January 25, 2019. The Ruins of the Warehouse. 09:15 Local Time.
Colonel Vance crawled out of the wreckage of the mobile command post. His ears were ringing with a high-pitched whine that wouldn't stop. Dust covered his uniform like grey snow. He looked at the warehouse. Or what was left of it. The roof was gone. The steel girders were twisted like pretzels. The asphalt of the parking lot was fused into glass in a 50-meter circle where the ship's engines had fired.
"Status!" Vance screamed, stumbling over a piece of debris. "Someone give me a sitrep!"
Agent Schreiber was leaning against a crushed police car, staring at the sky. He looked catatonic. "It's gone," Schreiber whispered. "It... it just left."
"What left?" Vance grabbed Schreiber by the vest and shook him. "A drone? A missile?"
"A ship," Schreiber said, his eyes wide and terrified. "Colonel, that was a capital ship. At least 400 meters long. It defied gravity. It deflected small arms fire. And then it accelerated to Mach 4 in under three seconds without killing the occupants."
Vance let him go and looked at the radar tablet a surviving technician handed him. The track was a solid red line shooting straight up, punching through the atmosphere and curving away from Earth. Target Velocity: Mach 25. Altitude: 400km. Trajectory: Escape Velocity. Vector: Mars.
"Mars," Vance spat the word out like poison. He kicked a piece of the destroyed grey van. "They were building a goddamn spaceship in a German industrial park, and we treated it like a tax evasion case!"
He activated his secure comms. "Get me the Pentagon. Get me the Chancellor. And get me NORAD. I want to know exactly where that thing is going. And then I want to know how we kill it."
The Nomad. Main Cargo Bay.
The roar of the engines had faded to a deep, subsonic thrum. We were safe. But Judy wasn't.
She was sitting on the cold metal floor of the cargo bay, her knees pulled to her chest. She was hyperventilating. Short, sharp gasps. Her eyes were darting around the massive, cathedral-like space, unable to focus on anything. "I... I can't..." she wheezed. "The office... the van... the light..."
"She's going into shock," Mereel said, kneeling beside her. "We need to get her out of the industrial zone. It's too cold here. It smells like ozone."
"Get her to the Lounge," I ordered, helping Mereel lift her. "It's pressurized and warm. Archi, prep the Med-Bay just in case, but let's try tea first."
The Crew Deck. The Lounge.
We walked—or rather, shuffled—through the airlock. The transition was jarring. We left the brutal, dark metal of the cargo bay and stepped into... a luxury hotel. The corridors were lined with soft, cream-colored panels. The lighting was warm and indirect. The floor was carpeted. We entered the Lounge. It was the result of Archi's "Psychological Stability" upgrade. One wall was entirely glass (reinforced diamond-laminate), looking out at the receding Earth. The room was filled with real plants—ferns, small trees, climbing ivy—that smelled of fresh earth. There were comfortable sofas, a bookshelf filled with real books (printed by nanites), and a fireplace that used holographic flames and radiant heat.
We set Judy down on a soft sofa. She sank into it, still trembling. "Breathe, Judy," I said softly. "In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Look at the plant. It's just a fern. Focus on the fern."
She stared at the plant. Then at the carpet. Then at the window where the blue curve of the Earth hung in the black void. "We are..." she gasped. "Space?"
"Yes," I said. "We are in space."
Mereel came back from the fabricator with a steaming mug. "Chamomile tea. With a lot of honey. Drink."
Judy took the mug with both hands. The warmth seemed to ground her. She took a sip, choking slightly, then taking a deeper breath. The hyperventilation slowed. Her color started to return.
She looked at me. Then at Mereel. Her gaze hardened. The "Office Manager" was coming back online. "Surgrim," she whispered. "You blew up the warehouse. You got us shot at by the SEK. And now we are in space."
"Technically," I said, sitting on the coffee table in front of her, "the SEK shot first. And we didn't blow up the warehouse, the shockwave did. But yes. We are in space."
"Why?" she asked. A single tear rolled down her cheek, cleaning a path through the dust. "Are you terrorists? Drug lords? Who are you?"
"We're exactly who we said we were," I said gently. "We recycle. We just... recycle asteroids. And build things. This ship? We built it. Piece by piece."
"With what money? With what people?" She gestured around the luxurious room. "This isn't Ikea, Surgrim. This is... this is Star Trek."
"With a little help," I said. "Judy, I want you to meet the other partner. The one who really runs the logistics."
I looked up at the ceiling. "Archi? Come say hello. Gently."
The lights dimmed slightly. A soft chime sounded. Then, a holographic avatar materialized near the fireplace. Archi had chosen a form that was non-threatening: a geometric sphere of soft blue light that pulsed when he spoke.
"Hello, Judy," Archi's voice was warm, polite, and modulated to be soothing. "I am Archimedes. I am the ship's Artificial Intelligence. I apologize for the destruction of your filing cabinet. I know you had just reorganized it."
Judy stared at the blue ball. She lowered the tea mug. "The AI," she whispered. "The 'scheduling software' you always complained about."
"I am afraid I am a bit more complex than Outlook," Archi said. "I manage the navigation, life support, and manufacturing systems of the Nomad. And I fabricated the pendant you are wearing. It is a kinetic shield generator. It saved your life today."
Judy looked down at the silver hexagon. She touched it, remembering the blue flash that stopped the bullet. "You..." she looked at Surgrim. "You gave me a force field for my birthday?"
"It was an apology," I grinned weakly. "For the stress."
She looked at the Earth, getting smaller in the window. Then at the luxury room. Then at Mereel, who was looking at her with a 'please don't kill us' expression. She took a long sip of tea. She closed her eyes. "I need something stronger than chamomile," she said finally. "And then you are going to explain to me exactly where we are going, and if I will still get my paycheck."