It's taken a long two weeks, but the Bogatyr is finally brought up to ship-shape.  Arkady has since recovered from his void demon wounds, the ship has been swept for further malign influences three times, two ancient containers have been turned to potato farms, and someone's set up a still that converts potato peels to vodka.  The ship is humming along gratifyingly smoothly, except for the single accident where one of his new miners went nuts and threw himself out of an airlock.

That's... pretty par for the course, honestly.  Nobody feels very broken up about him.  'Par for the course' is what everyone grumbles.  Everyone else seems to take pride in their ship

They've had a good few days exploring a jump or two away from the fleet.  Having so many miners on one ship has made them pretty good at IDing potential planetary bodies for rare metals.  The most recent one has provided them with some shiny shit, including a rich seam of platinum that'll be in very high demand on the Last Refuge.

It's at the end of a very long and prosperous day when Arkady gets a transmission to his cabin from the Last Refuge.

"Captain Arkady,"  The voice is neutral, sexless, professional; either a tenor or a contralto, depending on sex.  "This is Dispatcher Mildren, do you copy?  Captain Arkady, this is Dispatcher Mildren.  You have a Priority B request coming through from Last Refuge:C&C.  Are you in a secure location?"

Arkady hops off his bed, wearing just his casual clothes (that are pretty much his usual clothes but without the hoodie and tool belt) and grabs the tangent.

Priority B? This oughta be good.

"This is captain Arkady. Copy loud and clear." man that sounds good he thought as he reaches out and locks his cabin door. "Yeah I'm in a secure location. Send it Dispatcher Mildren." He waits patiently at the tangent for a reply and picks up his tablet in case they ask for ETA:s and shit. Running a ship is actual work Blyat.

"Certainly, Captain,"  Dispatcher Mildren responds smoothly, "Last Refuge:C&C relays there are six other ships from Mining Group Red Dwarf within sublight speed of your location.  One of them, a converted residential transport Whoops There Goes the Neighborhood- Whoopsie to the locals- is reporting severe power loss to non-essential systems."

In a Residential transport, 'non-essential systems' means everything but life support and the emergency beacon.  The reactor, engines, weapons, etc. are pretty much fucked.

"Whoopsie chief engineer Val is an enlightened mortal specializing in technomancy, so this should be within his wheelhouse. But he has reported serious anomalies with the god-reactor to Last Refuge C&C.  Based on tests Val has concluded the god-reactor has effectively died."

That definitely shouldn't happen.  Gods are immortal unless two thins occur.  The first is being drained of prayer- something no god in a residential transport should have to worry about.  Hell, the gods LOVE working there, as residents tend to value them very highly.  The second is death, which is decidedly more ominous.  Anything that would kill a god would probably start with the residents first.

"Another ship, the water tanker Seabiscuit, attempted to jumpstart their reactor and experienced similar god-reactor death.  The other ships have quarantined them and are standing guard.  You have been requested to assess the reactors of these ships and to send a recommendation to Last Refuge C&C.  This may include:  repair, salvage operations, evacuation, or quarantine.  Do you have any questions?"

This kinda shit seemed kinda right up his alley.
"Are both of the ships at same coordinates, or has either of them drifted? We're dispatcing a sweeping force just in case something's hiding on board, and either evacuate the ships to best of our capacity or tow them to refuge."

He taps his tablet interface and sends a message to the bridge to get ready for course correction.

"Send me the coordinates and we'll assess the situation."

Whilst he waits for reply he starts gearing up.

"They're actually still connected,"  Dispatcher Mildren tells him, "With the rest of their fleet holding position around them.  I want to reiterate that full repair is preferable if you can handle it and ensure the fleet's safety.  I am forwarding you the coordinates now."

She sends off a string of letters and numbers.  He's not much of a navigator but the coordinate system is designed so that even barely educated people can make sense of it.  She's right, he's not far from them at all.  Probably just 4-5 hours at a full burn.

"Are there any other questions for me?  Would you like me to forward anything to any other entities?"

"Send a heads up to Spiderweb. If shit hits the fan we might need her boarding expertise. That is all. Resetting destination to target coordinates. Arkady out."

He waits for confirmation, gears up and heads for the bridge.
While walking he hits up Corduroy in the comms:

"Corduroy. Tell navigation we have new destination. We have a priority dispatch. First response to a distress. Couple of ships are fucked and need repairs."

Oh the crew are not going to be happy to have their drunken fuckery and beaver hunting delayed by a detour dispatch. Oh there's gonna be bitching...

