A few weeks after you woke, you found a handwritten journal hidden in your quarters. It brought back…everything…or at least a majority of your memories from before the big sleep. You hid it from everyone – you’re still hiding it from everyone – but by the time you felt like you could trust these new incarnations of your former shipmates enough, it didn’t particularly matter anymore. You’ve been able to use your knowledge when it mattered without revealing from whence said knowledge came.
You’ve spent the last several months of your life completely consumed with making a mile-long battleship operational with a skeleton crew that can’t remember half of their training. And as always, Lizzie was unbelievable. Without her, you don’t think you could’ve pulled off the miracle of weaving a new K-F drive filament in the field. You never would’ve even considered it.
Lizzie. She suffered terribly at the hands of those brutes who boarded the ship while you and Cottle hid in the sleeper bay. She didn’t get out of bed for a week, and it was another before she actually spoke – and she never once mentioned what had happened at the hands of Victor and his men. If it hadn’t been for her relationship with Stimson, you’re not sure she would’ve ever come out of that shell.
Your best friend in the universe put a bullet in her brain three weeks ago instead of letting that damned AI use her as a weapon. You never got a chance to tell her – remind her – what she meant to you. You’re not sure how you feel about Corbett destroying the thing – but you don’t feel particularly bad.
Twenty-four hours ago you set up a survey team aboard the Alabama – giving them explicit instructions to make sure the ship is free of booby-traps, back doors, and other nasty surprises, and then to begin cataloguing a delta on the ship’s technology from the original Star League spec. You think the list is going to be substantial.