>>5826724The bridge is deathly silent after you give your order. Understandable, since playing dead is by far the most dangerous tactic, and the most desperate. You might as well fly straight into the gas giant and the results would largely be the same. No, it would actually be better since that way you would leave nothing behind for the Qyngur to salvage. Still, you know this is the only chance in hell of killing these heathen xenos and finally shake off the taint on your name for good.
Seeing Silas still lost for words, Johnson acknowledges your order, "Yes, Ma'am. Get to work! Are you all corpses or what?" In a few hours you will know the answer.
Across your entire ship emergency lockers are raided for rebreathers, safety lamps, mag boots, and of course every manner of guns and swords known to man. Once all departments have reported ready, you order all breakers thrown open, plunging the entire ship into a shadowy silence save for the flickering white light of chemical lamps. As the oxygen still in the air is slowly replaced with carbon dioxide over the next few hours, the color will slowly shift to sickly yellow, then suave golden, then somber red, and finally only choking darkness will remain. Even though the Vanilla Skyline is meant for ambush operations, its designers also quietly condemns this particular stratagem by leaving only enough space for a few hours' worth of air. Exactly how many you do not wish to find out, but Goldsmith, the straight-laced engi chief, pinged you an estimate of 5 hours 40 minutes anyway.
Among all this mayhem Silas has asked for your permission to leave the bridge and directly oversee the temperamental shield. His presence here to keep the junior officers in line would be greatly appreciated, but you already know the only answer you can give. You thankfully still have Johnson for back up.
15 minutes. The hurried whispers have died down as everybody now knows the last time you visited a shrink.
30 minutes. You can see the slightest hint of yellow in the lamp now. You wonder whether the charred blotches you have asked the dockyard hands not to paint over would hold up under inspection.
1 hour. You do a routine check with all departments through the one low-power radio still operational. Maybe the next time you are in port you should buy a old mechanical timekeeper. The rhythmic ticking would do wonder for your nerves.
2 hours. Another check. You would kill for anything, anything to fill all this empty time.
3 hours. The third check. One of the cadets couldn't hold his mouth anymore, "They are not taking the bait. We have to turn on the shields now, there's still time. Quick, quick, qu-" Johnson tackles him as he tries for your control panel. You nod at him and holster your derringer. Can you take the shot when the time comes?
4 hours. After this will be the last check. You cannot afford to run the air too low and risk degraded performance from carbon poisoning. The light now casts dusk across the room.
