She realized Jep attempted to contact her while she was busy with her injured Marine and the resulting mountain of paperwork. 

“Hildie, since you were busy dealing with Tichaona’s near-terminal case of stupidity, I tasked Jep and the rest of the squad, using your voice, with perimeter security. I also had them search this compartment in greater detail. When you didn’t respond to him, Jep got worried. He’s found something that I agree you should see.”

Glancing at her HUD, she located Jep. He is resting on one knee in the broad path, running through the center of the compartment. She kicks off, using her jets, floating toward Jep.

“Since you did not interrupt me, Krista, I take it as not too serious. I do not see any plasma grenade ammo expenditure, nor do I see any signs Jep used his secondary weapon. So Jep found neither a xenomorph or a drill sergeant to shoot.”

The standard Mars Fleet Marine powered heavy combat armor has, as a secondary weapon, the Bloody Reaper, a four-millimeter, 16-barreled minigun, in the outer forearm of choice by the wearer. The minigun, a product of Storm Breaker Inc., excels in the tight spaces found on a ship. Capable of firing 8,000 rounds of hypervelocity ammunition each minute, the Bloody Reaper is a terrifying weapon.

AI Krista chuckled. “It’s not serious or a pressing concern, Hildie, but it’s something odd. I’ll let Jep explain it to you.” 

She lands beside Jep on his left side, her magnetic soles clamping her to the deck.

“What did you find Jep?”

“Gunny, we searched the compartment like you told us to. I found something, but Krista told me you were in some lengthy conference.” 

He holds out something medium-sized, square, and dark green in his left gauntlet. 

“Look at this, Gunny. I think it’s made of that plastic shit the Revered Ancients left everywhere.” 

Taking the object from Jep, she discovered it’s an ancient, empty polymer ammo can missing its lid. She reads the plain black block letters printed on both sides of the box in ancient English: “450 rounds, 4.8 x 33 mm, Armor Piercing-Tracer, Caseless Rifle Ammunition. Made in Serbia. 2322-10-30 lot# 810308. Manufactured by Vladan Radovan Inc. Danger: Highly Explosive! Do Not Expose To Excessive Heat or Electricity.”

“Gunny, what’s an ammo can doing on board? What fucking idiot shoots AP inside a ship?”

“Good questions, Jep. Give me a moment.”

“Krista, what’s so special about an empty ammo can?” 

“We believe the colonists fought a war on board, possibly a mutiny, but finding empty ammo cans was not expected.”

“Why? They fought. Finding ammo cans would be expected.”

“Hildie, this was a planned pacifist colony that wasn’t supposed to have any lethal weapons.” 

“Idiots. Obviously they did not study human nature or history.”

“The colony police force was never meant to be issued lethal arms.” 

“How do you know that?”

“While you and Jep and your oversized squad have searched the cryopod rooms, the rest of the platoon has slowly moved aft. The drones have mapped nearly 90% of the ship. The ship’s thoroughly ransacked Master-at-Arms weapons lockers only contained non-lethals and shock sticks.” 

“Not very useful in lethal combat.”

“No. This ship was not supposed to have any lethal weapons, just the non-lethal gear issued to the colony's designated police force—shock sticks, CS gas and spray, maybe some low-velocity crowd control rounds.”

Her voice lowered as if speaking the next words aloud would cement her growing suspicions. 

“So, then you and Jep are right, Krista. What is an empty can of lethal ammo doing on board?”

She studied the ancient container again, her brow furrowing as her mind raced. Lethal ammunition? And this was not just any ammo; this was Armor Piercing-Tracer, specialized military grade ammo meant for serious combat. This item wasn't where one might expect it on a colony vessel journeying toward new lands.

“Look at the production date, Hildie,” Krista said. “The 4.8 mm ammunition was made less than five years before the Jason left Earth.” Krista’s voice came through calmly, but the implications were anything but. 

Why would a colony ship, she wondered, full of peaceful people looking for a fresh start, be carrying something as deadly as military-grade ammo? And how had this box survived, intact, amidst the wreckage and chaos on board?

She considered the war they believed had taken place on the ship. Had someone smuggled the ammo on board to prepare for an uprising, or was it part of some darker, unspoken contingency plan? 

She imagined the box would feel cold in her hand, heavier now, not just from its weight but from the dark possibilities it carried. Something was very wrong with the Jason’s story. This empty ammunition can may signify the genesis of a secret, immense, and fatal.

The faint murmur of incomprehensible voices filters through my consciousness, signaling my return to wakefulness. The voices are speaking in a language I do not understand. I cannot open my eyes, despite the partial drift to awareness.

Emerging from cryostasis has never been a pleasant experience for me. I resist the urge to succumb to the lull of slumber once more, knowing that drifting back into the depths of unconsciousness will only delay the inevitable. 

With a deep breath, I try to awaken, yet fall back into slumber before understanding the voices.

*

A nearby male tenor voice, with a strange accent, jolted me awake, breaking off the strange dreams I was having. "Doctor, you are sure she can understand us now?"

"Yes, Captain, her brain waves have steadied, and she is awake. Her neural net is nearing 95% complete integration. The medical AI is monitoring the nanites and nucleobots. Her net should be functional enough for her to understand us.”

“Bueno.”

