Humanity Endures

Part 10 - The Eleventh Hour | Chapter 1

"Don't drink and fly."

— Nahmatiix Public Safety Bureau Order #12,052; the most ignored to date.

***

The Present

The clamor of movement, conversation, and the anxiety-infused babel that characterized something nearing its destruction, had utterly gripped the Ineffable and its bridge — it did the same to every other ship in the Loyalist fleet. Yezalax took pride in the fact that fear ruled him and his ship less so than most, but the fact remained that his crew were nervous, and, for the first time in decades, their fears and woes held Yezalax as well; no matter how much ignorant optimism one threw at those facts, they remained negative. Nervously drumming his fingers on the massive, technology-infused armrests of his command chair, Yezalax felt solitary beads of stress-induced sweat forming just below his hairline, and though he quickly wiped them away and injected himself with a chilling, soothing round of MECS, the mere fact that he was sweating only served to unnerve him further. He had only been nervous before a battle before once, and indeed, even now he wasn't worried for himself; when the very survival of the human race hinged on one's actions in a single fight, it was difficult to not be terrified. If any of his crew members noticed his stress, his fear would spread like the devourer plague throughout his ship, and potentially even the rest of the fleet — Yezalax resolved to keep flooding himself with MECS to try and avoid this catastrophic outcome. Overcome by a burst of inspiration, Yezalax then ordered his most senior officers to do the same, in the hope that if the people of his ship saw their superiors universally unafraid, they might be inspired to show similar courage — even if the bravery their superiors showed was counterfeit. Deception had a critical role in war, though thinking it was a tool only to be used against one's enemies would be foolhardy indeed.

While his pre-battle plan underwent execution, Yezalax, concerned that he was feeling concern, looked inwards; he knew that his hesitation stemmed not from concern over what would happen to his ship and himself, or even for the outcome of the battle — he had long since convinced himself that the smaller, better-led Loyalist force would prevail — rather, it was uncertainty over whether winning the present battle would subsequently win the civil war. The leading admirals and academics that advised Lassarha all said it would, but the ever-fickle and oft consensus-seeking beliefs of others, no matter how qualified those others might be, did nothing to assuage Yezalax's not entirely illogical fears; the reaction of populaces is entirely unpredictable, even if experts, in their arrogance, often pretend that predicting the people is a trivial matter. Though fearing the outcome of the fight was not illogical, obsessing over it when he had a ship to run was; not only that, but it was crippling, and Yezalax knew this fully. He could not afford to be paralyzed at such a crucial time, and as he fretted, his hearts continued to pound endlessly, as he began to worry that worrying would impair his ability to command...

Yezalax, furious with himself and his laxity, struck himself across the face with his armored hand; though the blow sent wicked pain shooting up through his jaw, it did not draw any of his purple blood. Those who were absent-mindedly glancing at their captain, or who had witnessed the display in their peripheral vision, could not help but gasp in shock — of course, these same people were far too meek or preoccupied to ask their commanding officer why he had just hit himself.

Regardless, the sudden stimulus of pain when combined with his utter disdain for helplessness managed to clear Yezalax's mind entirely. As the bridge crew, in their haste to triple-check everything they could, quickly stopped searching for the source of the sound, Yezalax wasted no further time on his emotional state, instead rising from his chair and moving to the nearest hypersphere. He was intent on travelling to his chambers, where he could both complete his pre-battle ritual, and become better focused on the tasks at hand — the chaos of the bridge was anything but conducive to focus.