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With that, Chord got up and followed her. “This unit offers gratitude to you three for the opportunity to communicate.”

T
he main bridge of the
Jinxed Thirteenth
was in far better condition than the mess hall. It was three decks up and built in a fully translucent dome that gave out to a wonderful view all around to the stars. Whereas the rest of the
Jinxed
Thirteenth
was built from older technology, the bridge was of a more modern design—­possibly added to the ship's almost ancient frame at some later point after its construction. But it was still fairly small, filled with monitors and easily cramped.

Chord looked past the glass dome. Occupying a top corner of the view was a large planet, a gas giant, of a green and blue hue. Two large thin white rings surrounded it. They reminded Chord of an atom. A quick access of the available astrocharts uploaded into Chord's hard drive revealed that this world was both unknown and uncharted. It was safe, then, to presume that they were still deep in End Space.

Dressed in a thin one-­piece silver therm-­skinsuit and seated at the helm was Pilot and Astrogator Lizbeth Harlowe. Her skin was a pale creamy pink, her head shaved bald. Harlowe had thin hips and a long neck. Two thick black neurolink wires were plugged into the base of her head and connected to a circuit panel on the ceiling.

Harlowe's hands rested above two metallic helmspheres. Twelve black wires, one for each of her fingers and palms, connected them together. She was presently linked to the ship and in full control of each and every one of its functions. Harlowe could “hear” and “see” through any of the ship's cameras and speakers. The helmspheres, which were presently grafted to her hands, served as the ship's steering wheel.

“My apologies for the sudden stop, Chord.” When Lizbeth Harlowe spoke, her voice sounded electronic yet contained a trace of happiness and satisfaction. Her eyes, a milky white, were fixed forward and unblinking.

“They are not necessary, Lizbeth Harlowe.” Chord could see that her personal datasphere was surrounded in a slew of various holographic screens projected about her. She did not turn to greet Chord. Her focus was entirely on the ship's functions and monitoring them. As long as she was connected to it, the
Jinxed Thirteenth
would operate as an extension of Harlowe's own will and body.

At the front of the bridge, wearing his neatly pressed green Patrol uniform, was Captain Morwyn. The Covenant's symbol, a large image of Terra superimposed on top of Sol's sun with six golden lines shooting out from it, was emblazoned onto its back. Each line represented one of the six Intelligences: Kelthan, Wolver, Kohbran, Darlkhin, Thegran and Machina. Every one united by the fact that they had all sprung as one to the stars from Terra's Cradle.

Captain Morwyn was huddled over a nearby monitor with a tall, large, muscular woman towering over him. She could easily have made even Private Morrigan look small by comparison. Her uniform seemed barely able to contain her massive form. Her hair was blond and cut short. Her face was lovely by Humanis standards, with thick pink lips and deep emerald green eyes. She smiled warmly when she saw Chord.

Her name was Private Beatrix JarEnt'Dreck, a Thegran from the Pax world of Barathul. Tonight the private's sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, exposing her muscular forearms. They were covered in over a dozen intricate tattoos and very finely written letters from the Thegran alphabet. From Chord's understanding of Thegran culture, each individual tattoo was meant to trace one's bloodline from their home world all the way back to Holy Terra. This practice of branding one's true name onto oneself made each Thegran name unique. The stronger the deeds or ancestors tattooed, the stronger the name.

Only Thegrans keep their word better than machines
, went the old Humanis adage.

Save for what appeared to be a large and ugly black openhand tattooed on her left cheek, Beatrix's face was unmarked. Chord had recognized this symbol as the Thegran mark of “Oathbreaker.” Thegrans could choose to include their various deeds or misdeeds in their tattoos. Oathbreaker, the worst deed to have in one's name, was the only mark whose inclusion was not optional. It was also a sin that was passed down from generation to generation, weakening a Thegran's name until finally atoned.

Chord had of course been curious to the specifics that had earned Beatrix her Oathbreaker's brand, but thought better of pressing her for details. Thegrans were not typically known for taking anything personally. That was unless an insult, accidental or intentional, to their name or honor had been levied their way.

Captain Morwyn looked up from the console to see Chord and Commander Jafahan step onto the bridge. “Machina Chord.” Morwyn rested his hands behind his back and waited for Chord to approach him.

“This unit was told its ser­vices were required?”

Morwyn turned to Beatrix and nodded to her.

“We picked up a message on distress frequency.” When she spoke, Beatrix's Pax Common was thick with a Thegran accent. Her voice was almost a strong deep baritone.

