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This fanfiction article, Lonely Decks, was written by Underlord1271. Please do not edit this fiction without the writer's permission. |
“War’s Over.”
Captain Jameson remembers exactly where he was when he heard those words, and exactly how he felt when he was told them.
“What do you mean, the war is over?"
For the first time in his career, he felt confused. He looked the boyish officer up and down, searching for signs of juvenile delinquency. All he could discern was a dismissive yawn.
"Word got in from CENTCOM. Covenant fell apart, UNSC won. War is over."
In just one week? No... it wasn't possible.
"I- I can't believe it."
"Doesn't seem like brass does, either. Command requested all ships report to Earth and standby for instruction. Stations are scrambling to assign all new orders. They're not letting their guard down."
"Well my crew's already here, so... what's the situation?"
"Ah, that's the tricky part. See, they've issued a recall of a hundred different ships, and with all the..."
Jameson felt a shock move through his chest, and forced himself to ignore it. He had to hear the officer's words again.
"A hundred? That's almost half the fleet."
"Yeah, seems they're building a whole new one. There's schematics for modern frigates, cruisers, even heard rumors of a flagship carrier. They're issuing recalls on the-"
The officer flipped the page and began to read off some list.
Please don't say it.
"Charon, Mako, Paris..."
Those ones can't be replaced...
"Epoch, Halcyon, and..."
No...
"Marathon."
There it was. Jameson felt a bead of cold sweat on the back of his neck and his breaths seemed to stop.
"Crews will be reassigned or retired based on service records."
The officer turned to Jameson.
"So, uh, here's the awkward part. Please state your name, rank, service number, and-"
Jameson tuned out the rest. He had heard it a thousand times. He tried to speak, but couldn't. He swallowed, and it felt as if he had swallowed a beehive. When he opened his mouth, he heard his voice tremble for the first time he could remember.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...
"Noah Jameson, Captain, UNSC Navy. Service Number one-five, six-ten, three-eight, seven-nine-two, enn-jay. Born April fifth, twenty-four eighty-six."
All he could do was watch as the officer silently tapped into his data-pad. After a few more seconds, his face illuminated green.
"Alright, sir. You're all clear for decommission. Please report to New York Station, Dock B, in the next two hours. Clearance codes will be sent to your control panel. Hope you enjoy some free time!"
The Captain couldn't muster a word. All he could do was walk to his bridge, and do what he's always done: give his orders to his crew.
The air was chilly. The lights were out. His ship was quiet, and illuminated only by the faint glow of the space station's distant fourth wing. Jameson glanced down at his watch:
23:22.
He sighed. Is this it? Is the war really over? It seemed so. But still, surely there must be some threat remaining. Everybody seemed so- calm. For the first time in years, nobody was yelling at each other while an alien warship sent a plasma torpedo flying towards the hull of the Orpheus. Nobody was biting their nails as squads of marines perished in the hallways. No, the only thing he heard was silence. Sheer and utter silence. No NCOs walking down the hallway, no marines in combat gear, no smiling young ensigns, and no first officer beside him. December 12, 2552. The first day humanity joined together in celebration, and Captain Jameson never felt more alone.
He moved down the hallway, slowly dragging his fingers across each cold window. There he saw his reflection in the glass, littered with wrinkles and traces of gray hair. Has it really been twenty-seven years? He was just a lieutenant when this war started. Now, he's met admirals. He's met Helljumpers. He's even met the mythical Spartans. Yet, looking back on it all, it seems so short. Hundreds of battles, thousands of faces. Gone in the blink of an eye.
He saw a single tear move down his face, and wiped it away. He turned to his left, and walked down the steel corridor. He knew every detail of his ship inside and out: every room, every window. Hell, he probably knew every small dent in the floor. It was getting late. He had to get to the bridge. But he took his time getting there, walking down every hall one last time.
A gunless armory, where no more men would ever lock and load.
An empty medbay, where no more rests and no more miracles would occur.
An empty rec room, where a single pool table sat in the dark, waiting for a game that would never be played.
The door at the end of it all hissed one last time, and he was on the bridge.
It was empty now, save for the hum of server racks nested below the floor. Soon they too will be silenced, once all the shipboard data is backed up and transferred to the UNSC Archives on Earth. He walked slowly, the metal floor echoing each and every footstep. He stopped at the captain's chair, and looked at the wall beside it. A portrait of every captain in the Orpheus' long service history.
"UNSC ORPHEUS, MARATHON-CLASS HEAVY CRUISER, CAPTAINS: CARTER, JACQUELINE; 2522-2528. MERCER, ANTHONY; 2528-2532. CHEN, WINSTON; 2532-2536. JAMESON, NOAH; 2536-"
He sighed. Then, he sat.
The captain's chair had seen better days. The cushion began to peel, and the console was scratched. But his chair felt like home. After sixteen years, any good chair should. He gripped the ends of each armrest, the same way he would whenever the ship was in a stressful battle. He looked to his side at the vacant seat next to him. So many years, so many first officers. All of them reassigned now, having moved on to better things. Their own ships, their own stations. Their own career. While Jameson's was coming to a close.
He sighed. Then, he stood up. He had one job to do.
He walked forward, and tapped the console in front of him. A set of monitors lit up, and a holotable sparked to life. In front of him, he saw the 6-inch figure of a woman wearing spandex and an ancient Earth hairstyle.
"All ready to say goodbye?"
"Ready as I'll ever be, Sunny."
Jameson chuckled, but it didn't do much to hide his grief.
"Noah, please. This is good. The war is over," she laughed, "nobody else has to die. No more sacrifices. Don't you want that? Don't you want to live stress free?"
"Of course. This is good. It's good. I just..."
Nowhere left to go. No family.
No home.
"Don't know what to do with myself."
Sunny's eyes shut and she began dancing as her algorithms computed.
"There's an affordable retirement home in Cuba. You always wanted that, right? Temperatures are looking real good. You could sit on the beach, and watch the sunset. That sounds pretty sweet to me at least."
She knew him. More than anybody else in the fleet at this point.
He looked out at the bulb of New York Station.
"Yeah, yeah it does."
"Great. So, are you ready?"
Jameson paused.
"Yeah."
He tapped a button on the console.
"WELCOME, CAPTAIN. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?"
> Security.
> Transfer.
> Command.
> Enter Passcode.
> K E Y S.
> Accepted!
Jameson checked the construction crew handbook.
> Transfer command to Jeremiah Leeds.
> Are you sure?
> . . .
> . . .
> Are you sure?
> Y E S.
> Accepted! Have a great day.
Jameson powered off the console. By now, the hum of the servers had stopped.
He took out Sunny's data chip, holding it in both hands.
He looked ahead. Through a series of empty glass panes, one last time.
Then he turned around and left the quiet ship.