The Heartless Void

1: The Lowering

Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the milky way?

"Lieutenant Starbuck! Larboard – blows!"

From the masthead oculus, Ishmael's voice echoed through the channels and into First Lieutenant Starbuck's headset. He was on his feet in a second, hurrying across the crowded cockpit and to the primary console deck. Retrieving the keycard from around his neck and jamming it into its slot, he brought up the security controls of the Pequod. With a manipulation of codes known only to the officers, the cloaking technology for the massive oil hauler dropped away, like pulling a curtain from a magic trick.

In a second, they were vulnerable to external scans. But they were also connected to a network that illuminated the surrounding gulf.

And there was a point flashing, just as Ishmael said, off the larboard bow.

"Copy that," he said, chest tightening as he brought up a cross-section of the target. While the AI formulated its visual scan, he prayed it was not what he feared. Every cry of "Blows!", each sighting of thrusters, was a dangerous line – any one of those could have been that hulk, still lurking out there.

This time, it was not. Starbuck breathed out and skimmed through the readout. "It's a merchant vessel, a private one, out of the Vineyard. One thousand barrels. Unlicensed."

The boarders were already getting to their feet. Thirty drops and counting, and that was only on this expedition. The skies were getting more and more crowded, as the premiums soared up and up and up. Earth was dying, so ships took their chances where they could. "Lower away!" Starbuck called now, and repeated the command down the intercom.

The corridors of the Pequod echoed with the sound of men hurrying to their stations. Jackets, emblazoned with the token of the mothership and their dropship designation, were tugged on; pulse weapons grabbed from the armoury; lucky charms tied around necks and wrists. But, no matter the religion, no matter the assigned team, all crew members smacked their palms against the gold coin nailed to the entrance of the docking bay – a river of men cheering and prostrating to that dreadful idol. It would go to the first man who sighted that dreadful beast somewhere out there.

Starbuck caught the eyes of Second and Third Lieutenants Stubb and Flask as he counted off his team, streaming into the dropship Providence. Stubb grinned and saluted him. "Not him, is it, Mr Starbuck?" he drawled.

"Not him, Mr Stubb."

His crew were already in place when he ducked into the vessel, strapped into their seats, helmets pulled on tight. He took one last look at the docking bay, as if the captain had suddenly appeared to watch them leave. He never did anymore, secluding himself. Starbuck believed he would only emerge when those white flanks appeared amongst the stars again.

Starbuck pulled shut the hatch and took his place at the helm. His chief harpooner, Queequeg, sat aside him, his sleeves pulled up to reveal the labyrinth of tattoos over his skin. He was as calm as if they were about to cruise along a standard recon. Starbuck liked having him up front.

"Captain's Daughter and King-Post, do you read me?" Starbuck asked into his headset.

"Aye, sir." Lieutenant Stubb in the Captain's Daughter.

"Sir." Lieutenant Flask in King-Post.

"On my mark. Docking hatch opening in five, four, three, two, one..."

The slats peeled back below them, leaving the ship suspended on its platform. "Withdrawing struts," Starbuck narrated, and listened to the grind of metal. Behind him, the crew crossed their arms over their chests, clutching their straps. Starbuck took a breath. He looked at the crucifix hanging from the front shield. "Brace for drop. In three, two, one―"