Dead Star Dockyards

Donovan had signed on to the pilot's course of specialized education at the ripe old age of ten.

He had imagined many a fantasy as he flew amongst the stars. He wondered what it would feel like. Many a dream included him being the first person to exceed the speed of light. Many more placed him as the hero of a space battle, alone against a swarm of enemies. Sometimes, he even envisioned a tragic end, succumbing to the overwhelming firepower of the swarm, but not before giving time for his fleet to escape.

He was twenty now, twice the age with three times the experience, and such fantasies had been beaten out of him by the academy instructors. Ambitions of fame and honor had been dashed by the reality of combat doctrine and how battles actually unfolded. The fire of hope in a last stand snuffed by the realization of just how fragile a deployable craft is.

The cold truth of the matter is that a single pilot, no matter how experienced, cannot have a drastic impact on the course of the battle. Certainly having fewer and lesser trained pilots might contribute to a defeat, but the potential for damage of a single fighter is far too low to have drastic effects over the course of a single engagement.

Donovan, like all other pilots, was groomed to abandon foolish fantasies of glory and fame.

And yet the situation Don found himself in was so far removed from the wildest fantasy that he, and perhaps anyone of his era, could imagine. What sane person would actually believe that the Sun would grow spikes and turn empty space into a real life bullet hell game?

Don had to wonder if he was still unconscious.

Perhaps this was all a dream. That would at the very least provide some explanation for the light show displayed on screen.

Worst case scenario, he was dead. If this was some sort of afterlife, then it was either hell or purgatory, or something along those lines. No 'Good Place' could possibly permit the possibly literal brain crushing headache he was under.

Head trauma was not to be trifled with, hence why most fighter and bomber pilots wore helmets.

Donovan, reasonably not expecting to have been thrown around like a leaf in the wind by some unseen force, was now regretting his decision to forego that accessory.

As the edge of a colossal cyan beam buzzed by, Don was acutely aware of the fact that the only two things keeping him from a likely instant death were adrenaline and methamphetamine, and he had no idea when either of those two would run dry.

He didn't even have to lose consciousness to die here. A momentary lapse in attention spawning from his headache or loss in blood flow to the brain could send him floating into the path of oncoming traffic.

The only upside to the situation, if it could even be called that, was that these projectiles did not curve. At least they didn't curve very much.

This, in tandem with the fact that the sun was so far away, meant that he didn't need to think about a third dimension of movement too much. He could keep on the plane going directly towards the Oberlux to minimize the amount of time he wasted dodging.

Sixty minutes in and a solid 3 hours out, Don finally took note of the oddity that had been bothering him.

"Is Mercedes alright?"

A dog, especially one left unsecured, would be going nuts from the maneuvers Donovan put the Noah through. In one of the strange lapses in the beam concentration, Don pushed 7 G's for about two minutes to cut as much time from transit as possible.

Seven gravities was about the limit of what he could handle for an extended period of time without passing out. Even if the seat and suit were designed to help withstand this level of force, this was pushing his capabilities.

Seven gravities might be enough to tear a dog's organs if it had recently eaten, which unfortunately Mercedes had.

Given Donovan's completely justified hyperfocus on the task at hand, it would not be unreasonable to assume she was collapsed in that corner, dying. She could be bleeding and barfing her intestines out and he would be none the wiser.

"I am taking care of her. She has lost consciousness and has defecated on the floor, but she is not in danger. I have temporarily integrated the solid and semi-solid portions of her body into the inertial frame of the ship. Trust in me to handle her, focus on survival."

"Thank you ARC. How long do you give me until the chocolate wears off?" His time limit was not how long it took to get there, but how long he could stay awake.

"Given your estimated intake and previous ingestions, 2 hours."

Not enough.

That was no where near long enough.

At the current pace he would need 3 hours, likely more, to reach the safety of the Oberlux. Taking the time for another dose wasn't going to be an option, the Sun wasn't exactly bound by the conventions of reloading.

Somehow, he needed to shave a third of his travel time.

Don was going to have to change up his battle plan.

"ARC, if we are going to have any chance at making it in one piece, I'm going to have to pick up the pace."

"You are struggling to keep up with the changes in pattern as it stands. I would not recommend further stress to your person."

