicant in hand and a hot, coffee-like liquid just waiting on him.

((double post))

I found myself rather distracted for a time; I was never much of one for that initial barrage of interpersonal firing-squads that the less neurotic might have termed “Socialization”. Besides, the slue of system diagnostics that Annie had finally downlinked from the ship's mainframe kept me more than busy. Not, of course, that I'd have a hope of navigating the disastrous spew of information on my lonesome – but that's what a personal AI was for, anyway. She and I might not have flown for years, but old habits die hard: I wanted a personal look at the readings myself. Sometimes even the finest computer will make the mistakes that a human never would.

Besides, what better way to make acquaintances than by uploading my personal system specs and then convincing the remainder of the crew it was a fine idea? I can't say I'd ever liked the default settings on any ship I ever piloted, and in this one in particular was no exception: flew like a pig, but with a few tweaks above the 'Recommended' thresholds the bird could shed a few pounds. Having flown more than my fair share of hours in the initial test flights -did- confer a few advantages over the uninitiated.

Come to think on it, it's not like the company ever had a lack of solid, capable and (perhaps most importantly in my case...) reliable pilots. Many doubtless coming far more recommended than I could ever claim to be. I couldn't help but fail to hide a kind of sly, self-satisfied smile at my own irrational logic: perhaps if they chose me, it means they -need- someone who had been in the initial test run, which I figure by extension implies I've the right to push the ship a little harder than the final specs company engineers had come up with after those early test runs.

* * * * * *

“Sir, you're doing it again – “ a nominal grunt in response, during which the AI politely paused before continuing: “cognitive anomaly: lying to yourself as affirmation of invented causality...”

“Oh give it a rest, would you? That's just called being a human!” Raymond gave a dismissive flick of his fingers at that, words no more than mouthed in response: perhaps talking aloud to an AI was more of an accepted norm than it might have been not too many years in the past... But holding a conversation with a personal implant? Probably not much different than talking to oneself.

Catching a whiff of Preacher's remarks to our Navigator, I sent along a wireless request of my own to his personal system:

“Attn: Incoming Request from Pilot Raymond Charles, Handle: Ridgeback”; it was just a simple request for the navigation logs and current planetary scans – no doubt we'd all have a wonderful gander at them after making the inevitable exodus to the bridge, but some preparation beats none at all. I added verbally, afterward:

“And please tell me we're not landing this beauty in the middle of some kind of rock-shard-cyclone-shitstorm; preliminary readings from that moon look like hell.” Was never fond of lunar landings myself, no matter the nature of the moon; there was something inherently wrong about touching down on what seemed no more than a little chunk of rock in comparison to whatever monster of a gas giant it might be hurtling about at inane speeds. At least something like, say, a comet was generally so goddamn far away from anything that you couldn't really -tell- how insignificant you were.

Seeing the last of my personal overrides for the default protocols put in place, I leaned back and pivoted my chair about by one leg: swung until sitting more or less at an angle toward (as Annie helpfully reminded me moments before I came up with my words) the Engineer known as Zelda; Preacher just seemed on the tail end of having said something – and between the mirth in his eyes and her abjectly startled look, I couldn't quite make out whether I were saving her or ruining the man's fun: I spoke anyway.

“And excuse my interruption, if you would – but – “ the space between his words was punctuated by a swift series of sweeping hand-gestures, the altered specs tabulated and then sent immediately to Zelda's own personal processor “if you could do me the favour of making certain our system access points agree on a few... modifications... I've made to default settings? Nothing major, just a few places I learned she can put out a bit more than the books state...”

There is another pause here while Raymond tilts his gaze toward where Alice sits; offering a cordial nod, he ventures to add:

“Though I must say that a few of the modifications listed under the name 'Alice Triskin' are quite well-placed; the additional heat deflection array for extended vectoring are something they should've had on this damn thing from the start – especially with the number of roasty-toasty landings the company seems to expect these things to make.”

Taking another sip from his mug, Raymond finally ticks his gaze back toward preacher, remarks:

“And it's good to finally make your acquaintance, Preacher – I've heard quite a bit about you... I hope you brought your God along for the ride. Heaven knows we'll probably need him out here!”

“Perhaps you could've found words faintly more... political, Sir?” Annie's gentle remonstrance almost made me want to laugh; I didn't bother to respond.

Taken aback by the Captain’s response, the surprise on her face was evident, but it soon gave way to amusement and relief. She laughed, “thank the lord for that then cap’n, ah really didn’ think ah coulda made it through this here mission hangin’ on ceremony.”

She only seemed to notice her feet on the table at that moment, “oh, never min’, looks like ah already forgot that one.”

