Tolly couldn't believe it.

  From his place on top of the table, Groen's unwavering voice boomed over the loudspeaker. He was steadfast, dedicating himself to be the first of those sacrificed to save The Perun, forcing Tolly into a strange place between furious and heartbreak. Her mother had left her, then her father, her sister ever more distant this last year, and now him?

  Standing across the hall from him, watching his lips flap into the loudspeaker, it was all Tolly could do to not throw up. After offering to retire and leave everything and the firecrawler to her, she thought, how could he not at least consult her?

  In a moment, her animosity in her switched over to guilt, through fear, and on to sullen sorrow. She was paralyzed.

  Philipe placed a hand on her shoulder, which she pretended not to notice. He said something to her, but all she chose to hear was a garbled mess. After a while, he stopped trying to reach her and removed his hand.

  Groen eventually stopped speaking, handed the loudspeaker off and stepped laboriously down from atop the table with Connor's help. It wasn't until several crew members had left the hall, clearing a space in the middle, that the world began to normalise.

  Groen was speaking to Connor still, and Tolly had half a mind to rush over and smack him in the jaw. Disquiet started to boil back up again, but before she knew it, Groen was staring straight back at her.

  His eyes tore through her, and she could feel herself starting to weep. Enough was enough. The first step was hard. Then they came quicker and easier. From across the hall, she sprinted towards him.

  Groen opened his arms wide, his eyes wetter than hers. When they met at the centre of the hall, her uncle embraced her, squeezed tight with his tree-trunk arms. He towered above her and nestled her head below his beard.

  She had never felt so hurt, so betrayed, and so loved. She tried to fight it, tried to get out even a syllable. Every word translated only into blubbering.

  “Damn… you,” she was finally able to say, “gods damn you.”

  “I know, my dear, I know,” he said, his words deep and sullen.

  The tears finally slowed, and she pushed her way out from him. Tolly craned her neck up at him. Her eyes burned straight through his head.

  “If there were any other…” he trailed off.

  She swung, landing a closed fist in the centre of his chest.

  Groen winced but barely flinched.

  Tolly swung again. This time her fist landed in Groen’s open palm. It felt like punching a pillow.

  Tolly opened her mouth to speak, but everything rampaging through her threatened to come out all at once.

  Groen recomposed himself before answering.

  “I know you're upset, my dear, but I assure you this is nothing other than dumb, crushing luck,” he smiled a trademark smile and continued, “I told you, along with the other crew, as with as much haste as was available. These are some hard decisions the crew needs to make, and it would not be in my character to withhold it.”

  He paused, wiping a tear from Tolly's face with a wide, bratwurst forefinger.

  “I, for one, know you will make the gods proud as captain. And… do go easy on Connor. He’s just been forced into a job he didn't expect either.”

  Connor stepped up beside her, and Groen released his grip. Tolly looked over at him and saw that he had been crying too. He must've just realised this as well, quickly drying his own eyes on the sleeve of his coveralls.

  “You two will need to work together. Learn from each other and try not to kill one another.”

  “I've only been here for eighteen months… I have no idea–”

  “You'll do fine. I’ve already sent in the paperwork to the federation office anyways. And besides, The Perun is almost entirely automated. She mostly runs herself.” Groen said, cutting her off.

  “I'll make sure she eats her vegetables,” said Connor.

  Groen turned and lumbered towards the door.

  “You'll do fine,” he said again before stepping out into the hall.

  “Well, come on,” Connor said, turning to Tolly, “The Captain will need us on the command deck.

  On the command deck, Tolly looked out on the ashen landscape. The sun was entirely up now, the sky a mixture of smoke and clear, sunlit patches. Less than two kilometres south, a patchwork of inky storm clouds was rolling in.

  A thick veil of rain hung like wires in the space beneath the clouds, blanketing the ash fields below. Silva was right; if they didn't get the upgrav fixed, and soon, the crawler would be buried along with their – her – entire crew.