"I will forward the response to you.  Take care, Bogatyr.  Dispatcher out."  Dispatcher Mildren hangs up.

Corduroy picks up the comms immediately, "Priority dispatch?  Yessir, boss!  Should we get the boys suited up for possible enviro hazards or enemy action?  A few of the greasehead engies in the armory have been cobbling together something, they may want to try to test it out."  He starts tapping away and Arkady can feel the Bogatyr shudder as it starts to turn and engage the medium-distance engines,  "... Hey, ain't that a mining fleet we're headed towards?  Red Dwarf, right?  What the fuck, shouldn't they have engies?"

Keeps walking and replies to Corduroy.
"Let's make it a yes on the hazmat suits. oh and uhh... yeah about the engines..." He looks over his shoulder to see if anyone's paying attention and continues "This is some extra weird shit. both of the ships experienced god-reactor deaths for no apparent reason what so ever. It doesn't make sense. No other casualties reported and they're on emergency power... we're going to investigate... what have the boys been cooking up, exactly?" He ends in a curious note.

There are some people paying attention.  Of COURSE there are rubberneckers.  But they're turned away by Corduroy's scowling visage, which quite clearly says 'Mind your own business, you'll learn later'.

"Well, they got hazmat suits... but they've been working on some shit.  Weaponizing them,"  He says, "Armor, converted flamethrowers, the works.  I ain't gonna call them power armor, boss, but they're not gonna be just flimsy enviro-suits, you know?"

He sucks on his teeth.

"Both of 'em?  How the fuck that happen?  I know you don't know, boss, but, shit, you're right, that IS weird.  No casualties, no emergency power..." He pauses, "Ya know, all these ships run with a smaller reactor, different circuits.  Ain't that somethin?  Whatever's doing it ain't drawing off both circuits."

"nope. just the god reactors are goners. No other casualties or reported damage. That's why I find it interesting."

He ponders a moment, and gives the stink eye to any prying eyes.

"We might wanna put those suits on standby. We don't know what we're up against, so lets be prepared for everything, as usual. Let's set course for the given coordinates. Waiting doesn't help anyone."

"Already working on it, boss,"  Corduroy answers back as he helps with stink-eye duty, tapping away at a PDA at the same time.  "Engines were already running hot.  But yeah yeah, some crazy stuff only taking from one circuit... question for you though, think we'll get any special dispensation from CORE and Command about this kinda shit?  I mean I ain't talkin about charging for rescue duty but wear and tear has to be accounted for."

The Bogatyr begins to rumble.  Arkady can feel it shifting direction.

"ATTENTION ATTENTION.  ATTENTION ATTENTION.  ALL HANDS ON DECK.  VENT-SPACE JUMP IN THIRTY SECONDS.  RED ALERT STATIONS.  ALL PERSONNEL IN COMBAT GEAR.  THIS IS NOT A DRILL.  GET MOVING FUCKOS.  ATTENTION ATTENTION.  GET MOVING FUCKOS."  The raspy voice is the new helmswoman, Miss Pam, a senior-citizen firecracker- formerly an airline pilot, now a cigarette and energy drink junkie.  Age may have reduced her reflexes but transports don't have too many need of them- she can apparently get by on almost an hour of sleep a day.

"Reactor crew's breaking in the new kids too,"  Corduroy tells him, "We got three new apprentices out of the underdecks just before we left, and apparently they're doing alright.  But if it's a core problem we're gonna have to put em to bed and let the real techies and engies earn their pay."

"Of fuck yeah I'm gonna roll for a compensation on wear and tear. I know a guy who might be able to pull some strings, because we the brave pioneers risk our lives daily for the safety and future of the Last Refuge... out of our pockets Blyat... And this is a special dispatch after all, so we oughta get a fucking dime outta this.

He grabs a railing and braces for a jump. Something he was well used to, spending almost his entire life since the fall of earth on a ship like this.

"Smart move, but lets leave at least one Engie on board in case the same shit is about to happen to our ship. It would absolutely fucking suck to be stranded here. My reputation would be ruined, and I think one particularly *cough* Ambitious colleague will try to make a move on us eventually."

"Take one of the pencilnecks too?"  Corduroy asks, bracing himself as well as they initiate jump.  The engines are humming nicely but there's a sudden lurch anyway, one they just haven't been able to work out since they got the Bogatyr.  According to the pencilnecks the ship is efficient as shit and the lurch doesn't hurt anything, but fuck it's annoying.

