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(This was originally posted on the [ITAN] forum, and Waffles and I are posting it here for the enjoyment of a wider audience. There's multiple parts to this story, so stay tuned!)
--
Alone, deep in space, a ship drifted. Far from the usual traffic lanes or wormhole jump points, it appeared lifeless, except for the occasional strobing of the navigational lights. Inside, its pilot contemplated the stars, the vastness of space, and his place within it. The sudden blinking of the comm deflected his attention from the black momentarily, and he mustered the effort to kill the new message alert. This far out, it would be mostly static, anyway. His eyes swept the instrument panel, noting that his drift was taking him uncomfortably close to that asteroid that had popped into his radar a few days back. A half-second nudge from the lateral thrusters, and the NavComp plotted a new trajectory that indicated he would safely pass the object. Out of habit, he scanned the rock again, just in case Eo had seen fit to grace it with some precious ore that he'd missed on the previous twenty-odd scans he'd made. No such luck.
The pilot returned his gaze to the starfield before him, lost in the deepness between the stars and reflection nebulae. There is a terrible beauty to deep space, and what the pilot did not know was that this was something the spacefarers of old had known of, and feared. "Rapture of the Deep" they had called it, borrowing a phrase from yet a still older time, when men could only gaze up at the stars from their surface-bound sailing vessels. Too much time out here, they knew, far from human contact, and a man could quite literally lose his soul - the insignificance of their existence, compared to the vastness of space, would drive a man insane.
The pilot's vision swam, spun slowly, and refocused on the comm panel. Tentatively, he reached out and keyed a replay of the last message. The sound of static filled the cockpit, and the message played out. Something about the message tugged at the pilot's subconscious, although he could barely make out any words. He keyed the sequence again, boosting the gain and the volume. It was still mostly inaudible. What was it about that message? Leaning forward in the harness, he activated more parts of the comm panel, bringing the main computer online to assist with the analysis. After a few minutes, the computer reported failure with the audio, but helpfully offered that there was an embedded text stream in the transmission. The pilot keyed for decoding the text stream, and read the results on the HUD.
"Coalition of...il Election Ballot for February 4437...select...ition of Cou...ting clos...a Solestia, Estrian Pro..."
The pilot frowned. February 4437? Had it really been that long? His hand strayed to his chin, scratching the beard that had grown there, and he smiled. Yes, perhaps it had been that long. Long enough.
Slowly, at first, the ship came to life. Systems long shut down now powered up, performed self-diagnostics, and reported to the main computer. Behind him, through the seat, the pilot felt the familiar rumbling of the main drive. His hands closed around the throttle and stick, at once both familiar and unfamiliar to him, as his feet found the rudder pedals. The computer flashed a systems status message on the HUD, indicating operable flight status, and the pilot advanced the throttle, relishing the feeling of power at his control. Interstellar dust, attracted by the larger gravity-well of the ship, slid free in a cloud behind the swiftly accelerating craft. The pilot keyed the comm, and coded for the Coalition channel. Clearing his throat, he began to speak.
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...I'm coming home..."
--
Alone, deep in space, a ship drifted. Far from the usual traffic lanes or wormhole jump points, it appeared lifeless, except for the occasional strobing of the navigational lights. Inside, its pilot contemplated the stars, the vastness of space, and his place within it. The sudden blinking of the comm deflected his attention from the black momentarily, and he mustered the effort to kill the new message alert. This far out, it would be mostly static, anyway. His eyes swept the instrument panel, noting that his drift was taking him uncomfortably close to that asteroid that had popped into his radar a few days back. A half-second nudge from the lateral thrusters, and the NavComp plotted a new trajectory that indicated he would safely pass the object. Out of habit, he scanned the rock again, just in case Eo had seen fit to grace it with some precious ore that he'd missed on the previous twenty-odd scans he'd made. No such luck.
The pilot returned his gaze to the starfield before him, lost in the deepness between the stars and reflection nebulae. There is a terrible beauty to deep space, and what the pilot did not know was that this was something the spacefarers of old had known of, and feared. "Rapture of the Deep" they had called it, borrowing a phrase from yet a still older time, when men could only gaze up at the stars from their surface-bound sailing vessels. Too much time out here, they knew, far from human contact, and a man could quite literally lose his soul - the insignificance of their existence, compared to the vastness of space, would drive a man insane.
The pilot's vision swam, spun slowly, and refocused on the comm panel. Tentatively, he reached out and keyed a replay of the last message. The sound of static filled the cockpit, and the message played out. Something about the message tugged at the pilot's subconscious, although he could barely make out any words. He keyed the sequence again, boosting the gain and the volume. It was still mostly inaudible. What was it about that message? Leaning forward in the harness, he activated more parts of the comm panel, bringing the main computer online to assist with the analysis. After a few minutes, the computer reported failure with the audio, but helpfully offered that there was an embedded text stream in the transmission. The pilot keyed for decoding the text stream, and read the results on the HUD.