  Groen’s voice came from the wallscreen behind her, and she swivelled to see him. Behind Groen, Tolly could see a line cook named Dixon whom Tolly had met only once before, and to her surprise, both a nervous Philippe and a steely Marco. These were Groen's volunteer heroes.

  Groen turned away from the wallscreen, nodding to the men standing with him, before turning back. Before he could say anything, Tolly opened a bulletin to every wallscreen in the vessel.

  “My family…” he said, the pale blue image not doing him justice, “and we are family after all. I have been in this line of work, and on The Perun in particular, for more years than I'd care to count. I have spent time with every one of you, and I am brazen to have spent my time amongst such admiral folks. Although such a fate seems cruel to have been thrust upon us, I would fully accept it time again if it meant sparing at least one of you some level of sorrow. It is with a heavy yet steadfast heart that we do this, and I am glad to be accompanied by these heroic people at my side.”

  Groen turned back to face those standing behind him.

  “Master Dixon, you have been a powerful source of humour and explosively gut-wrenching pot roast over these last twenty years. Somehow you never fail to laugh.”

  Tolly noticed that Silva had just joined them on the bridge, her eyes red and makeup smeared.

  “Engineer Marco, you have always been a steadfast voice of reason. We consistently clashed over policy, technicalities, and the meticulous work that you put into carrying The Perun along for so many seasons. You made me a better person and a better captain, whether you knew it or not.”

  Silva was sobbing now into Connor's arm, tears soaking into grease stains.

  “And Philippe. You have been the youngest to ever serve on my crew. You are wise beyond mettle, and I'm sure you make your parents, if even the gods, proud. Your ingenuity and stamina astound me, and you can be assured that you have made your mark on this old firecrawler and this company.”

  Tolly was weeping again but managed to keep it contained to a few tears that dripped down through the grated floor.

  “...you men have made your crew and the entire Herd Federation proud by your service. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and know that you are saving lives today.”

  Groen’s broadcast had come to an end, so Tolly switched off the feeds to the rest of the vessel, leaving only the wallscreen in the command deck on. Tolly looked around the deck. At least twelve of the seventeen crewmen on the deck were openly weeping.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Captain?” Groen said. It took Tolly several seconds to realise he was talking to her.

  “Yes, sir?” she said, not knowing what else to say.

  “There's no need for you to call me sir anymore. You truly are the captain now. Become it,” he said, accompanied by a warm smile.

  “Yes… uncle?”

  “Groen will do just fine.”

  Tolly could hear rustling from behind him. Groen’s head rocked back and forth a bit, letting out a few high-pitched grunts.

  “Damn, I haven't put these environment suits on in a few years. Fits a little more snug than I remember.”

  “I've seen pictures. You've gained a few pounds, old man.” Tolly snickered, a tear running down her left cheek.

  “Old? I guess you're right. Or you might say I'm in the best shape I'll ever be!” he snorted.

  Tolly loved that about him. He could always make the best of the worst kind of situation.

  “Gods… it feels good to be retired. Dear, promise me you'll try it one day, don't work yourself to death. I mean– hopefully, your retirement lasts a bit longer than this.”

  The four men finished suiting up and squeezed into the separation airlock that led to the inner reactor. After several minutes, the air was scrubbed out, and the internal doors to the reactor chimed open.

  Marco stepped into the tubular cavern first, making a b-line for the reactor override at one end. At the same time, Dixon and Groen carried in the sizable industrial-sized patch kit to the middle, and Phillipe headed for the coolant shutoff at the opposite end. The coolant line ran through the centre, spraying radioactive ejecta all over the chamber walls and all over the crewmen. The environment suits, not designed for such high radiation levels, would only last for so long.

  "We're dead men walking now," Marco said, checking the radiation reading on his suit's chest indicator.

  “Marco,” Groen said, his nerves showing in his voice, “how long did you say these suits could last in here?”

  “Thirty to forty minutes if we're lucky, twenty if we're not,” Marco replied.

  “That's depressing,” Dixon said.

  “Coolant shut-off is ready!” Philippe shouted, apparently trying to keep the other three focused.