“Forgive this unit for asking, but would that generally warrant an emergency stop?”

Captain Morwyn, his face still calm, cool and collected, nodded to Chord. “Yes, it would. The First Covenant Truth states that all ships capable of doing so must respond to—­or at least report—­an encountered distress signal.”

“This unit is curious, then, as to what it is needed for.”

Morwyn nodded to Beatrix, who pushed a button on the control board.

A static garbled transmission filled the air, and the reason for Chord's invitation to the bridge was made clear. After a moment the message stopped and Chord realized that for the second time tonight all eyes in the room were on it.

“Can you understand this?” Captain Morwyn asked.

Of course Chord could understand the language being spoken. It was a tongue that had been dead for at least seven millennia, if not more. The beacon was transmitting in Late Modern, the language of Ancient Humanity.

 

CHAPTER 4

MORWYN

The first stellar-­sail vessels were designed and constructed in the year 700 after the First Expansion in the shipyards of Sunderlund. To this day the model remains one of the most reliable in circulation. It has been successfully used in countless operations both civilian and military. The main reason for its popularity are its durable hull, amphibian design and reliable slipdrive, allowing it to traverse great distances. Sunderlund's shipyards do not use Machina technology to build their spacecrafts, which has made the stellar-­sail vessel a viable starflight option for followers of the Living Green.

—­Starflight-­worthy Weekly, 13th
of SSM–09 1354 A2E

10
th
of SSM–10 1445 A2E

T
his is my ship. This is my crew.

The thought was not as disheartening to Captain Morwyn Soltaine, third son to Prefect Admiral Ondrius Soltaine of Sunderlund, as it had when he had first received his assignment to the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. It was still very far from uplifting. A long history had already accompanied the
Jinxed Thirteenth
before it had been decommissioned from the Pax Humanis navy and donated to the Covenant's Patrol. In some respects, the
Jinxed
was an almost laughably ancient stellar-­sail scouting vessel. Constructed in his native world, Sunderlund, during the early years of the First Expansion, it was one of the oldest starflight-­worthy vessels still operational in the Patrol's fleet—­a tribute to his home nation's shipyards and the quality of the spacecrafts produced therein.

The
Jinxed Thirteenth
came equipped with a whisper drive. It was capable of flying in and out of star systems while avoiding almost every conventional form of detection. The
Jinxed
had never once been equipped with an onboard Machina pilot Intelligence, or any weapons systems of any kind.

What the
Jinxed
lacked in weaponry, it more than made up for in maneuverability, functionality, adaptability and durability. The mobility drives allowed for both atmospheric and space travel. Truth be told, Covenant Command back on Central Point could have assigned Morwyn a far worse vessel.

This is my ship. This is my crew.

Three standard Sol years ago, Morwyn Soltaine, youngest son of Prefect Admiral Ondrius Soltaine, had been a progeny of the Pax Humanis officer's academy on Barathul. There had been no test or simulation he had not been able to pass with flying colors. On paper in any case, it had seemed that Morwyn was destined to command one of the Pax Humanis fleets. Maybe even proud Sol Fleet herself.

Then came his graduating ceremony and the disastrous speech he had delivered to an auditorium of fellow officers and some of the most influential citizens of the Pax Humanis. Among them had been Vulf Morne, the prefect to Mon Mars, capital of the Pax Humanis. And before the elite of his home nation, Morwyn had admitted to being a pacifist. And like that his career in the Pax Humanis as an officer had been ruined before it even started. Morwyn had been relegated to the ghettos of Ambrosia as a lowly police officer, his starflight status revoked. Languishing into obscurity had been his punishment. Two years into his ser­vice, and one drink with Eliana Jafahan later, Morwyn had decided it was better to serve the common peace that the Covenant represented than to waste away in the Pax Humanis.

The rest of the past standard Sol year had been spent with Commander Jafahan scouring the cosmos, exhausting every contact, favor and universal bit Morwyn could call in to collect the minimum required crew to make the
Jinxed
starflight-­worthy. Fortunately for him, his Soltaine name had still been able to secure thirteen “choice” operators from the Pax Military. For the most part, though, Morwyn had found prime volunteers to be few and far between.

Given the ship's less than savory reputation, Morwyn had not been that surprised. And while Morwyn was far from being a superstitious man, it was hard to ignore the fact that almost every captain of the
Jinxed Thirteenth
from first to last had known disaster.