"Coalition of...il Election Ballot for February 4437...select...ition of Cou...ting clos...a Solestia, Estrian Pro..."
The pilot frowned. February 4437? Had it really been that long? His hand strayed to his chin, scratching the beard that had grown there, and he smiled. Yes, perhaps it had been that long. Long enough.
Slowly, at first, the ship came to life. Systems long shut down now powered up, performed self-diagnostics, and reported to the main computer. Behind him, through the seat, the pilot felt the familiar rumbling of the main drive. His hands closed around the throttle and stick, at once both familiar and unfamiliar to him, as his feet found the rudder pedals. The computer flashed a systems status message on the HUD, indicating operable flight status, and the pilot advanced the throttle, relishing the feeling of power at his control. Interstellar dust, attracted by the larger gravity-well of the ship, slid free in a cloud behind the swiftly accelerating craft. The pilot keyed the comm, and coded for the Coalition channel. Clearing his throat, he began to speak.
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...I'm coming home..."
Really enjoyed this!
Kudos!
Kudos!
(6 months ago)
Personal Log
Macero "Mac" Entosh
August 11, 4436
I suppose alarms are useful and serve a purpose - they tell you when things go wrong. But, when you're in the middle of the thing going wrong, they can be damn annoying.
Take, for example, the master caution in my Vulture. I keep shutting it off, but it insists on telling me that my battery is on low charge, and that my port roll and attitude thrusters are malfunctioning. Probably because most of my port wing is missing, which is kind of evident in the way the ship is handling. This isn't how I planned my day.
Oh, sure, it started off nice enough. I'd just gotten a fresh coat of paint on my ship, after popping out of the Deneb-Eo wormhole smack into a 'roid. Busted up my avionics, because crunching a rock head on doing sixty-five meters a second will do that, but the station was in sight, and I didn't have to rely on the NavComp to dock. I was lucky that nobody saw it, and I passed the damage off to a bot encounter. The mech in the docking bay gave me a knowing look, so I slipped him a hundred credits to keep his mouth shut.
So, there I was, getting ready to launch - the turbines on the gravitic drive had just come up to temp and were idling, and I'd just completed my walk-around - when the flight deck officer waved me over. "You ready to launch?" he yelled in my ear over the general chaos that is the launch bay. I nodded, and he continued. "Change of mission. Long-range remotes have picked up multiple unscheduled wormhole events in Charlie-One-Zero. We've got other ships inbound to intercept, but you're going to get there first. Recon but do not engage until the cavalry gets there, got it?"
Yeah, sure. Someone forgot to tell the Serco that. Which is why I've got an alarm screaming in my ear and I'm dodging gauss bolts. Let me tell you, it ain't easy on a good day, and this ain't a good day. They're passing so close, the hair on my neck is standing up from the electrical charge. And reinforcements are 30 seconds out, which might as well be a lifetime. Come to think of it, it could be my lifetime if I'm not careful.
Following standard procedure, I made sure my weapons were hot, plotted my course and jumped the grid. As soon as the energy fluctuations from the wormhole cleared my boards, and the NavComp returned flight control, I set out looking for the Serco. I'll admit, my trigger finger was itchy, but orders are orders. Hell, I'm a hack pilot at best - I do better flying cargo than fighters any day. Cargo doesn't shoot back, and you can always dump a few crates out the airlock to pacify any pirates. There wasn't anything showing on my scopes except the 'roid field, so I lit the burners and scooted over to check out the rocks. Big mistake.
Don't ask me how they did it, because I don't know. All I know is that all of a sudden, my world lit up like the night sky during the Eo Day festival skyfire show, and my master caution started screaming at me. Which is where I started this story. The forward scope is blossoming with red dots, and the proximity alarm keeps chiming a new contact, while the IFF is screaming about “enemy signals detected”. Really, you think so? I couldn't tell. I keep mashing the rudder pedal to fly straight, with a bit of up-thrust and a starboard roll, but those gauss bolts are getting closer. Damn. Time to change tactics. Maybe I'll get lucky and take one of the bastards with me.
At least it'll be one less for my wingmates to fight when they get here...
End log entry.
Personal Log
Macero "Mac" Entosh
August 11, 4436
I suppose alarms are useful and serve a purpose - they tell you when things go wrong. But, when you're in the middle of the thing going wrong, they can be damn annoying.