  The four men would have to time the repairs just right. They would have to shut the coolant flow down just long enough to apply the malplastic patch to the main trunk, but not so long as to risk the reactor overloading. Typically, in optimal conditions, repairs like these would be done over days, with the reactor shut down for the entire duration.

  Now, with the threat of the outside storm, the reactor needed to keep pumping out enough power to keep the crawler on its feet and walking or risk it sinking altogether in the soft ashen floor. Also, if that wasn't bad enough, the gods had blessed them with a storm, rolling ever closer. If that storm happened to roll over them without the reactor at full strength and the upgrav drive back online, the power-suck that it is, The Perun would be overtaken by a mudslide several kilometres wide.

  “Begin shut down procedure,” Groen said, directing Phillipe to close the line. The coolant spray slowed but didn't stop entirely.

  Dixon was hastily unpacking the patch kit, his hands a flurry as if he were preparing the nightly meal of poulet surprise. The two men knelt over the trunk, enduring the constant spray impacting their visors as they set to work on the largest of the openings. The spray went everywhere throughout the cavern, impacting their suits and the walls like light summer rain, finally draining through the grated floor to fall twenty metres to the ash plain below.

  Groen lit a plasma torch and followed behind Dixon as he carefully diced and applied the patches in varying shapes and sizes. Some of the patches were tiny, mere centimetres wide, while some were nearly large enough to pass a football through. Some of the patches were slipping, failing to adhere, or otherwise flying off in the torrential spray.

  “Captain...” Connor said. His voice was so close to her it seemed surreal. “Captain, the reactor's core temperature has risen by nearly ten degrees. If you don't get the coolant flow back on in the next ten minutes, we’ll suffer an overload that will trigger an automatic core dump.”

  “Give them a little longer. Without those patches, we’ll never make it back to port,” argued Tolly.

  “If it comes to it, I can re-engage the coolant from here to preempt an overload cascade. Then we can try again,” said Connor.

  “There isn't time to try again, Chief Engineer Henrik,” Groen spat, “If we stop it now, then we might as well give up.”

  The patches began to take.

  “They're working, Groen. Keep hitting them with the torch,” said Dixon.

  “Connor, I think your readings are off up there,” a pensive Marco said.

  “Engineer Marco, say again? How are my readings off?” Connor said.

  Only static played back.

  “Marco, Is everything okay– Marco?” Tolly asked, leaning forward toward the wallscreen. She could see Silva, who was now seated on a bench by the door, sitting on the edge of her seat.

  “Sorry– sorry,” answered Marco after several long seconds, “just rerunning the numbers. Something's going damned strange with the controls down here. The reactor is collecting far too much heat than it should be. And the barometric pressure is off the charts.”

  “Oh, gods…” Groen said, sensing what was coming next. Tolly’s heart sank in her chest.

  From across the deck, Ensign Olivia Vardone called for Tolly's attention.

  “Captain, I am sorry to distract you, but you must see this. Sir?” said Ensign Vardone. Tolly could almost taste the urgency in her voice.

  Tolly looked up and was horrified as to what she saw.

  To the south, outside the command deck windscreen, the storm had nearly reached them. Black clouds roiled overhead. A skirt of hail and rain battered the ashen landscape behind them. The firecrawler kept a substandard eighty kilometres per hour pace, and the storm was making it seem like they were standing still.

  “The storm front will reach us in less than five minutes, Captain,” said the ensign.

  “How long do we have?” Groen had opened a private bulletin to her.

  “Uncle, I'm scared. I'm not sure I can do this,” Tolly responded.

  “Tolly, how long do we have?” His voice was firm now.

  “Less than five till the storm hits. A mudslide shortly after that. Are we going to make it?” Tolly urged.

  Groen declined to answer.

  “Dixon. How are we doing, old friend?” Groen asked.

  “The gods would be proud. Just seven patches left to go,” Dixon said.

  Marco chimed in next. “Core temperature is nearly at critical. If we keep pushing it much longer, the core will tear a hole straight through The Perun.”

