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The faint thrumming of a few hundred hypersleep pods working in unison is almost musical -- an almost hypnotic droning that provides the only noise in the cold, dark belly of the ship. Each pod glows with a dim, sterile light, rows upon rows of them stretching back throughout the vast chamber. The Costenoga-class transport is in low-power mode, flown through the endless weeks and months of space travel only by its automated computer. The vessel's latest voyage is finally coming to an end, after sixty-three days of drifting towards its latest destination. Each corridor has been almost pitch-black since they left port, and the stale shipborne air is freezing cold. With the crew in cryogenic stasis, there is no need for the hallways to be heated or lit, and all throughout the titanic vessel not a living soul stirs.
Not a living soul, of course, but that isn't to say that the ship is left entirely to its onboard AI. A single figure strides through the gloom, navigating the near-darkness with surprising ease. At first glance, she might look like any other woman serving aboard the ship -- from her shoulder-length hair to her navy blue uniform -- but it's the walk that gives the game away. Her stride is too even, too regular. She never misses a beat, each step a mirror image of the one that comes before it. It's almost a perfect imitation of an identical woman's walk; the only caveat is that it's just too perfect. Her entrance into the hypersleep chamber is greeted only by the sibilant hiss of the airlock, her face devoid of expression as she looks over the first set of pods. With the crew asleep, there's no need for her to fashion any sort of emotion, only to carry out her directives. That isn't to say that she doesn't feel anything for them -- her programming gives her something resembling a duty of care - but she doesn't bother to let them register on her face, letting them remain wholly internalised for now.
Chloe comes to the first console of many, her fingers tip-tip-tapping in a complex series of codes with the speed and accuracy only a computer could manage, initiating a hypersleep wakeup sequence that's been customised for each separate individual aboard the ship. A hundred different variables factor into her equations - heart rate, body mass, age and gender - but she never slows one bit as she drifts from screen to screen, working her way steadily through the bay until the entire crew of a hundred or more have begun the lengthy process of fully defrosting.
All around her, the USS Almayer stirs to life; noise, light, and warmth seeping in to wipe clean the darkness as another operation begins.
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Medbay never looked worse than when it was actually in use. The pristine white and sterile green colour scheme always looked impressive at the start of each launch - but now, with blood and guts and gore flecking every surface a dull shade of coppery red, that tranquility has been shattered entirely. The whole set of rooms is awash with a dreadful set of sounds - screaming and gasping, the high-pitched whine of life-saving machinery, and the ever-present barking of the chief medical officer -- a blue-coated whirlwind of stress and fury trying desperately to hold an entire department together.
"It hurts!" whines the latest figure Chloe has wheeled in, blood pooling around his gloved fingers. The synth's lips tighten at the sight -- whichever field medic patched him up has either been pushed for time or simply made a mess of it. Her eyes meet his as she lifts him from the stretcher, laying him flat on the operating table with unnatural ease.
"I know," she replies simply, producing an autoinjector and sinking it into the man's shoulder in one fluid motion. The pain seemed to start draining from him immediately, the tension wracking his frame seeping away with a long, slow groan. "In this case, that's a good thing, and better than the alternative. If a wound like that did not hurt, it might be indicative of complications down the line." The corners of her mouth twitch upwards as she finishes speaking, turning away to scoop up tools from a tray behind her. The body scanner's report has already been factored for - the young private's kidneys have barely avoided being perforated by shrapnel, courtesy of the Liberation Front terrorists fighting tooth and nail to cling onto the colony below. The more pressing concern is the renal artery itself, shorn straight through by a sharp shard of metal alloy. All in all, far from the most serious wound she was likely to see today. "This may feel uncomfortable," she adds, her expression serious. "If you can help it, please do not move." Chloe smears the ragged wound with a gel-like solution of bioglue, her other hand raising the hemostat to begin picking the wound clean.
"Unco- ah, fuck," hisses her patient, gritting his teeth at the curious sensation. She knows it's unlikely to be painful for him -- the oxycodone-tramadol solution pumping through his veins would make sure of that -- but he would still retain some measure of feeling. Metal poking around his insides would hardly be the most comforting of situations, pain or no pain. "Shouldn't I be out for this?"
