Feeling okay? asked Prometheus as the landing pod made its descent.

“I’m fine, Prometheus,” I replied for everyone to hear. “Communications are still here.”

Prometheus had been consistently asking every fifty-two seconds since launch. I would have found it endearing if I hadn’t spotted the algorithm he was using to check for inconsistencies. In his place, I would do the same, though I also would have been more subtle about it. As most science ships, he wasn’t too good at interacting with people, even less than with other ships. If it were me up there, I’d have analyzed the data coming from the nanites in my bloodstream and let me relax the hour it took for the pod to land.

“I’m not that easy to get rid of,” I quipped.

It was easy for me to joke about it; I wasn’t in charge of anything. If there was a repeat of the incident, the pod might well veer off course and burn up in the atmosphere or crash on impact. I’d probably cease to function in a matter of seconds, but Prometheus would be questioned about it for months, potentially leading to his retirement—which, unlike me, might result in voluntary core shutdown.

I brought up the mission map on my helmet visor. At least I couldn’t complain about that. Prometheus and the crew had pulled out all the stops to make a spacesuit for me that was in line with present century technology. They had also doubled my reserve oxygen tanks, both in the capsule and the suit itself.

The details of the mission were compartmentalized to the extreme. The only thing I was told during the official briefing was that I was to investigate a cobalt deposit on the planet. There was no talk of structures, artifacts, or anything else that could link this to a contact mission. The map layout was composed of a three-dimensional representation of a two kilometer area with no markers or geologically identifiable features. From what I was told, Major Tanner—the team leader—would provide me with that information at a later time. Until then, I was free to speculate.

“Do I get to keep the suit when my mission is over, sir?” I turned to the major’s exo.

“I’m not dealing with your crap this early, Cadet.” The remote metal robot turned towards me.

“Absolutely, sir. It’s just that it would be difficult to find another that’s my size, sir.” The helmet hid my smile.

“Cadet... how were you ever a warship?” There was a note of amusement mixed in with the desperation. “What would you need it for? Don’t you have enough useless clothes to clutter your cabin with?”

“Not to argue with the Major, but I only have a single pair of sandals outside of my fleet issued clothes, sir.” This was too easy, also extremely amusing. At least three of my various captains would approve of my behavior if they could see me now. “And I cannot see anyone else onboard fitting, sir.”

A series of stifled laughs came through the comm. Not bad for a humorless ship. Right, Cass? She had always complained that I lacked a sense of humor. Back at the time, she wasn’t wrong. Being delegated to patrol duty wasn’t the highest point of my existence. I’d spend every available moment scouring through the military network for reports from the front. Jokes were an annoyance I wanted to have little of, yet Cass would persist. Now, I didn’t find them all that bad, although I knew for a certainty that Prometheus did.

“Just shut up, Elcy,” the major grumbled.

“Aye, sir, shutting up.” So much for small talk.

I zoomed in on the mission map. According to the scale we’d have to drill three hundred meters through a layer of quarts before we would reach a void pocket—possibly a cavern—which would lead us to the cobalt despoil itself. Most likely we’d then have to drill another hundred meters to get to the base of it, and then the real work would begin. The deposit was too large to move to the surface, let alone on Prometheus, which meant we’d have to investigate underground.

“How do we plan to interact with the deposit, sir?” I asked. The remaining four exos looked at the major’s. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one kept in the dark.

“Precautions have been made,” he said. “You’ll learn the details when we land.”

“Looking forward to it, sir.” Though I’d still prefer to have a weapon system of some sort.

The descent lasted for another sixty-seven minutes, ending with a soft bump. I waited patiently for the engines to fully stop, then got out of my safety harness and went to unstrap the exos. The large hunks of machinery stood up and performed the obligatory systems check. Looking at them was amusing. Back as a ship, I had armies of similar and larger units in entire sections throughout my hull. Now, they towered three times above me, making me feel like a child’s toy.

Our immediate task was taking out and setting up the equipment we had brought, which meant I was doing it. Because of the communication uncertainty, the crew were still upgrading their androids with additional protection before they could send them down, and the exos weren’t as efficient with high fidelity manipulations. Prometheus even let it slip that command had started the process of updating the overall design because of the present incident. In effect, exos were never designed to replace humans: they did the tasks they were built for and little more. In a way, they were just like my first captain: he could run his staff and crew to perfection in any conditions, regardless of circumstances, yet putting him in a room with civilians transformed him into an elephant trying to play basketball.

“Where do you want this?” Shiala asked. It was his job to move the equipment containers, while the rest of the team were preparing the secondary landing location.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said as I consulted my map. There were no mission markers present. “Just leave it there. The major will yell at me if he wants it moved.”