Not that it meant she would be taking her heavy boots off the white table, she was comfortable right now, and certainly unaccustomed to adjusting herself for the benefit or feelings of others. More than a few others had already joined them in the cafeteria, including her own immediate superior, Zelda. Alice wasn’t yet sure what to make of her, they hadn’t really spoken much before the beginning of the voyage, so she was still an unknown. There was a good chance, unfortunately, that she would follow on in the footsteps of the engineers in the hangar who had overseen her work, caution, way too much caution. The Aphelion was based on the original design specs of the Prometheus, but other than that they had almost built her from scratch, and Alice had been present for much of it, at least on the engine deck anyway. Though several of her designs and additions had either been accepted or simply slipped under the radar, her recommendations for other tweaks had been turned down, normally because the overseers didn’t want to take any form of risk. It was somehow beside the point that Alice knew exactly how much her babies could take before they started to strain, she had been involved in their construction from day one after all.

Still, maybe Zelda would allow the tweaks she had already proposed, and indeed, applied in her brief time in the engine room already. She may have to tread carefully about her if she was worried about playing things by the books. Alice already knew she was unlikely to advance any further in Weyland-Yutani, she didn’t have the connections, and she certainly didn’t have the money or education, so she wasn’t too fussed about pissing off the higher ups.

She smiled at the pilot’s words, Raymond wasn’t it? Before responding in her thick southern accent. “Ah’ve found that those there books are never right, don’t worry, mah baby can put out a lot more than the engineers say, she’s gotta lotta spunk in her, she’ll do whatever ya want of her.”

Diego let out an exaggerated puff of air with Preacher’s mocking ejaculation. Winters, a smart, experienced marine, gave a soft chuckle, continued sipping on whatever she had in her cup. Diego sent an acknowledging smile her way, then a dismissive wave at Preacher; she chuckled again. Diego fell into a dull place after that, an inconcrete miasma of self-meditation. He really liked Winters, actually, now that he thought about it. She was pretty, independent, and confident without being arrogant. She was a balanced counterpoint to Diego’s own neurotic distrustfulness, and deluded self-assurance.

Suddenly, donuts had appeared on the table, and Winters was like a distant memory as Diego scarfed down the strange, powdery, pastry-like circle. With his mouth mostly empty he gave a satisfied chuckle. “Fuck, I didn’t know I was that hungry until I remembered what food was”, he said to no one in particular. The security officer decided it would be prudent to fetch another cup of joe to quench any donut induced thirst. He did so and returned to see the pilot, Raymond Charles, speaking with Zelda and the other engineer. Her name slipped through Diego’s proverbial fingers as he struggled to find it somewhere in the abyss of his mind. Alex? Alison?

Diego sat back in his seat and proceeded to eat another donut. As he finished it Raymond was addressing the XO. Diego inwardly scoffed at the comment, what in the hell was that supposed to mean? he asked himself. What kind of God needed to be brought anywhere? And if that was the point of the question, to debase such an existence, in what way could it be helpful? Diego decided to save his time and discount it as a turn of phrase, a manner of expression, an idiom. By the time he was done thinking about it, the other engineer had begun speaking… Alice was her name, Diego finally recalled.

The security officer couldn’t help but smile wide, his eyes darting across the table to find a friendly, understanding face. He couldn’t stop himself, “I’ve heard that about a lot of British girls,” he said in shameful response. A self-exasperated smirk crossed his face. It’d been a long time since Diego had embarrassed himself this much; though, to be fair, this was the first time in a long time he’d had much serious social exchanges. Not since his time back on earth had he spoken to people so openly, so intimately. Diego glanced at Dr. Laster with a knowing look, receiving a none-too-pleased expression for his trouble. To save himself from any more embarrassment Diego used his cuppa’ like a muzzle, bringing it to his lips to quiet his mouth and mind. He carefully swallowed the sludge, his eyes fully shut, and allowed the disgusting, mostly hot liquid to soothe his soul. A younger Diego might have gotten a kick out of that, now it just made him a little sad.

James Reddick walked into the cafeteria with his chin held slightly aloft, and his stern eyes narrowed. He was dressed in a crisp navy flight suit, with the patch of the Aphelion mission emblazoned upon the left shoulder. In his hand he held a semi-transparent cube, about three inches square. Standing in the doorway, he caught the captain’s eye. His brow drifted upwards before he tossed the cube towards her.

“Well, let’s get this over with Captain.” He said, not looking to see if the woman caught the object. Instead, Reddick turned to the drink station, and began fixing himself a large mug of coffee.