"I wouldn't recommend it either, but I would rather sleep for a week than see what happens when those lights make contact. Once that meth wears off, I'm probably gonna black out. We need to figure out a - fuck that was close." The beam didn't come close physically, but Don was just about to head into its line of travel. "We need to figure out how to cut out as much time as possible, and I have an idea how."

"If I deem that this idea will increase the chance of failure by a significant margin I will not assist you. I take it you understand why?"

"Can't care at the moment. Instead of showing me danger zones for beams that are really close, can you show the ones that we are at risk of hitting at our maximum current velocity and acceleration? Does that make sense? Like, just showing the ones I have no chance of outrunning?"

"That is something I would be able to do, but I fail to see how this helps."

"We need to go fast, ARC, and there is only so much information I can react to. If the strike is going to pass safely behind me I don't give a shit about it. Max acceleration and deceleration all the way."

It was a feasible idea. Much to ARC's frustration it actually had a better chance of success than their current method of attack. ARC summed up Donovan's sudden genius idea to something it lacked, instincts.

"Fine, but I will be regulating your maximum throttle if I see signs of passing out from excessive force. I have reason to believe you are experiencing internal bleeding and a concussion. I also believe there to be a chance of skull fracture. Exhibit caution."

Some of the medical surveillance equipment had been repaired at this point. Not enough to perform a comprehensive scan with something like an x-ray, especially while Don was in the cockpit. ARC had to make do with cues from both the internal scanners and sensors, as well as changes in Donovan's behavior and motions.

ARC was in the process of tanking the cockpit's temperature close to freezing in order to help alleviate the internal bleeding and had toned down the brightness of the displays so as to not agitate his eyes.

As per protocol, ARC was doing absolutely everything in its power to keep Donovan 'combat capable'. The definition of that depended heavily on the situation, but the priority order remained the same as it had for ships in the age of sail - Float, Flee, Fight.

'Float' just meant that Don had to stay alive, the Noah was extremely unlikely to suffer a hull breach or extreme internal deformation, but Donovan himself was extremely vulnerable to concussive forces as had been previously demonstrated. Humans had this unfortunate tendency to be less sturdy than metal.

'Flee' meant the Noah had to be capable of movement. This had the implication that Donovan had to be kept in a condition where he could make rational decisions when it came to when to flee as well as actually have the mental capacity to pilot the Noah.

'Fight' meant the Noah's weapons systems had to be kept online, especially the external sensors. But ARC was not allowed to pull the trigger, so that meant that Don had to be in a condition to make the call.

A ship had to float to be able to flee, and had to be able to flee in order to fight.

Currently, Don was only capable of fleeing, and barely at that.

Slowly, 'useless' danger fields were removed from the screen, and the Noah's engines started pushing hard.

- - - - - - - - - -

The captain had come into this fight expecting it to run a similar course to the many combats with stars he had experienced before, if a degree more difficult.

It would not be an exaggeration to say his expectations had been shattered. The difference between the extremely rare and equivalently powerful Azure Dot Star and this Purple Star he and his crew were currently facing was enough to make the two completely different combat scenarios.

In his lifetime, he had only ever fought an Azure Dot twice, both resulting in a costly bout of damage. Those two experiences were in vessels other than the Oberlux, far smaller and monumentally more delicate.

The Oberlux was built for the express purpose of subduing stars, capable of easily dealing with Azure Dots, and yet it was struggling to stave off the current threat.

However the fact that it was staving off the attacks meant that their victory was all but guaranteed, the natural resistance of the structure capable of absorbing the entirety of those brightly colored lights.

"Captain, are you certain that they will be able to find their way here?" It was the young helmsman, busy at work moving into zones of less concentrated fire. He had experience with moving around smaller ships, many times more maneuverable than the hulk he found himself in control of now, and he was not at all confident in his ability to navigate the minefield that lay outside

"It is not that I am certain, but that we do not know which way to go. If we head in a direction opposite of their current location, it will only serve to increase the chance that they perish."

"But they're over there." The young man pointed in a seemingly random direction. "There is a red light over there. Its faint, sure, but it flits about behind the rays. You can even see it the silhouette when a ray passes behind it, look!"