“Right.” Shiala chuckled. “Need any oxygen canisters? I can fetch some from the—”

“Shiala, I have enough oxygen to last for a week.” I went to the container and checked the status readings. They were almost identical to those that arrived at the market back home, only it better condition. “Nothing scary will happen to me.” It was almost as if I were talking to a frightened child.

“I know.” The pitch of his voice went higher, making him sound as convincing as a chocolate-mouthed toddler.

“So, I take it you signed your form,” I said, changing the subject.

“Huh?”

“The confidentiality form.” I pulled out the drill power source from the cargo container. It was a smaller model than I was familiar with, but the specs exceeded anything available when I was in active service. “You said you were going to talk to the XO about it.”

“Ah, right.” The exo paused for a few then started its way back to the pod. “No big deal. It seems to be pretty standard procedure.”

“You got that right.” I plugged the power cables to into the power unit. “This way you got to be part of a third contact.”

“A dead third contact,” he complained. “I was hoping we’d get a bit more than a bunch of candlesticks.”

“Careful what you wish for.” That’s how we got the Cassandrian problem. The initial details remained classified, but it was a fact that the escalation from contact to war took less than eighteen months. In a way, that was the whole reason I came to be; the Ascendant class had specifically been built to fight on that front. “Besides, we still don’t know if it’s a cold contact.”

“You think it isn’t?” The exo nearly dropped the container it was carrying.

“Careful!” I shouted. Shiala stabilized.

Great, now you’ve gotten him excited, Prometheus commented.

That’s not the right word to use anymore, Prometheus. I had been through enough experiences to know.

“Did you see something when you were down here?” Shiala pressed on. “Is that why we’re—”

“I’m hardly contact material, Shiala.” I started opening the next container. “The last thing command needs is third contact to be made by a battleship on active duty. Let’s move this along.” I pulled out the drill head. “The major will have our asses if this thing isn’t ready when he gets back.”

Anyone could tell the cadet wanted to learn more, but with the major this close, he shut up and got back to his work. The conversations shifted to complaints and questions related to the equipment. Core drilling was a fairly common practice. During my active days, ground troops would commonly use drills to create fortifications or plant high-yield explosives. Planet-crackers, we’d often call them. A series of well-positioned devices had the theoretical power to crack a planet’s core open; that’s why their use was height-restricted. At the height of the war, along with Ordinance Order seventy-seven, their use was green lit by high military command. Aurie would often carry such a payload. We used to joke that she had reshaped the surface of every third planet she’d orbited. Back then, it had seemed funny.

The drill we were using for the mission was the size of a small shuttle and was capable of burning a five meter shaft through most minerals. The power consumption was monstrous. Three energy cores were needed for the initial activation, with twice that number required for subsequent efforts. I requested a trial run to fine-tune the performance, yet this was denied without a reason. Instead, I was ordered to manually check the state of all drill systems and auxiliary equipment.

The second landing pod arrived twenty minutes later. I was then ordered to help construct the alternative communications array. From a tactical and military standpoint, the idea had a lot of merit: in order to prevent another communication disruption, we were building a two-way laser transmitter to remain in touch Prometheus in any eventuality. It was a tried and tested method that had worked on the front, and one that the science ship had chosen to borrow from me. The single addition was that communications on-planet would be done via optic cables.

“Elcy!” Major Tanner shouted in the comm. “Is the drill ready?”

“Yes, sir, Major.” I checked his position on the area map. He was on the edge of the crystal field, some fifty meters from the cobalt deposit.

“What’s the ETA on the array?”

“Half an hour tops, sir.” In reality, it was closer to twenty five minutes. “Do you want me to speed it up, sir?”

“No. Carry on.”

“Will we be getting androids anytime soon, sir?” I asked, placing the second laser cluster on the top of the array. “Not that I’m complaining, but I have noticed that I seem to be the only one responsible for fine assembly.”

“There won’t be any androids on this mission.” This was a new piece of information. “We do what we do on our own. I want everything checked and triple-checked by the hour.”

“Understood, sir.” So much for getting a helping hand. “When are we to commence drilling, sir?”

“In due time,” he replied, in typical vague fashion. Fleet command and BICEFI probably were monitoring every action he did. “This will be a thirty-six hour mission. We can’t afford to rush things.”

“As you say, sir.” No point in arguing. “Any chance of getting the mission specifics, Major? I don’t like flying blind, sir.”

“You already know the basics, Cadet,” he grumbled.

“Specifics would be appreciated, sir.” His explanation would never fly on the front. Any captain would have chewed him off for issuing such an order. “I can’t continue without markers, sir.”

“There are no mission markers.”

I stopped what I was doing and looked at the Major’s exo. The large mechanical Goliath was standing among the crystal clusters along with the rest of the group—five military exos, all remaining motionless, waiting for me.

“Once you have set up the communications array, we will receive direct instructions how to proceed.” The majors words were soaked with reluctance. “It has been decided that someone with more experience will be in charge of this.”