It was an unspoken fact that most ­people who traversed the stars were in some way or other superstitious and no one ever volunteered to be on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. That was unless one was either desperate or willing to do anything to gain starflight status. This best described the current standing crew, Morwyn included.

The recently wakened company gathered before him were all bleary-­eyed and seated in the mess hall. Save for Lizbeth Harlowe, who was still on the bridge manning the helm, everyone serving on the
Jinxed
was present. Most of them had the same annoyed look on their faces. Some even wore a look of unspoken wounded pride at being forced to take commands from a man nearly half their age and a former privileged Kelthan citizen of the Pax Humanis.

Morwyn knew that he would have to earn their trust and respect. Much like gathering a working team for his ship, this would also be no simple task.

This is my ship. This is my crew.

“Eyes and attention forward!” Commander Jafahan barked and a pin dropping could have been heard with the silence that followed.

“Thank you, Commander.” Morwyn paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “First of all, the date is the 10th of the 10th standard Sol month 1445 A2E. For those of you who were in carbon sleep, the time debt was three months.”

Morwyn paused to allow for any questions. When he saw that there were none, he continued. “At twenty-­two hundred Sol hours, Private Beatrix picked up a distress beacon, warranting a sudden stop of the slipdrive and our temporary loss of gravity. For this I apologize.”

“Fools and children are both prone to mistakes.” Lunient Tor leaned back against the wall, grinning a malicious grin, his ink-­black night-­eyes staring at Morwyn unblinking. It was no secret to Morwyn that private Lunient Tor and his two Adoran friends were fierce anti-­Paxists.

This was not at all shocking to him, given the complicated history of secret and open military conflict between the Pax Humanis and now liberated Ador. That the Pax Humanis had on countless occasions attempted to make proud Ador yet another submissive Pax protectorate had caused their two militaries to clash on several occasions. Morwyn wanted to make sure none of this history mattered on the
Jinxed Thirteenth
. Everyone present here had left their old nations behind them in order to serve the Covenant.

Make Lunient Tor an example if he does not stop
, Morwyn thought to himself. He nodded to Commander Jafahan. Her natural eye zeroed on Lunient and she started to silently make her way toward him.

“Truly was a fool's stunt that could have very well ruined the stellar-­sails. Then where would we be? Crippled and humped!” Oran Arterum Nem'Troy, an old short thin Wolver woman, snorted rudely. Her hair was a wild mix of grays and browns, her nose was wide and she sported a thin brown mustache. From where he was standing, Morwyn could smell her foul sleep breath, which reeked of rotten eggs.

Oran Arterum Nem'Troy was the oldest member of the
Jinxed
. She had served as the ship's engineer for longer than Morwyn had been alive and she didn't seem any worse for wear. She had also served under her fair share of captains and Morwyn was certain Oran had never given the best of them so much as a smile.

Seated next to Oran was a large, much younger and beaming muscular Thegran man. Even while seated, he still towered over the standing crewmembers. He was thick and barrel-­chested, sporting a long red beard all the way down to his chest. His head was shaved bald and covered with intricate tattoos like his arm, back and no doubt even his legs.

Kolto TarKa'ShanLiuk was Oran's assistant fellow machinist and more importantly her bond mate. A prodigy from the universities of Alexandros, Kolto could have easily found work on any private commercial ship. Given his knack for repairing slipdrive engines, Kolto probably could have been handsomely remunerated for it as well. However, he had chosen to put his talents to use serving the Humanis common good by volunteering with the Covenant.

Kolto's work goggles, which Morwyn had never seen him without, were on his head. The man was always smiling, which also revealed quite a few of his missing teeth. When he spoke his voice was a friendly, deep, strong rumble that could have given thunder a run for its money.

“Drive is still intact, Captain Sir?
Jinxed
is built Thegran strong. It would take more than that to break her.”

“Pilot Harlowe has informed me that all ship systems are running at optimal capacity.” Morwyn's words seemed to reassure Kolto.

Oran just shrugged, letting out a snark-­rich huff. “Would never trust a blank cloner girl to know when my
Jinxie
is hurting or not.”

“After debrief you are more than welcome to run your own appraisal on the ship's condition.” Morwyn's answer seemed to satisfy Oran, who leaned back on Kolto as if he were her chair. He paused once more, waiting for any further interruptions; apart from Lunient, who was intentionally looking away, everyone else seemed to be at full attention.