AH.  Right.  The pencilnecks.  His hot-pot buddy had made good on her promise and sent him three of her students badly in need of some real-world experience.  Right now only one of them is learning properly:  he's stopped studying every night and has instead started lifting weights.  Doc Iron, as he's not-so-affectionately called, is at least starting to ingratiate himself to the crew as being not a total fuckhead; Professor Snitch and Wizard Wendy on the other hand have been adapting quite poorly to the rough-and-tumble crew.

"ARRIVAL IMMINENT, ARRIVAL IMMINENT- ALL HANDS HOLD ON TO ASSES.  BATTLE STATIONS, FUCKOS, ARRIVAL IMMINENT..."

It's a fast jump.  They are really close, after all.

Arkady ponders for a moment "Yeah, take Doc Iron. I thing he'll manage, and by manage I mean most likely to survive. Lets get the boarding party ready."

The jump finishes, giving them a solid lurch.  He gets to the bridge, where the main screen flicks on to give him a view.

The two transports in question are floating dead in space, emergency blinkers the only way to see them in the black of the void.  The stars have begun guttering out, snuffed out by the Neverborn to fuel the end of days.  Other ships surround them in a protective sphere, ineffectual weapons pointed for just baout anything.  If the Dead did come here, they'd be toast, but they'd die fighting.

"They're tied together," Corduroy observes as he sidles up to one of the control panels, shining a spotlight on the two floating derelicts, "See there- that's a power cable.  They couldn't even disconnect it.  Bet they can't even open the airlocks to get a crew out, boss."

He hits the intercom, "Get a boarding crew ready, half olds, half noobs.  Doc Iron, suit up, you're wanted too.  Meet at the bridge, so the Cap'n can give you the skinny!"  He looks at Arkady, "You want me in on this, boss-man?"

"Better for you to stay here Corduroy. Need you here to do some organizin' If all goes to shit... And to keep the other interns from from attempting to hot wire a panic jump or some shit if shit hits the fan. I'll keep you posted."

He looks at the spot lighted ships and looks for other things that might stand out.

"Whatever caused this jumped on the other ship over the cabling and made it's way to the reactor. Emergency might be on only because it's in a separate circuit, or whatever caused this didn't want to kill the crew.. yet."

He turns to Corduroy with a determined look, as would a man look like when issuing commands. Even if he didn't know exactly, or at all, what they're dealing with, he needed to look like he had the answer to every problem. One of the burdens of being a leader.

"No ship to ship contact. I don't want my beloved Bogatyr to contract the electronic equivalent of space AIDS, or whatever the fuck this shit is. Boarding squads gonna carry some batteries and plasma cutters with them. Well try to jump power to the airlock from the batteries. If that doesn't work, we gotta do it the slow way... Cutting the doors open and welding them shut behind us. If we're lucky the ships have hydraulic manual override for the doors... Oh. And have 'em pack heat in case this turns into a cleanup job..."

"Keep them in line with sword and bullet, you got it boss."  He grins,  "Yeah... that's the separate circuit keeping those lit up; best not to let slip any contagion."

He checks the control panels.

"Good news.  The boys are all fixed up and ready at the airlock.  We've got a crew of five ready.  Looks like Broke Team."

Broke Team's a nucleus of scavvie boys who'd started off as miners and managed to pick up a lot of work putting together and taking apart derelicts.  They're not far off from what Arkady used to be aboard the Paddy Wagon.  Broke Team includes:

-Morgan "Morgue" Gipmark, the leader, a former miner with a truly heroic moustache and handy with a massive power drill that can double as a weapon;
-Nynyian "Glassy" Blest, a goddess of cool underwater springs, their chief hydraulics engineer and tattoo afficionado, now also skilled with an anti-ghost salt-round shotgun;
-Kallan "Kashmir" Walloon, a talented mechanic and welder, who's built his very own low-cost assault rifle called the Walloon Special;
-Terrence "Black Hat" Jefferson, a stereotypical hacker gone to a bit of fat, fortunately has put away a katana in favor of a goddamn flamethrower;
-Bethlehem the Steel Elemental, one of the few remaining of his kind, a tough and powerful Elemental that can manipulate steel like paper;
-And now has the brand new Doc Iron attached, the pencil neck who's starting to actually put on some muscle.  A specialist in motonic physics!

"You going on the first ship to go bad or the second one?"

"Oh, and if you really need to knock out the interns, make it look like an accident or some shit... I don't want the bad rep... And they have insurance... I guess."


He checks the bridge once more.

"First ship gone bad. They're the ones who really need help. Start with the patient zero and shit like that... let's roll."