“She should be able to understand us, Captain. I suggest we find and load ancient Latvian language files just in case her neural net does not grant her instant translation,” the second and closer male voice, still bearing the same strange accent as the first, remarked. This voice is much deeper and richer, falling somewhere between a baritone and a bass.

“Doctor, I've loaded the ancient Latvian language into my neural net, let me try and speak with her.”

“Welcome back Captain Leva Ilga Justīne Karolīna Zvirbulis.” 

“Bāc! Your Latvian is horrible with an atrocious accent. English please, if you speak the language. And do not fucking use my whole name! Only my grandmother used my full name, usually when I had done something bad pissing her off.”

My eyes feel as though someone poured sand in them. Blinking, I struggled to get my crusty eyes open.

“I can’t move my arms,” I murmured.

With a damp cloth, someone wipes my eyes clear. Blinking, I attempt to make sense of where I have woken up. 

“I prefer to be called just Eve, thank you. As the Jason's purser, I am only a lieutenant,” I responded.

Still blinking my eyes, I try to look around, trying to make sense of my predicament.

“Where the hell are my glasses?”

The deeper, richer voice replied, “You do not need corrective eyewear, Just Eve.”

“What?” was my less than elegant response. “I’ve worn glasses since my early teens.”

Then I realized what the deeper, richer voice called me. “Great, I have been woken by a fucking comedian. Just call me Eve, please. I still need my damn glasses.”

"Eve, please, trust me young woman. You will never require corrective eyewear again,” the deeper, richer voice responds."

Because of my severe shortsightedness, I shouldn't be able to see much past the tip of my nose. Yet, in the roof I can make out cables, labeled pipes, wires, and structures all painted in chipped, multi-layered industrial white that has yellowed with age. The faint, steady hum of machinery in the background confirmed my suspicion that I had awoken on an unfamiliar ship.

But I cannot see who is speaking.

*

I must have fallen asleep again. This time, when I wake up, I can discern background voices, albeit much fainter now. Glancing around, I realize that I'm in a different, unfamiliar room. It is a small, one-bed compartment. 

As I take stock, I notice I am sitting slightly upright, with the flexible white tube of the bed covering my body up to just below my breasts. A lightweight, pale blue smock drapes over my chest. I am looking at it upside down. I can still make out in faded yellow block letters over my left breast “MFNS Nyasaland Medical Department.” Below the text is the stick with the snakes. A medical emblem. Where the hell am I? 

The wall to my right is transparent, with a centered airtight door. Is this an isolation ward?

Outside, in the passageway, two individuals I assume to be soldiers stand guard on either side of the door. Their alertness is palpable; their eyes scanning the surroundings with precision. Both wear an unfamiliar military uniform: dark trousers with a red stripe down the outside, a white peaked cap, and a thick, dark red vest that might be body armor. What strikes me as most peculiar is that each carries a holstered sidearm on their hip and cradles a large, black, sinister-looking rifle in their arms. 

Painted on the far wall across from the soldiers is an aged and often repainted, striking floor-to-ceiling emblem, which I assume is the ship’s crest. From it, I gather I am on a naval spaceship, but whose navy?

Two curved silver laurel branches frame the entire ship’s crest. In the center of the crest is a bold, stylized image of a deep blue lake. Surrounding the lake is a silver border shaped like a starburst. 

Above the lake, a pair of golden-feathered wings stretched outward. Nestled between the wings is a silver compass rose, pointing in all directions. The compass’s bottom point touches the lake. At the base of the crest is a broad and long, curled ribbon banner in red and white. 

Inscribed on the banner is what I assume to be the ship’s motto in Latin: “Fortis et Fidus.” Below the Latin phrase written in bold black letters is “MFNS Nyasaland.” 

My Latin is rusty, so I am unsure what the ship’s motto means. Nyasaland must be the ship’s name, but I have no clue what MFNS means. The floor outside my room bears scrapes and scratches, yet it is clean. An older, working ship. It is unlike any other spaceship I am familiar with.

The air in my room carries a clean, crisp scent, refreshing and pure, unlike the faint chemical odors that lingered in every other spaceship I have served on. The soft hum of the ventilation system blends with the subtle stillness, while the coolness brushes against my skin, enhancing the sense of freshness.

He would expound on stoichiometry or similar complex subjects if my Vitālijs were present.

While comfortable, the bed provides little warmth. Realizing that I can still only move my head, my body tenses, I think, but I cannot feel anything below my neck. My arms are outside of the bed covering but do not respond when I try to move them. Am I paralyzed? With extreme force of will, I focus, shoving down icy panic while continuing to look around. 

Feeling frustrated and disoriented, I struggle to make sense of my surroundings. My mind races with questions, each one adding to the overwhelming sense of confusion that grips me.

Why am I here? How did I arrive here, in this strange location? And where the hell is Vitālijs? The realization that I am nowhere near where I expected to be fills me with a deep sense of unease. 

My mind feels heavy, weighed down by the uncertainty of my situation. Every movement is an effort, every breath a struggle against the overwhelming tide of emotions that threatens to engulf me.

This unfamiliar and strange setting makes me feel isolated, as if I am alone on a dangerous ocean with no direction. Frustration boils within me, mingling with the disorientation that clouds my thoughts and obscures my vision of the future.