Compared to the years I spent in the military, the six-month training period for the mission felt like the blink of an eye. On the first day, I stepped into the training facility in Florida, unknowing of what would happen. Now it was the final day. It felt as if no time had passed, but I had knowledge I didn't before.

    Each individual went through a specific training program. Mine was varied, likely due to the varied nature of my position. I spent days memorizing the layout of the ship, how the life system, food system, weapon system, and flight system worked, the duties and processes of every department, and even the specific layout of the computer system. There were emergency training scenarios, in which I was tested on how to repair the life system, detain someone, and how to locate problems in the various physical systems.

    A large portion of my training was spent on learning how to administer the cryogenic freezing to a crewmember. First I learned the science, and then I learned the process. I ran through simulations over and over until I was able to put the simulation to sleep quickly and without error.

   I'd worked hard for six months. Yet, as I walked off of the bus and onto the concrete, I felt woefully unprepared. Small, vague questions remained in my mind, but they were so vague that I wasn't able to voice them.

   The warm breeze brushed past my bare head. My nerves tingled, still unused to not having hair. The cryogenic freezing process would dissolve anything other than living, organic cells. My hair would grow back afterwards. Still, I decided to cut off my hair and donate it.

   I have to be the last Bridge Officer boarding, I thought, squinting into the light. I'd taken the second bus dedicated to transporting the Bridge crew, and I was alone. The others had already arrived at the elevator.

   Faint voices could be heard across the launchpad. My gaze followed the line of news vans and security, mildly amused at the desperation on the faces of the reporters. They yelled, frustrated upon seeing the arrival of another bus, but they were unable to get past the security.

   The public had been kept unaware of Zoel-2, the mission to build, launch, and send two ships out of the Solar System. However, the ISGC knew they couldn't keep it secret for long. Technology would detect the ships leaving the atmosphere, and people would see it. Thus they made plans to conceal the mission until six months before takeoff.

   Parts of the Pioneer and Patriot were constructed in secret. A space elevator was built several years before, with special attachments that would allow the ISGC to send up the pieces of the spaceships, bit by bit. The elevator wasn't put under scrutiny until the public noticed that two rather large things were being built at the top, at the edge of space.

   Three weeks before takeoff, both ships were completed. They'd sat at the edge of the atmosphere since, waiting for their crews. At that point, the public worldwide realized what had been done. Reporters had staked out the Florida space elevator for weeks. Now busses would be arriving with the crewmembers, in which they'd take the elevator to their ships.

   The lack of information was driving the media nuts. I shook my head and started walking towards the building, carrying my duffel. Just before I got inside, I gave in and looked up at the sky.

   Despite the incredible distance, I could see the ships. The Pioneer dwarfed the elevator. It was easily the size of the largest cruise ship, suspended in space above the Earth. It was shaped as an oval and shone brightly in the sun. I couldn't see many details from down here. The small speck next to it had to be the Patriot, my soon-to-be-home.

   My gut churned, but I stepped inside.

~

   Underneath the hull, the Patriot appeared to resemble the International Space Station: bits and pieces put together with no real sense of conformity. It was five hundred meters long, which was large, but when viewed next to the behemoth Pioneer, the Patriot felt tiny. A smooth hull covered the exterior, which shaped it into a bullet with wings. The outside was painted grey with a red line that ran down the side. The Patriot I was painted at the end, with a small American flag and Earth beside the text.

   I knew from training that between the hull and actual ship was a complex system of gyroscopes and gravity-inducing machinery. The gravity didn't work perfectly, but it passed inspection and approval.

   Quit staring, Veve. I pulled myself away from the windows. The elevator ride had been swift but I'd stood at the viewing deck for too long. The crew would be arriving soon, and I had to be ready to go by then. Bridge Crew had been given a few hours to learn the ship before we would welcome the thirty-eight crewmembers.

   I headed towards the connection tunnel. As I approached, a figure stepped out of the Patriot and turned to face it. I stopped at the end of the tunnel, still on the elevator deck, as the small woman pressed a hand to the exterior of the ship.

   Huh. Superstitious. I waited politely as Intelligence Officer Byrne removed her hand, checking the black communication cuff on her wrist. She must have sensed me, because she turned around. Her hair had been pulled back yet again. It occurred to me that despite us training in the same facility for six months, I'd rarely seen her. She'd changed into her uniform: dark grey pants and a pale blue shirt with a navy stripe across her chest diagonally. It matched her rank stripe. The pale blue signified the medical department, which she was the head of. Black army boots covered her feet.

