Chapter 2: Intuition
Commander Clarke glared at the screen that was set in the thick armrest of her chair. Oblivious to the activity that buzzed all around her on the busy bridge, she observed the gentle turning of the moon Purgatory as it drifted unswervingly along its path. Cold and isolated, it seemed at first glance that as a Commander, she had much in common with this forbidding world. But Clarke felt no empathy for the moon. She viewed it with caution and suspicion. Purgatory had seen many skirmishes between the eternally struggling adversaries of the Arm and Core, but had not seen action now in over a millennia. The reason for this had been a mutual cordoning off of this world by both sides. But now those records were lost, and with no tangible evidence of danger, the Arm high Command had deemed this world fit for occupation. Clarke's instincts told her otherwise. As she gazed at Purgatory through the flat display, she couldn't help but think that there was something strange... no, something wrong about this world.
Private Jeffers approached his Commander. Like a statue of chiselled marble, she sat frozen in thought. Her thickset chair was raised from the deck plates on a circular platform, the nerve centre of all that went on aboard ship. Jeffers was in awe of her. He gazed up at the pensive figure as she glared at the display at her side. He had watched this woman march to victory and go to her death with determination and dignity time and again, and hoped that at some day he could be even half the Commander she was.
"Jeffers?" came stern voice, "Can I help you, Private?" It was Clarke. Jeffers had forgotten himself entirely in his hero worship. He could feel his face reddening with embarrassment. He had no idea how long he had been staring, nor did he know how long the Commander had been returning his stare.
"Um. Er, yes. Um, the briefing you ordered." Jeffers stumbled over his words, "Its starts in fifteen minutes."
"Very good private." Clarke replied stoically. Jeffers froze. Should he reply, or just leave? He just smiled inanely at Clarke.
"You can go now, Private." Clarke said, still no hint of emotion in her voice.
"Right. Thank you, Ma'am... er, Commander." The Private stuttered. He opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it a second later. He had no wish to dig himself in any deeper. He simply turned away and made for his station, a console on the right wall of the circular bridge. As he did so, he hissed to himself between his gritted teeth,
"Damn it." The number of times he had seen his Commander die with honour was by far surpassed by the number of times he had made an ass of himself in front of her.
Commander Clarke glared at the screen that was set in the thick armrest of her chair. Oblivious to the activity that buzzed all around her on the busy bridge, she observed the gentle turning of the moon Purgatory as it drifted unswervingly along its path. Cold and isolated, it seemed at first glance that as a Commander, she had much in common with this forbidding world. But Clarke felt no empathy for the moon. She viewed it with caution and suspicion. Purgatory had seen many skirmishes between the eternally struggling adversaries of the Arm and Core, but had not seen action now in over a millennia. The reason for this had been a mutual cordoning off of this world by both sides. But now those records were lost, and with no tangible evidence of danger, the Arm high Command had deemed this world fit for occupation. Clarke's instincts told her otherwise. As she gazed at Purgatory through the flat display, she couldn't help but think that there was something strange... no, something wrong about this world.
Private Jeffers approached his Commander. Like a statue of chiselled marble, she sat frozen in thought. Her thickset chair was raised from the deck plates on a circular platform, the nerve centre of all that went on aboard ship. Jeffers was in awe of her. He gazed up at the pensive figure as she glared at the display at her side. He had watched this woman march to victory and go to her death with determination and dignity time and again, and hoped that at some day he could be even half the Commander she was.
"Jeffers?" came stern voice, "Can I help you, Private?" It was Clarke. Jeffers had forgotten himself entirely in his hero worship. He could feel his face reddening with embarrassment. He had no idea how long he had been staring, nor did he know how long the Commander had been returning his stare.
"Um. Er, yes. Um, the briefing you ordered." Jeffers stumbled over his words, "Its starts in fifteen minutes."
"Very good private." Clarke replied stoically. Jeffers froze. Should he reply, or just leave? He just smiled inanely at Clarke.
"You can go now, Private." Clarke said, still no hint of emotion in her voice.
"Right. Thank you, Ma'am... er, Commander." The Private stuttered. He opened his mouth to speak again, but closed it a second later. He had no wish to dig himself in any deeper. He simply turned away and made for his station, a console on the right wall of the circular bridge. As he did so, he hissed to himself between his gritted teeth,
"Damn it." The number of times he had seen his Commander die with honour was by far surpassed by the number of times he had made an ass of himself in front of her.