It’s a habit ingrained in her.
Even after being demoted to patrolling the remote reaches of space for sixty meaningless years, commanding a ship is second nature to Lilian.
There were times she’d sit alone, staring at the radar in fear. In the era of automated systems and minimal crew, she’s been forced to operate heavy cruisers with barely a few dozen personnel.
That’s why Lilian can handle nearly every function on the bridge alone. One small mercy of the Earth Empire’s military: the basics never change.
The irony isn’t lost on her—that her past suffering would now be her salvation.
“Stop gawking. First, we need to assess the situation.”
The sudden warp had left everyone on the bridge—except Lilian—stunned.
An impossible accident. An unfamiliar stretch of space. And above all, the sight of that colossal dark nebula, even just a fragment of it, was enough to steal their words and thoughts.
“Wh-what is… that…? An animal’s… head…?”
“Impossible. The Horsehead Nebula… it’s never looked this huge—wait, are we in Orion?!”
“Wel…”
Even if they’re elites, even if they’re prodigies destined for greatness—they’re still just eighteen-year-old kids.
At the same time, Lilian is surprised at herself for reflexively taking charge.
She said she wouldn’t stand out, yet here she is, drawing attention again.
(Not that we have time for this.)
After activating the radar, she moves to another terminal and powers up the ship’s shields. Experience dictates this is non-negotiable after an unscheduled warp. Space debris could hit them at any moment—once, she’d even warped right into an asteroid belt.
The result? Severe hull damage. Shields mitigate that risk.
And, of course, they’re essential against surprise attacks.
(In my past life, the Tiberius lost a thruster to an ambush. Luckily, it was just a sub-engine—but no guarantee it’ll fail the same way this time.)
Back then, the attack avoided critical crew areas, so casualties were minimal.
But Lilian isn’t naive enough to assume things will play out identically.
(Thinking the explosion’s aftermath would match the past is wishful thinking. Still…)
One question lingers:
The enemy isn’t trying to destroy them. Maybe they want to capture the ship. A baseless theory, but it’d explain why they targeted the thrusters.
Even if true, losing propulsion means no escape, no fight.
And last time, that damage led her to a reckless decision—deviating from the planned return route.
(Ah. I’ll need to tighten escape pod protocols with maintenance later.)
Fear drives fools to panic. Some might try fleeing in escape pods for no reason. The ringleader? Her past self. Back then, many agreed—but she’d never do that now.
Yet, given how many followed her before, someone might try it.
Keeping that in mind, Lilian moves to the helm, steering the ship to turn.
Another tactic from her past life.
Slowly, the Tiberius pivots, presenting its rear to the Horsehead Nebula. But she holds off on igniting the main engines—doing so from the bridge would only heighten the chaos.
(Besides, I never did learn proper navigation.)
She doesn’t know the exact course to Earth, nor how to calculate it. Never having left imperial space before this incident, she’d always relied on autopilot—a crippling weakness.
Still, these are basic skills any commanding officer should have.
Specialists can handle the rest later.
(Tinkering with weapons control is risky, though. Switching the radar to long-range should at least give us early detection. Unless the enemy has stealth tech—then we’re doomed.)
Hence the shields.
“Luzor, you—”
“So decisive… and cool…”
Reactions vary. Weltall is stunned; Stella is awed.
“Now… for the final touch.”
Lilian moves to the comms station, triggers an emergency alert, and reroutes shipwide comms to the captain’s chair.
“Weltall. Address the crew. Tell them: move to assigned drill stations and begin work. They’ll listen to your voice.”
“R-right.”
Though Weltall was caught in the confusion, it was also characteristic of him to quickly regain his composure. Nevertheless, he appeared somewhat discomfited, and while the initial shock had subsided, a sense of bewilderment seemed to remain. As Lilian urged him on, he took up the captain’s microphone, but for just a brief moment, hesitated to speak.
Watching Weltall’s expression, Richard stood beside him.
“Wait, Luzor. This situation is too abnormal. Wel, myself, probably everyone is confused…”
Richard still appeared unsettled.
“In this state, making hasty moves might be dangerous.”