Take, for example, the master caution in my Vulture. I keep shutting it off, but it insists on telling me that my battery is on low charge, and that my port roll and attitude thrusters are malfunctioning. Probably because most of my port wing is missing, which is kind of evident in the way the ship is handling. This isn't how I planned my day.
Oh, sure, it started off nice enough. I'd just gotten a fresh coat of paint on my ship, after popping out of the Deneb-Eo wormhole smack into a 'roid. Busted up my avionics, because crunching a rock head on doing sixty-five meters a second will do that, but the station was in sight, and I didn't have to rely on the NavComp to dock. I was lucky that nobody saw it, and I passed the damage off to a bot encounter. The mech in the docking bay gave me a knowing look, so I slipped him a hundred credits to keep his mouth shut.
So, there I was, getting ready to launch - the turbines on the gravitic drive had just come up to temp and were idling, and I'd just completed my walk-around - when the flight deck officer waved me over. "You ready to launch?" he yelled in my ear over the general chaos that is the launch bay. I nodded, and he continued. "Change of mission. Long-range remotes have picked up multiple unscheduled wormhole events in Charlie-One-Zero. We've got other ships inbound to intercept, but you're going to get there first. Recon but do not engage until the cavalry gets there, got it?"
Yeah, sure. Someone forgot to tell the Serco that. Which is why I've got an alarm screaming in my ear and I'm dodging gauss bolts. Let me tell you, it ain't easy on a good day, and this ain't a good day. They're passing so close, the hair on my neck is standing up from the electrical charge. And reinforcements are 30 seconds out, which might as well be a lifetime. Come to think of it, it could be my lifetime if I'm not careful.
Following standard procedure, I made sure my weapons were hot, plotted my course and jumped the grid. As soon as the energy fluctuations from the wormhole cleared my boards, and the NavComp returned flight control, I set out looking for the Serco. I'll admit, my trigger finger was itchy, but orders are orders. Hell, I'm a hack pilot at best - I do better flying cargo than fighters any day. Cargo doesn't shoot back, and you can always dump a few crates out the airlock to pacify any pirates. There wasn't anything showing on my scopes except the 'roid field, so I lit the burners and scooted over to check out the rocks. Big mistake.
Don't ask me how they did it, because I don't know. All I know is that all of a sudden, my world lit up like the night sky during the Eo Day festival skyfire show, and my master caution started screaming at me. Which is where I started this story. The forward scope is blossoming with red dots, and the proximity alarm keeps chiming a new contact, while the IFF is screaming about “enemy signals detected”. Really, you think so? I couldn't tell. I keep mashing the rudder pedal to fly straight, with a bit of up-thrust and a starboard roll, but those gauss bolts are getting closer. Damn. Time to change tactics. Maybe I'll get lucky and take one of the bastards with me.
At least it'll be one less for my wingmates to fight when they get here...
End log entry.
(5 months ago)
In the darkness of his quarters, Macero Entosh, better known to his wingmates as "Mac", sat bolt upright in his bunk, drenched in sweat. With shaking hands, he swept his damp hair back while he tried to calm his breathing. The computer, detecting he was awake, and correlating it with the current station time, brought the room lights up to an eighth of their maximum intensity - enough to allow him to move about without tripping over anything. Mac swung himself out of bed, and crossed the room to the privy, where he ran cold water into the sink and used it to wash his face. Raising his eyes, he stared into the mirror, noting the gaunt and worn face that stared back at him. Over the shoulder of his reflection, he could see the unkempt disaster that was his living space, and the collection of bottles that littered almost every surface.
He couldn't do it anymore. Every night, the dream was the same: the Serco ships, swarming like Divinian flies, the gauss bolts coming closer and closer, his ship fighting him as he tried to maneuver, his hands closing over the yellow and black ejection handle as his Vulture finally disintegrated around him, the taunts of the Serco as they buzzed him, floating there in his pressure suit...
He closed his eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. No, he couldn't do it anymore - wouldn't do it anymore. He opened his eyes, stared at himself in the mirror. "No more," he whispered under his breath. "No more."
Pulling on his flight suit, he headed towards the flight deck. The station was quiet at this hour, with mostly station maintenance workers and the occasional merchant on the promenade. On the flight deck, there was also little activity. Mac stood before his Vulture, running his gaze over the ship. Of course, it wasn't really "his" Vulture - that one was a cloud of scrap and spare parts, floating somewhere in the 'roid field in Charlie-One-Zero. No, this was the replacement he'd gotten after...after...he closed his eyes...
...and watched as his wingmates jumped in, right into the middle of the Serco furball he'd stupidly stirred up. He watched as they bravely fought back, himself helpless and impotent, without so much as a rock to throw at the Serco; watched as his friends died for his mistake, his inability to follow orders...