  Silva squealed and began sobbing again.

  “He's right, sir,” Connor said, “Marco's right. Core temperature is nearly at the max threshold. If we don't dispel some energy soon, the storm's not going to matter.”

  “I can restart the coolant flow!” said Philippe.

  “No, Philippe. Hold your position!” bellowed Groen.

  “Six patches now,” Dixon chimed.

  “Uncle, I don't know what to do. Please. Tell me what to do!” Tolly pleaded.

  “Just keep going!” Groen barked to Dixon.

  “Five. Now four,” said Dixon, then correcting himself after one patch fell off. “No– gods… five.”

  “Uncle!” Tolly screamed.

  “Reactor core has reached runaway,” Connor and Marco said in near unison.

  “Gods…” Silva said, her eyes struck in horror.

  “Tolly,” he said to Tolly on their private channel. “Tolly, my dear, it's not looking good down here. We won't have these patches ready on time, and the storm’s nearly on us. I'm afraid we've failed.”

  “Uncle, please tell me what I should do,” she pleaded back.

  “You need to dump core, Tolly. It's your only chance,” he said softly, his voice almost soothing.

  “But– if the core is ejected, you and Marco and Philippe and Dixon... you get ejected along with it!”

  “The storm is nearly on us. If you dump now, you will have enough residual power in the batteries to keep the environment systems on for the next few hours at least,” he said.

  “But– I can't lose you..” she was weeping again. The crew around her was staring, on edge, waiting for some sort of direction.

  Groen waited several moments before answering.

  “Tolly, good news. An emergency ping I sent early got through the storm. An evac response shuttle is inbound from Malfjordur Station. They should make it to you before the worst of the storm hits. Tolly, can you hear me– Tolly? You're going to be rescued– Tolly!” Groen pleaded.

  Tolly was paralyzed. There she was, the youngest captain of a firecrawler. She stared out at the oncoming abyss. Overhead, a sea of roiling, hateful clouds brought nothing but the promise of death and sorrow her way. How could she fight it– fight nature? How could she, someone so unfit to be captain, hope to find a solution to this mess.

  Tolly could feel herself letting go, resigning herself to her own fate. But it wasn't her own fate anymore, was it? She was a captain now. Groen had seemed to think that being a captain meant something. He had spoken before of the pride he felt for his crew, for his time spent as their leader.

  Groen was right. “I can do this,” she thought.

  Steeling herself, Tolly could hear Groen pleading on the bulletin for her.

  “Tolly, do it now,” he pleaded. “You need to dump the core. I can't do it from here. You are the captain. You need to do this. Dump the core!”

  The storm was on the firecrawler now. Tolly could hear loud whirring coming through the bulletin, and she knew that the mudslide was now at full force and rushing between the firecrawler's legs. The deck yawed and pitched as The Perun struggled to maintain its own balance.

  Tolly reached out for the wallscreen terminal in front of her, keyed in the emergency override command and hovered her finger over the launch button.

  “I love you, uncle,” she said.

  Before waiting for a response, she pressed the release.

  The core, and the entire cavern, airlock, and several parts of the lower deck began to drop themselves away from the firecrawler’s belly. As the core containment dropped, one of the men on the feed screamed before the wallscreen stopped broadcasting. The airlock and some large sections of floor grating plunged below the muddy flows, impacting and damaging many of the firecrawler's legs and, in some cases breaking a few of them off.

  And as the core dropped, halfway before reaching the bottom, it exploded. The firecrawler was sent violently upwards as it struggled to retain balance with its few remaining legs.

  Tolly and most of the crew who had remained conscious were now hanging on to anything they could grab as the windscreens suddenly became the floor several metres beneath them.

  The Perun, unable to right itself, tipped over and began falling towards its frontside. With a muffled crunch, the remaining structure slammed into the mudflow below as if it were cement. The last thing Tolly could see was a muddy ashen wall breaking its way through what had been the north-facing windscreen, heading straight for her.