The captain took hold of his telescope and focused it in the general direction the helmsman had pointed at. It took a few minutes of sweeping the sky, but sure enough it was there. A small red dot on a black backdrop, a stark black spot when a ray passed behind it.

"That's the Noah alright. How did you find them in the first place?"

"I, uh, just looked at where the rays were being concentrated the most and, uh, figured they would be there? I know I can see better than most of you, but did nobody else realize?"

His inquiry was met with a smattering of shaking heads and spoken negatives.

"Set a course in their general direction. Well done kid."

- - - - -

"They appear to have turned towards us, though I do not know if that means that they have found us yet."

"What else could it mean?!"

"I cannot think of an alternative. I will operate under the implied assertion they are working to lessen our burden. Recalculated arrival time is 72 minutes."

That was an incredible time drop, almost 50 minutes. Don had guessed that there would be more to the Oberlux than its extreme size and questionable shape, but he never expected that 'speed' would be part of this mystery. He wondered if actual cuisine was onboard the enigma of a spacecraft.

A burst of green light drew his wandering attention back to the task, and threat, at hand. A collection of brilliant blue, cyan, and purples followed, agitating his eyes and teasing his throbbing headache.

The band around his right elbow, part of his flight suit, let off a subdued 'pop'. Accompanied by a prick of pain, barely registered by his otherwise aching body, and a hot, wet sensation in the crevice of that same elbow.

"What was it, and how much of it?"

"Painkiller, full dose. Coagulant, as necessary."

"Coagulant?"

"Your bleeding both internal and external has not stopped. As a matter of fact, there are bruises all over your body that I had not registered as they were underneath your clothing. I had attributed the increase in body heat to sudden combat conditions. For some reason the bleeding does not seem to be stopping."

That armband was a life saving device for the injured pilot. With cockpits often being far too small to perform any proper first aid, the press of a button could administer a variety of drugs. Painkillers, stimulants, coagulants, anti-toxins, all would be injected directly into the bloodstream at the elbow.

In Don's case, he wasn't expected to press one of the buttons on his own, instead it was attached to ARC's system for administration of substances at its discretion. The reasons for which were now exceedingly obvious.

"How bad is it?"

"Extremely. Worst case scenario you will have to rest for up to half a month."

"I don't feel THAT bad."

"You are currently under the effects of enough painkillers to send a child into a coma and have produced enough adrenaline to induce cardiac arrest in some smaller species of marsupials. Whatever impact caused this level of bruising across the entirety of your body was no doubt capable of causing minor fractures in you bones. I can now say for certain that you are concussed as well."

He took a moment to examine the only exposed skin he could see, his hands. Sure enough, the area around his wrists was a slightly darker shade of red that he would have preferred not to have seen.

"Keep your head on a swivel and your eyes open. Once the safety of the Noah has been guaranteed, I will do everything that I am capable of to assist in your recovery."

- - - - - 

"It's quite nimble, is it not?"

With the lion's share of energy being devoted to defense, and what remained being designated to move towards the Noah, the crew in charge of the weapons looked to the dancing speck to stave off some of the boredom.

"Eh, not really. I'm confident I could outmaneuver it."

"Not a chance. You couldn't get the drop on a Skwiven, let alone someone evading the wrath of a star."

"I could too! I'd just have to use one of my father's craft."

"HAAAA-HA-HA. Little man thinks he's got knack for the void but he needs to use daddy's ship? Just admit the person in control of that thing is a cut above anything you'll ever achieve. Make it a habit and I'm sure it'll save you some undue stress in the future."

"I could totally do it! I'm just only used to a certain ship! It's supposed to be a graduation gift!"

"Just leave it, dude."

The captain watched the group of bantering cadets with apprehension, pondering whether he should be reprimanding them or joining in. Under normal circumstances, keeping the cadets in line would be a priority, but these circumstances were anything but normal.

For now, punishments were up to his trusted subordinate's discretion.

"How long do you think it will take to rendezvous?" His question was directed at one of these subordinates, his young helmsman.

"I can't say for sure, sir. While I can tell that we have been closing in on it, I don't have a good idea of how fast. It doesn't help that I don't know its size. If I had to guess based on how big the stars attacks are at that distance, maybe two hours?"