   "You're the last to board," she remarked, speaking first.

   Her words proposed an unspoken question: why had I taken so long? I didn't answer her question, choosing to glance at the hull of the ship. "She's quite a sight, isn't she?"

   Officer Byrne shrugged slightly before turning her gaze back to her cuff. Her actions presented me a choice which would set the precedent for the future. I could ignore her slight, or I could correct. I'd asked her a question and she chose not to answer it, knowing that I was a higher rank and deserved an answer. Seeing as my only superior was the Captain, my rank wasn't to be ignored. I didn't enjoy showing power, but if I didn't correct her now, I'd have to later. I deserved my title and the respect that came with it—including hers.

   "I asked you a question, Officer."

   Her hand paused in tapping of the cuff. Dark eyes slid up cautiously.

   "I thought the question was rhetorical, First Officer."

   "I see. For future reference, if I ask you a question, that means I value your answer."

   Her shoulders lost some tension and I saw her face ease. She must have been concerned I am power-abusive, I thought. Considering we would be spending the next years of our lives together, she was undoubtably screening for threats or concerns. Hopefully this interaction had abated her fear that I would be troublesome.

   "My apologies, First Officer. Yes, the Patriot is unique. I like her."

   I offered a smile and nodded. Good, safe answer. "Alright. Welcome is in two hours. Be here by then."

   "Yes, First Officer."

   She politely waited for me to move. I stepped forward, onto the tunnel, and then onto the inside of the ship. I passed through the hull and into the sleek interior. The walls were a sleek metal grey, with navy and red stripes running down the length of the walls. Florescent lights beamed down in strips.

   Despite having memorized the layout, I wasn't quite sure the direction I needed to go in order to find my quarters. I lifted my wrist and tapped on my communication clasp. After six months, I'd learned a lot about its properties and abilities. It was meant to be my virtual assistant and help me navigate, control the ship, and communicate with crew.

   It lit up, listening, as I said, "Direct me to my quarters."

   "Yes, First Officer Autumn," the robotic voice said. My stripes – navy blue background with one white line – appeared on the screen. "Please follow your stripes."

   On the wall, between the navy and red lines, a screen lit up with my stripes. It headed down the hall. I followed that direction into the ship. The line turned left and I obeyed, and appeared an elevator dock. One opened as I approached. Recalling the way to use them, I tapped my clasp against the scanner. It beeped and lit up green. "Destination: private quarters. Please confirm."

   "Yes."

   "Confirmed." The doors slid shut on the grey elevator. The mirror at the back reflected my bald head, where dark brown hair used to be. My caramel eyes surveyed the doors as I waited for the elevator to move.

   After a few seconds, the door opened on a new room. I didn't even feel it... Also, interestingly, it hadn't opened to a hallway. The door went straight into my quarters. I stepped out and the doors closed, giving me privacy.

   The room was large and sectioned off by modern, curved arches. I stood in a small living space, with a kitchenette and furniture. I walked further into the room, surprised by how luxurious it felt. The living space opened into a bedroom, with a modest bed and a sliding door to a bathroom. Large windows displayed the edge of the Earth, almost like a movie theater.

   This didn't feel remotely like a spaceship. It felt more like a cruise ship. The designers kept saying the Patriot is rough compared to the Pioneer... Imagine how luxurious that place must feel. The Pioneer's purpose was comfort and living; the Patriot's was not.

   I set my duffel bag on the table in the living space, zipping it open. I hadn't brought pictures or clothes. Instead, I'd brought a few soft blankets, extra socks, beef jerky sticks, and foot powder. It was my standard bag for military work. I remade the bed with my blankets and set one on the sofa for later. After putting the jerky and powder in the kitchen, I took the socks to the closet.

   Inside were my issued uniforms. The dark grey pants matched Officer Byrne's. However, instead of her pale blue shirt, mine was navy. A white line rested diagonally across the chest. I looked down at my clothes, grimaced, and began to take them off.

   I'd forgotten that tailors took my measurements at the beginning of the training period. The clothes fit well. I finished tying the boots and stepped back, windmilling my arms. Unlike dress blues, these nice-looking uniforms allowed movement. I hopped in the shoes, testing the strength, and nodded slightly.

   Any crewmember would be able to see my uniform and know my rank. The Bridge Crew wore specific-colored shirts to represent their department. The Captain and I were the only ones with navy blue shirts. Neither of us had specific departments, either.

   After folding my old clothes and putting them away, I checked the time. There wasn't much for me to do in here. I had time to explore and familiarize myself with the ship.