“But that’s exactly why, isn’t it?”
Stella’s voice was strangely calm.
“We need at least those who have calmed down after hearing Weltall’s voice to take action. Right now, I think it’s critical that we get the ship moving.”
“But wouldn’t moving carelessly be precisely what puts us in danger? We may be graduating, but we’re still students. Not trained soldiers. If we allow panic to persist, we’ll have serious problems later.”
Richard’s opinion also had merit.
The current situation, in a word, was “extreme.” It was only natural, considering that until just moments ago, the peaceful voyage had suddenly been transported to unknown space.
Furthermore, this ship would encounter enemies. Of course, only Lilian knew that. That’s why she couldn’t do anything beyond activating shields, adjusting the ship’s heading, and using radar.
“To help everyone settle down, we need to find a secure location. Besides, sometimes physical activity helps calm people. At minimum, we need to gather personnel here on the bridge. Fortunately, the Tiberius is designed to operate with minimal crew.”
Weltall took another deep breath before making the announcement.
“Attention to all students aboard the Tiberius. Due to an unexplained warp accident, we have arrived at what appears to be the Orion sector. This is not an exercise. However, the knowledge you have all acquired was meant precisely for venturing into this vast universe. All personnel, move to your designated sections as per the exercise protocol. The order doesn’t matter; focus on your individual responsibilities. All bridge staff report immediately. We will now conduct a detailed survey of the surrounding space and calculate our course.”
Weltall continued the shipwide announcement. At times he stated facts dispassionately, at other times he offered words of encouragement.
While major confusion was likely occurring throughout the ship, level-headed students who understood that panicking would accomplish nothing would gradually begin their work after hearing the broadcast, and others would be influenced by watching them.
(As expected of an elite. Even with some lingering unease, once he calms down, he can make accurate judgments. I suppose this would have happened even without my intervention.)
Like in her past life, the Tiberius would’ve returned to Earth. Its crew is exceptional.
But history is already shifting. Her simulated battles with them, the earlier warp accident—all deviations.
Small changes, perhaps. But as an old saying goes: the butterfly effect.
The flap of a butterfly’s wings may one day become a great tornado. Whether such an influence really exists or not is not the point.
Survival is all that counts.
That is the mindset of someone who’s commanded ships for sixty years.
And so, Lilian thinks:
(Ah… I really do love ships. That’s why I feel… alive.)
She checks the radar.
The enemy hasn’t arrived yet.
READ THE ORIGINAL TRANSLATION AT GADGETIZEDPANDA.COM
When all the important data you’ve been working on suddenly disappears right in front of you, people sometimes feel a kind of intense anger.
“The worst.”
Mochizuki Mirei from the navigation department only knew one thing at that moment—something troublesome must have happened.
She tied up her bluish-black hair, and the sharp eyes behind her glasses became even more needle-like as she muttered under her breath.
Even though she said she didn’t know what had happened, she pretty much figured it out the moment she saw the coordinate data she had been comparing in the navigation calculation room had somehow been replaced—with completely different, inaccurate, jumbled data. When there’s a sudden shift from the coordinates they were just at, the AI can sometimes get confused and scramble the data.
And then there’s the minor shock from the warp brake.
“What idiot decided to warp here, of all places?”
The lunar route data scheduled for the exercise was now completely gone.
First of all, she had never heard anything about a warp being planned. And on top of that, their current location was unknown. The data she had been working on had vanished too. If she ever found the idiot responsible for this, she wouldn’t let them off easy. She’d gladly stuff them into a spacesuit and toss them out into the void with nothing but a lifeline.
Route calculations were precise, meticulous—and the very lifeblood of the ship. Space was vast. The whole point of plotting a course was to avoid getting lost in that endless expanse.
And then, the other navigation students in the route-calculation room let out ear-splitting screams.
“Seriously, shut up. What’s the matter?”
Given the nature of silent, focused calculations, the navigation room was usually quiet—a mood Mirei preferred. Minimal noise, only necessary exchanges, and above all, none of the usual rowdy crowd.
If this room ever got loud, the only possible reason would be the discovery of an entirely unknown route.
Yet her classmates kept screaming.
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