Blood Impulse

Part 39.3 - COUNTERPARTS

Cardioid Sector, HR-14 System, Battleship Singularity

When the airlock had successfully made its connection, the ghost let out a sigh. Her part of the mission had at last been fulfilled, so she turned her attention to the boarding party as more and more of them pushed onward, into the unknown.

Unseen and unheard, she stood in that final airlock. I'm sorry this is as far as I can take you. Once past this airlock, they would be beyond her jurisdiction and beyond her aid. But still, she watched them rush by, out and onto the mission. Be safe, she wished each and every presence. Come back home.

It was never her place to stop them, but she never liked to feel the crew leave, especially not like this, into danger and battle. But they were her counterparts. They went where she could not. They did what she could not. For that, she always respected them. They rarely hesitated in the face of duty. They were more resolute than even she, for she had been built for this, constructed to battle and intended to fight. They had evolved to survive, and been born and raised places beyond combat. They were not bound by their existence in subservience. Every order they received, they chose to obey. It was their path, their choice, and they headed into danger willingly. For that, she always admired their bravery.

I'll be here waiting, she reminded them with a gentle nudge to the subconscious. She was always the first to welcome back those that returned – her own silent tradition. Some felt it, recognized it, some didn't, but she did it anyway.

It wasn't often that so many of the crew left, but between Lieutenant Colonel Pflum's Task Force Alpha and Colonel Zarrey's Task Force Beta, most of the crew was gone. Of those that stepped off the ship, into that foreboding airlock beyond, and those that had launched on the Warhawk recon ships and Arcbird fighters, she kept a tally. She kept their names and ID numbers, hoping that each might find their way back to her unharmed.

In all, only a handful of crewmembers remained on the ship, and it felt so empty, so odd. Even on shore leave, the crew never left in such numbers. A skeleton crew always remained – enough to manage basic operations and rudimentary maintenance. But now, there wasn't even that. Truthfully, the bridge was the only part of the ship that didn't feel desolate. The rest all felt barren, devoid of everything that had given it warmth and color.

This wasn't the first time the ship had been so vacant. This wasn't even the most severe instance, but that emptiness still gnawed. It made her feel hollow, even as she dedicated pieces of herself to watch over each part of the mission. One, anchored there at the airlock, would follow Zarrey, Yankovich and Cortana's group, and another, anchored on the flight deck would await news of Pflum, Adams and Johnston's team. A third component of her watched over the base as a whole, searching for trouble and picking apart anything it found for signs of a Cataclysm or other danger. The rest of her inevitably watched over the ship, unable, as always, to move beyond it. That part of her, seeking some vain comfort found the biggest group of the crew it could and tethered itself there.

In that, she found her attention resting with the bridge crew. They were anxious, possibly more so than they had been during the naval battle, even when they had faced death via the explosive payload of fifty-two missiles. They hadn't been in control then, but they had at least known the situation. Now, they were blind to the boarding parties' odds, and left on the bridge, unable to help. Being unknowing and unable to help always made them doubly anxious, and truly, she understood. She always worried more when the crew went beyond her reach. Aboard ship, she could offer protection and comfort, but off of it... She could only reach out and hope that she would not feel pain from any of them.

Surrounded by that anxiety, dreading that pain, the ghost found herself drawn even more to the Admiral's calm. And yet that calm, that steadying presence wasn't in its usual state. It felt strained, blurred. The Admiral was ill, though not with any infection. He held his calm with dedication, a skill he had long trained, but the incident with Brent's shadow had weakened him. His perceptions and coordination were still disjointed, leaving him nauseous if he moved too quickly, and constantly feverish as his body fought to normalize itself. That alone would have dulled what was usually, a cool, sharp presence, but there was more to it with perception like hers. The edges of his presence were frayed, damaged. Its edges were cut unevenly where they'd been torn – torn when her strength had ripped his mind out and displaced it.