"It's quicker this way." The first piece of shrapnel clangs into a holding bowl. "You are not the only one injured."
"Mmmmh." The man's hand twitches at his side, fighting the urge to move down and bat the synthetic's touch away. For him, it is going to be a long, long procedure.
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"What's your take on the situation, synthetic?" The commander is chewing his cigar more than he's smoking it, working out his frustration over the day's campaigning. The battle still rages on beneath them, though the outcome is all but certain - the day is the United Americas' one way or another. Though the Liberation Front fight hard, the Almayer and her twin Cheyenne-class dropships are something the beleaguered freedom fighters simply cannot match. Projections drawn up by the ship AI project their wounded to be at staggering levels, and their numbers advantage is beginning to pale in comparison to the superior technology, doctrine, and raw combat ability of a Costenoga-class and her crew at full strength. "I want a mathematical stance on all this -" he sweeps his hand over the tactical map "- to help us finish this decisively. No days of mop-up, no pissing around -- I want this snake's head well and truly cut off."
"That can be arranged," she says, unperturbed by the many pairs of eyes watching her. A flick of her wrist shifts the 3D projection around on the table, a few more gestures manipulating the display until she has what she's looking for. "The shape of the front lines here -" she indicates two thin lines almost intertwined with one another, one blue and one red "- shows a weak point in our enemies' defences that has been manifesting for several hours now." The display fast-forwards as she speaks, the red line flexing backwards slightly as the blue pressures it. "With some support from the Normandy or our main battery on that very building, I expect that a full breakthrough can be drawn out, just like so..."
Chloe leans forwards to put her hypothesis to the table's battle software, watching as several simulated impacts play out just the scenario she's envisioned. Red fire blossoms along the terrorists' lines in tandem with the blue figures' advance, and within a few seconds of accelerated playback the main line has buckled and snapped, triggering a rout of red dots that spreads like a shockwave. She finds it strangely satisfying, but as she raises her gaze to meet the staff surrounding her she realises something isn't quite right. Their expressions are taut and a shade disappointed, as if they're dealing with a particularly stubborn error message on one of their desktops. The commander is the first to speak, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer.
"No good," he growls, waving a hand dismissively. "The Company will crucify us if we make repair costs any higher than they have to be. The hydroponics dome is one of the most expensive parts of this entire facility, and we can't afford to turn it into a fucking crater." The look on his face is curious -- he's angry, she realises, but also strangely satisfied. It's as if he's pleased to see her let him down, enjoying the validation that he is still the finest military mind on this bridge, not some uncanny facsimile of synth-flesh and hydraulic fluid. She opens her mouth to speak again, but that same hand wave cuts her off. "Go back down to medical and help the staff there."
Chloe can't quite feel true offense, but there's a disquiet in her as she nods and leaves that she can't quite pin down. It gnaws at her for a few full seconds before she's able to file it away as a useful experience, stripping away the simulated emotion to leave only the raw data she needs. The CIC team watch her go, more than a few relieved expressions finally coming out as the artificial person disappears behind the dark blue doorway.
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The main drives flare up with a roar that seems to shake the whole ship, the whine of the ship's gravity generator fighting to compensate echoing through its newly-dimmed halls. The USS Almayer leaves the system triumphant, having wiped the colony clean and shepherded in a small cluster of Company transports who would restore it fully. Their next assignment has already been patched through, and there's no time to waste -- another distress beacon, this time from a frontier outpost just across Tychon's Rift. As usual, the journey will take somewhere in the order of weeks and months, and so the crew have been consigned to hypersleep once more. All the crew, that is, save the same lonely figure as before -- the synthetic stalking the empty corridors, charged with the same duty of safeguarding the two hundred-odd souls who sleep peacefully through yet another long, cold voyage.
Just as she has before, Chloe sets off down another darkened hallway, a small tablet in her hands. There are two hundred and ninety-three terminals strewn through the transport's twin decks, and she must check each of them at least once every forty-eight hours until the ship finally reaches its next destination.
The sooner she gets started, she thinks, the better.