Lena caught the cube with her left hand, and managed to not spill the coffee she held in her right. It took a valiant effort, but she suppressed her initial desire to flail a boisterous “fuck you” back at Reddick. Though the words would have felt wonderful to say, Lena was too professional to allow such an exchange to occur in front of the crew. The last thing the mission needed was for some quarrel amongst the command staff to trickle down to the rest of the ship.

“Excuse me,” Lena said to those around her as she stood. Shuffling around the crew members that had taken their seats, Lena moved next to where Reddick stood. As nonchalantly as she could muster, she leaned towards the man, and lowered her voice.

“Reddick, don’t fucking pull this shit again. You may be the lackey that wields Wey-Yu’s whip, but the Aphelion—along with all her crew—is my prerogative. You show up when instructed.”

The man turned his cool, grey eyes, to Lena. An amused smile barely lifted the corners of his lips. “Certainly, Captain. The shower just took a bit longer than I intended.”

Lena only scowled at the man.

Pushing Reddick from her mind, Lena spun upon her heels and walked to the center of the room. Placing the cube upon the nearest table, she pressed several buttons upon the device, and the semi-transparent skin of the cube began to glow a dull green. As the device booted up, Lena let out a short whistle to get the crew’s attention.

“Alright everyone, listen up please.” She waited a brief moment for the voices to die down, and the eyes of the crew to find her. “You all know why we’re here. Sara’s briefing before we departed should have you up to speed in that regard. But, as to the specifics, that’s what we’re here to discuss.”

As if on cue, the glowing green cube began projecting an image of a slate-grey moon behind where Lena stood. Upon the surface of the floating orb, a large red crosshair had been superimposed, fixed over a point near the moon’s equator. As the projection rotated upon its axis, so too did the crosshair.

“This,” Lena said pointing behind her, “is the moon LV-223. It is one of three moons that orbit the gas giant Calpamos. As you know, it was the final destination for the Prometheus, and thought to be the location of extra-terrestrial activity.”

The projection began to expand, and a more detailed view of LV-223 came into view. Numbers scrolled across the right side of the projection, denoting gas levels, and various chemical compositions.

“We learned from the brief transmission the Prometheus sent upon her arrival that LV-223 possesses an atmosphere very similar to Earth’s: 71% Nitrogen, 21% Oxygen. Where she differs is in the levels of CO2, which are roughly 75 times that of Earth’s.” Lena looked seriously to her crew. “So, be sure to triple-check your suits before you disembark. Just a couple minutes out in that without supplemental oxygen, and you’ll be taking a dirt-nap. Officers, I’m looking at you: take care of your people.”

Turning back to the projection, Lena continued. “But, I’m getting a little ahead of myself. This…” she said, indicating the red cross hair, “…is the location given to us by the distress beacon of the Prometheus’ life boat. It contained no additional data beyond lat-long coordinates, and the signal only pinged for a few hours before it silenced. To put it bluntly, we haven’t had any signs of life from anyone with the Prometheus since that time.”

“Our mission is to determine what happened to the Prometheus, recover any remains of the crew, and to recuperate any data we can that she may have found prior to her destruction. If, and I say that with a giant “if” we find any survivors, then we will shift into a rescue stance.”

“The data,” interjected Reddick, “is what we’re here for. The Prometheus, for whatever reason, suffered some fatal accident. We’re here to not repeat that fate, and to finish what Project Prometheus intended in the first instance. The information on LV-223 is the driving force behind this mission. It is the only means the company has of recuperating any capital from both of these investments.”

Lena looked to the man, and this time, she could not hide the contempt displayed across her face. He stood leaning against the far wall, coffee cup in hand, with a decidedly superior expression on his features.

“Reddick, I’ll handle the briefing.” Lena said flatly. “Wey-Yu will have its pound of flesh, don’t worry. We all are very aware of who footed the bill for this little jaunt, and who is signing the paychecks when we get back. Give it a rest.”

Reddick merely shrugged, as if to say, “have it your way,” before lapsing back into an aloof silence.

Regaining her composure, Lena forged ahead. “Now, since we don’t know what happened to the Prometheus, we’re going in cautiously. When we approach the moon, we’re going to first enter low orbit, and make a few sensor-passes centered around the life boat location. If we find readings within safe parameters, we’ll land near the site, and begin our search.”

Lena looked down to her watch before glancing up to where Natan sat. “We have what? Two hours to planetfall? Something like that. Anyway, I want everyone to use that time to get set. Bridge crew, I want you at your stations following this briefing. As for the rest of you, especially the landing team, I want you to get your gear squared away so if we’re good to land, we can get you out there ASAP.”

Nodding to her crew, Lena placed her hands inside the hip pockets of her bomber jacket. “Well, are there any questions?”