From the back of the room, Sergeant Arturo “The Sureblade” Kain raised his hand. He was a fit, lean Kelthan man. Like most natives of Ambrosia, his skin was of a sunset orange. His raven-­black hair was trimmed short, neatly oiled and combed back. His pinch was impeccably groomed. He had once been counted among the most respected swordsmen the Pax Humanis combat academies had ever produced. If the legends surrounding his reputation were to be trusted, Arturo “The Sureblade” Kain had never known defeat on the battlefield.

Arturo Kain had been a valuable find from Morwyn's brief stint as a Pax Humanis law officer on the Pax Humanis protectorate world of Ambrosia. The Sureblade's former captain of proud Sol Fleet's Infantry Vanguard was here because he was a deserter. The gravest crime a citizen of the Pax could commit, short of an attempt on the Hegemon's life.

At Morwyn's nod, Arturo lowered his hand and spoke. “Where did the signal originate from, sir?”

Morwyn held up a small remote and pressed down on a button. Suddenly the lights dimmed and the image of a blue-­green gas giant with white rings shimmered and solidified into a gray three-­dimensional semitranslucent hologram in front of him. Morwyn pushed another button on the remote and the image zoomed in on what at first appeared to be a small white moon but now was clearly a circular artificial construct of sorts. “From here, Sergeant Kain.”

An older Wolver man, Pietor “Lucky” Bant, was seated in front of Arturo Kain. His skin was a pale brown, almost like cured leather. Lucky's hair was short and gray. He pulled out a thin white plastic vapostick from his uniform breast pocket, slipped it into his mouth and took a long puff.

“What is that place, Captain Sir?” Lucky stroked the tip of his chinstrap beard with his free hand, then blew out heavy vapor fumes that smelled of cinnamon and rum from his nostrils. His eyes were dark brown like dirt, both of them extremely sharp and alert. Commander Jafahan had personally vouched for his presence on board the
Jinxed
.

“Machina Chord has confirmed it to be an orbital station and that it is old, very old.” Morwyn glanced to his side. Commander Jafahan was still slowly and silently making her way along the mess hall wall toward Lunient.

Lucky lazily blew out a long wisp of vapor before handing his vapostick behind him to Arturo Kain. “I've been around longer than most. Can't say these old eyes have ever seen a thing like that, Captain Sir.”

“That is because the station in question predates the standard Covenant calendar, Private Bant.” There was a heavy silence in the room as everyone present processed what Chord had just said.

Morwyn couldn't blame them. They were approaching a relic from the Lost History, the age of Ancient Humanity. If Morwyn was to trust Chord's information, this station predated the Covenant's signing. It was a relic of the Lost Age and everyone's collective prehistory.

Lucky shot Chord a weary look. “ ‘Lucky' will do just fine, Machina.”

“Pilot Harlowe is guiding us within a safe distance of the station. That will be the easy task.” Morwyn paused for the obvious question and was thankful it was Private Morrigan Brent, the more cooperative of the three Adorans, who asked it.

“What will the more difficult task be, Captain Sir?”

A red circle appeared on the holoimage, outlining the station's orbit around the planet. The circle was more of a spiral, drawing closer and closer into the planet's surface. “The station's orbit is deteriorating, rapidly. Machina Chord estimates that at best we have as little as a standard week before the planet's gravity pulls it down.”

Lunient clicked his tongue contemptuously. He loudly put his feet on the cantina table, leaning back on his seat. “When do I start caring about this history lesson, kiddo?”

One quick, quiet, short breath was all he needed to maintain his composure. Morwyn was proud of this. It usually took him three. Commander Jafahan was still silently making her way toward Lunient, unnoticed by the rest of the crew, save Arturo Kain, who did not seem to care one way or the other.

“Our scans have confirmed that there are at least two survivors on board. Since we are presently a seven-­month slip from the closest Covenant world, that makes us the only viable rescue operation.”

A shy-­looking young Kelthan woman, seated next to Lucky, raised her hand. Her shoulder-­length black hair was tied neatly behind her neck in a ponytail. Every one of her features seemed to be pale, from her white skin to her even paler green eyes. She nibbled nervously at her fingernails.

Hanne Oroy was a cadet and on loan from the distinguished Pax Military Academy on Barathul. There she had proven herself to be a very capable sharpshooter, earning herself the pet name “Chance” and a reputation as someone who never missed. Unfortunately for Pax Military Command, Chance's psych evaluations and virtual augmented reality simulations had revealed that she was absolutely unprepared to take a life.