An elderly man with a telescope and a strange wiry contraption voiced his consensus. "I would put two hours on the longer end, but even I can't say for sure. The brilliance from the sun's rays makes it terribly difficult on my aging eyesight, but I must agree that it will be some time."

"You can't divine anything more precise?"

"If it was possible, I'd have already done so, Captain. Fear not for their safety, whoever is in control of that ship has an excellent sense of position." He gazed past the bow of the ship, towards the Noah. "Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I must head back to my quarters. This event has tired me greatly, and I must get back to plotting routes for the Sanctum."

"Thank you, Navigator."

"Speak nothing of it, Captain. It is the duty I have been called to perform."

Returning his scope to a satchel and placing the contraption in a case, the Navigator gripped his cane and made his way to the door.

"Ah! Helmsman! I had almost forgotten! If you could, please come to the chart room after this whole ordeal is squared away. I have much to discuss with you in regards to our return trip."

- - - - -

Don found decelerating while continuing evasive action was far more difficult than it was when speeding up, owed in large part to the fact that he was facing backwards. The numbness wrought from both the medication and the excessive G-force played a role, as well as the fact that he was slowly losing consciousness, but flying backward was no easy task.

Thankfully, the concentration of rays coming his way had decreased in tandem with his proximity to the Oberlux. What remained of his capacity to think during his trance-like state was not large enough to ponder the reasons for such a change. That was for later.

He could not remember the events following the injection, his mind both muddled and energized by the substances involved, but he could vaguely make out a timer huddled in the corner of the display.

One digit left in the minutes place?

It was difficult to tell.

The proximity to danger was not.

In his stupor, he had come to equate 'bright' to 'bad'. High definition vision was not required when the subject of avoidance was a brightly colored area.

A big white circle appeared on screen.

What was that for again? Targeting? Danger? Gravity warnings? Docking? Navigation? Don had forgotten.

The vaguely arrow shaped indicator around the edges and the pulsing of the ring seemed to suggest he should be keeping his trajectory inside of it.

For a moment, the Noah shook. Not quite as violently as when this whole fiasco began, but enough to prompt Donovan to question whether or not he had made a vital mistake and would end up learning the truth of life beyond death.

The sudden lack of pressure on his chest, coupled with the controls failing to respond, aided in this assumption.

What lifted him from the delusion of an early passing was the reflexive tensing and subsequent pain that followed the flow of electricity into his body.

A brief moment of clarity, granted by the ever so sweet motivator known as pain, focused Don just enough to get a grasp on what ARC was trying to say.

". . . docked suc- . . .  -ercede- . . . -ator."

Docked? When? The shaking? Something about Mercedes? The elevator?

He was tired. Aching everywhere and struggling to see, much less think, movement was only possible courtesy of whatever stimulants remained in his bloodstream.

He pulled himself, slowly, out of the recessed seat, swearing furiously in his head when his foot got caught on one of the control sticks.

A rancid smell met with his nose now that his focus was drawn from the struggle. Was it feces? Urine? Puke? Some unholy amalgamation of the three? All he could tell was that it very much did not agree with his standards of cleanliness. He could feel the bile building up in his throat.

Finally free from the cockpit, Don attempted to stand. He found himself unable to muster the strength to do so. He didn't make a second attempt, instead crawling towards the collapsed dog, whose figure he could make out only due to the fact that her black and brown coat stood out against the light gray.

"...sorry sweety..." Don mumbled an apology as he took hold of her scruff, he couldn't find her collar.

With how numb his hands were, the only guarantee he had confirming his hand was holding onto her was the increased difficulty in pulling her limp body across the floor.

In light of his situation, Don found a new appreciation of the smaller space, the elevator floor was not far away.

That being said, it was still far a longer distance than he wanted to crawl with dead weight. The feeble shuffle to the corner felt like it took hours.

Making sure all appendages were within the bounds of the lift plate was also an ordeal. He gave up on anything precise after vaguely situating Mercedes in the middle, opting to curl up against the corner, less effort.

A distant whine signified his job was done.

He gazed back up into the cabin as he descended, wondering what was to come of him as his consciousness faded.