Captain's Log, Supplemental DDSN-XIOO USS Discovery Captain James Nolan recording
Christening Date plus 7 days
Lunar Re-Fuel and Refit Station
The black is wide, but alliances make the distances feel shorter.
Victor Cromwell's station has become a fixed point in the expanding system—three new bays built to our exact needs.
Tonight we sealed the partnership over dinner.
The void was counting down while we spoke.
Cromwell Control — Late Shift
The traffic control center was quiet the way only deep-space stations ever were—hushed voices, soft console chimes, the faint hum of life support. The night-shift senior controller, a veteran named Park who had pulled more double shifts than he cared to count, rubbed eyes that felt like sandpaper. Twelve hours down, four to go. The boards were green, traffic light. Just another slow watch.
He leaned over the long-range plot. A new cluster of signatures had appeared on the edge of scope—six contacts, cold but warming, closing from five million kilometers out. Lazy approach, no burn flares, no aggressive vectors. Park yawned. "Unscheduled inbound. Looks like stragglers." His junior glanced up. "Freighters?"
"Profiles match heavy cargo haulers. Drive plumes ragged—probably independents running cheap fusion mixes." Park sipped cold coffee. "Ping them for ID and ETA." The junior keyed the mic. "Unidentified convoy, this is Cromwell Control. State identity and intended berth."
Static. Then a calm, accented voice. "Control, this is convoy Delta-Nine. Delayed from Jovian run. Request approach and docking clearance." Park checked the registry. No Delta-Nine scheduled, but stragglers happened. "Copy, Delta-Nine. Maintain current vector. We'll assign berths on final approach."
The junior frowned. "They're running dark on transponders." "Independents do that sometimes—save power or dodge fees." Park shrugged. "Nothing hot. Wake me if they change burn." Shift change was in thirty. He was already tasting sleep. The contacts continued their lazy close—unhurried, almost drifting.
Four million kilometers now.
Still nothing threatening. Yet.
The Dining Suite
The private dining suite overlooked the main bay—transparent aluminum floor giving the illusion of floating above the docked ships. The table was set simply but elegantly. Replicated steak done rare, fresh hydroponic greens, a bottle of real Earth red Victor had been saving for a night like this.
Victor poured with practiced grace. "To partnerships." James raised his glass. "To duty." Leanne smiled. "And to friends who make it bearable." They drank. The wine was excellent—full-bodied, hints of black cherry and smoke.
Conversation flowed—easy, familiar. Victor asked after Leanne's latest Al refinements; she deflected with questions about his expansion plans. James listened more than he spoke, enjoying the rare moment of stillness.
Victor leaned back, swirling his glass. "You know, James, when your father first leaned on me for those bays, I thought it was just Navy politics. But seeing her— he nodded toward Discovery visible through the floor "—l understand. She's not just a ship. She's the line in the sand." James met his gaze. "We'll hold it." Victor's smile turned knowing. "I know you will."
Leanne glanced between them. "You two always talk like the void's listening." Victor chuckled. "It usually is." James allowed himself a small laugh. "Old habits." Victor refilled their glasses. "Speaking of habits—how's the crew settling? First real patrol coming up." "Ready," James said. "Drills are sharp. Raptors are itching for space." Leanne added, "A.L.l.'s integrating faster than projected. She's already running silent diagnostics on the grav coils."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Your silent partner has opinions?" "She has curiosity," Leanne said. "That's better." The mood was warm, easy. The station felt safe—shields nominal, traffic routine.
Outside, four million kilometers away, six "freighters" continued their lazy close.
Three million eight hundred thousand.
Three million five.
The distance ticked down, silent and steady.
Cromwell Control — Shift Change
Park stood, stretching. "Shift's yours, Chen. Quiet night. Unscheduled convoy inbound— independents, probably cheapskates running dark. Keep an eye, but they're cold." Chen slid into the senior chair, sipping fresh coffee. "Got it. See you in twelve." Park headed for the lift, already dreaming of his bunk.
Chen scanned the boards. The convoy was closer now—three million kilometers, still no burn flares. He frowned. Drive plumes looked... off. Too uniform for independents. He zoomed the plot. The signatures sharpened. Chen's coffee went cold in his hand when the "freighters" popped hatches. Missile bays yawned open and salvos launched—dozens of warheads blooming toward the station. Chen slammed the red alert. "All stations! Hostiles confirmed! Multiple missile launches inbound!" The center erupted.
The Dining Suite
Alarms shattered the moment. Red strobes flashed through the suite. Victor's comm buzzed—urgent tone. His face hardened as he listened. "Multiple missile impacts on outer perimeter. Shields holding—but they're pressing." James was already standing. "Marduk." Victor nodded grimly. "Signature matches." Leanne's hand found James's arm. "The station's defenses— "Light," Victor finished. "We weren't ready for this."
A new transmission cut across open channels—Marduk's voice, accented, calm, chilling. "USS Discovery. Cromwell Station. Surrender your warship and the station's cargo. Or we burn it all. You have ten minutes." The line went dead. The station shook—first impacts breaching shields. Victor met James's eyes. "Go." James clasped his shoulder. "We'll clear the sky."
He ran.
Captain's Log, closing entry — Chapter 5 complete
Alliance sealed over dinner.
Then the black answered.
Marduk's ultimatum hangs.
Ten minutes.
The hunt begins.
James Nolan, Captain DDSN-XIOO USS Discovery
The lanes are burning