"Signal location locked," the backup pilot reported. "Coordinates confirmed. Jump calculated."
The transport ship's engines thrummed to life, building toward the resonance frequency that would tear us out of normal space and hurl us across light-years in subjective seconds. I'd experienced warp jumps thousands of times. They never stopped being fundamentally unsettling.
Jalina's hands tightened on her armrests. Small tells, she didn't like jumping either.
Without thinking, I reached over and covered her hand with mine. "Standard transit. Thirty-seven seconds subjective time. You won't feel anything."
She looked at our hands, then at me. "You're holding my hand."
"Professional reassurance. Statistically proven to reduce anxiety during warp transitions."
"You're making that up."
"Completely."
The smallest smile flickered across her face, there and gone in heartbeats, but genuine. "You came on this mission."
"I did."
"Why?"
The jump klaxons sounded before I could answer. Reality twisted, compressed, folded in on itself in ways that made mathematics scream. Then we were elsewhere, the contested sector spreading before us in all its hazardous glory.
Jalina's question hung unanswered between us.
The debris field appeared on sensors first as massive chunks of destroyed vessels scattered across several cubic kilometers, some pieces larger than Mothership's engineering sections. Navigation markers indicated known hazards: unstable wrecks that might explode if disturbed, radiation hotspots, territorial boundary warnings in three different languages.
"Beacon signal bearing two-seven-three mark eight," the pilot reported. "Approximately twelve kilometers into the field."
I pulled up the route calculations I'd prepared during my insomnia. "Recommend approach vector alpha-three. Avoids the primary debris concentration and known raider patrol routes."
"Concur." Vaxon studied my proposed path. "Time to intercept?"
"Forty-seven minutes at optimal speed. Longer if we encounter complications."
"We'll encounter complications. This is the contested sector." He activated the ship's enhanced shields. "All hands, combat ready. Jalina, Zor'go, I need eyes on that debris field. Any path optimization you can provide."
Jalina leaned forward, studying the holographic debris with the same intensity she brought to examining empty spaces. "There. Between those two large sections. The rotation patterns create a temporary clear channel every eight minutes."
I ran the calculations. She was right. "If we time our approach to match the rotational window, we can reduce transit time by fourteen minutes."
"Do it." Vaxon's command was immediate. "But if that channel closes early, I'm pulling us out. Not risking the ship for a few minutes."
"Understood."
We moved deeper into the debris field, the transport ship sliding between destroyed vessels with uncomfortable precision. Jalina called out openings seconds before my calculations confirmed them. I provided trajectory corrections milliseconds ahead of collision warnings. The collaboration that had felt so natural during the Veritaxis rescue returned, refined by weeks of working together.
The beacon signal strengthened as we approached the coordinates. Whatever was transmitting used Liberty's frequency patterns, distinctive modulation that human engineers had designed centuries ago. Nostalgia weaponized as a homing signal.
"Contact," Vaxon reported. "Damaged escape pod drifting near that asteroid cluster. Life signs detected, three beings, all human-sized biosignatures."
Jalina's breath caught audibly. "Three survivors."
"Potentially. Could also be raiders using the beacon as bait." Vaxon maneuvered closer, weapons systems active. "Scanning for additional vessels."
The escape pod materialized on visual sensors, Liberty design, unmistakable even in its damaged state. Hull breaches sealed with emergency patches. Propulsion systems offline. Life support at minimal function.
Three human lives inside, drifting through hostile space, waiting.