There was something disconcerting about her accent that I could not quite make out – I pursed my lips a moment, furrowed my brow – sent my mind spinning back through the dozens of sleepy years of dream-infused hypersleep.... how many it had been at this point I no longer dared say; enough that Dr. Halitzer in her ever helpful dissertation on “Hypersleep and longterm effects of faster than light travel on the human psyche...” hadn't bothered to find any test subjects that far along...

And then I was hurtling through a sparkling field of blue flowers against crystalline glass – a little child runs toward me through the grass, trailing a stream of broken petals in her wake. She laughs, jumps and then springs into the air – I catch her. Catch her in my arms. And even in that moment find myself caught up in the whirlwind of a storm, the blue petals of the flowers turned all to shards and the droplets of rain turned to acid on my skin... I scream, and she screams, and from the depths of our cry I float back just long enough to see the entirety torn away in the scouring hail of burning rain.

A single drop hovered. Quivered. Finally tumbled down... down from the spout of the coffee machine to -plop- into the depths of Raymond's cup.

No more time had passed, either – or so I surmised. Blinked several times. Noted that Annie had already done me the courtesy of quietly tucking the dream-memories away into her storage banks; god knew how many I'd left down there. Something comforting, I think, about having the machine handle the uncomfortable memories for me... it made me feel less guilty about forgetting them myself, knowing she would always be there to provide the details if I erred.

Raymond turned about with a smile as he gestured toward Alice with his freshly 'brewed' mug-of-whatever:

“I see we are in perfect agreement then, Miss (a momentary pause) Triskin; perhaps between the two of us, then, we can keep our dear engineer convinced it's all a good idea?” Here Raymond shoots a glance sidelong toward Zelda before adding: “And it's a pleasure to remake your acquaintance a few years on the flip-side – Raymond... Charles.” Shuffling the mug of coffee from his right hand to his left, he makes as if to offer it for the woman to shake.

And just at that moment Reddick finally strolls into the room.

I saved the rest of the chit-chat for later; business was as business does, and this time around things looked like they really -were- going to get interesting. After the briefing and our glorious leader's perfunctory demand for questions (Demons below help the man who had any, I figured!), I swirled the remnants of what had been my fourth mug of coffee for that 'morning' as I trotted back to the machine and then made my way to the bridge. It was going to be a long... well... whatever time passed for a day out this far from anywhere.

John Paul turned to the pilot with a nod as he moved back around the table to his own seat, and his hot cup of something vaguely coffee-like. He laughed and shook his head, words rolling off his tongue smoothly like cool water in a stream bed, laced with that thick Alabama drawl. "You as well Ray, you as well - been looking forward to the chance to talk, if LV-223 gives us a break. But whatever it is you've heard about me? Heh... Lies, all lies - unless it's good, in which case it's the unvarnished truth."

He chuckled softly, swiping Alice's booted feet off the table as he passed without missing a beat. "And of course He's with us, but I like to think God's brought us along for the ride, more like. We'll need Him here, there, wherever, rather like a good parent for those raised by wolves - or maybe just those brought up in the heathen wilds of Georgia, without a lick of sense 'bout how to act in polite company." Preacher glanced at Alice, one eyebrow cocked meaningfully as he settled back into his seat beside Lena.

He listened of course, as the conversations floated about him, waving back at Diego as the SO dismissed his smart ass comment with a wave of his own, winking conspiratorially at Sergeant Winters, and simply enjoying the buzz of human voices as he sipped his hot black coffee. Not even the conspicuously late and obnoxious arrival of Reddick could spoil the man's zen, mostly because his captain was more than up for the challenge of a pain in the ass civilian with way too much self-importance and not near enough know-how.

Preacher settled in with a contented sigh right about the time Lena hissed something to the Wey-Yu lackey he felt sure contained a fair amount of obscenity [if his lip reading skills were still up to snuff of course]. When she finally let that arrogant shit have it with both barrels at the end, he decided it was wiser to forego jumping out of his chair with a triumphant shout and an 'Amen sister,' and simply settled for a smug little grin in Reddick's direction.

He blew over the rim of his coffee, and took another sip. It was bad enough for morale, he mused, knowing a company bean counter was along for the ride, looking over their shoulders and ready to scrutinize every little fuck up. No one at this table, light years from home and family and people who loved them, needed to be reminded that the priority given to the lives of their predecessors - and by extension, their own - was about as low as the seventh circle of Hell on the their boss' list of important shit.

What an asshole.

John Paul did not ask any questions of his own, the XO standing to his feet and quietly making his way to the coffee dispenser, leaving the floor open to the rest of the crew to float Lena any queries they had left. His cup refreshed, Preacher leaned easily beside the doorway, ready to head to the bridge, help field a question or lend a hand where needed during mission prep.