A hand on his shoulder jarred him back, and he flinched away from the contact, spinning around to see Waffles standing there with a look of concern on his face. "Mac? You ok?"
Mac swallowed against his heart pounding in his chest, and shook his head. "Yeah. No. I...don't know." He shook his head again, then moved towards the Vulture. He paused on the ladder, before climbing into the cockpit, and looked back at Waffles. "I...need to clear my head." He climbed into the cockpit, and started the preflight checklist.
Waffles stepped onto the ladder, leaning into the cockpit. "You sure you're ok to fly, Mac?"
"I'm not sure of anything, Waffles." Mac finished the checklist, and strapped himself in. "I just know I need to get out there," he gestured towards the bulkhead, indicating the space beyond, "away from all this."
Waffles nodded, and stepped off the ladder, pulling it free. "What should I tell the Commander?"
Mac stared ahead for a few moment, then looked at Waffles. "Tell him...tell him, I went stargazing." With that, he sealed the cockpit, and keyed the launch sequence.
In the darkness of his quarters, Macero Entosh, better known to his wingmates as "Mac", sat bolt upright in his bunk, drenched in sweat. With shaking hands, he swept his damp hair back while he tried to calm his breathing. The computer, detecting he was awake, and correlating it with the current station time, brought the room lights up to an eighth of their maximum intensity - enough to allow him to move about without tripping over anything. Mac swung himself out of bed, and crossed the room to the privy, where he ran cold water into the sink and used it to wash his face. Raising his eyes, he stared into the mirror, noting the gaunt and worn face that stared back at him. Over the shoulder of his reflection, he could see the unkempt disaster that was his living space, and the collection of bottles that littered almost every surface.
He couldn't do it anymore. Every night, the dream was the same: the Serco ships, swarming like Divinian flies, the gauss bolts coming closer and closer, his ship fighting him as he tried to maneuver, his hands closing over the yellow and black ejection handle as his Vulture finally disintegrated around him, the taunts of the Serco as they buzzed him, floating there in his pressure suit...
He closed his eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. No, he couldn't do it anymore - wouldn't do it anymore. He opened his eyes, stared at himself in the mirror. "No more," he whispered under his breath. "No more."
Pulling on his flight suit, he headed towards the flight deck. The station was quiet at this hour, with mostly station maintenance workers and the occasional merchant on the promenade. On the flight deck, there was also little activity. Mac stood before his Vulture, running his gaze over the ship. Of course, it wasn't really "his" Vulture - that one was a cloud of scrap and spare parts, floating somewhere in the 'roid field in Charlie-One-Zero. No, this was the replacement he'd gotten after...after...he closed his eyes...
...and watched as his wingmates jumped in, right into the middle of the Serco furball he'd stupidly stirred up. He watched as they bravely fought back, himself helpless and impotent, without so much as a rock to throw at the Serco; watched as his friends died for his mistake, his inability to follow orders...
A hand on his shoulder jarred him back, and he flinched away from the contact, spinning around to see Waffles standing there with a look of concern on his face. "Mac? You ok?"
Mac swallowed against his heart pounding in his chest, and shook his head. "Yeah. No. I...don't know." He shook his head again, then moved towards the Vulture. He paused on the ladder, before climbing into the cockpit, and looked back at Waffles. "I...need to clear my head." He climbed into the cockpit, and started the preflight checklist.
Waffles stepped onto the ladder, leaning into the cockpit. "You sure you're ok to fly, Mac?"
"I'm not sure of anything, Waffles." Mac finished the checklist, and strapped himself in. "I just know I need to get out there," he gestured towards the bulkhead, indicating the space beyond, "away from all this."
Waffles nodded, and stepped off the ladder, pulling it free. "What should I tell the Commander?"
Mac stared ahead for a few moment, then looked at Waffles. "Tell him...tell him, I went stargazing." With that, he sealed the cockpit, and keyed the launch sequence.
The station would have been dark if it wasn't for the red emergency lights giving off an eerie, but helpful glow. Waffles ran down the corridor, passing station guards and fellow ITAN members, some running to their assigned duty stations, some milling about, wondering what was going on. It had been a long, long time since that particular sound had come out the bullhorns that hung over each and every lockable bulkhead, so it was understandable if some of the newer recruits were confused. That particular sequence meant something was wrong, something that should never, ever happen. Safeguards had been taken to keep such an event from unfolding; at the very least, safeguards had been setup - something had obviously failed. He ran past a viewport, and slowing only long enough to glance outside. It was quiet. Not a single ship was in orbit around the station. Everything had been send out to other stations, transports rerouted, a quarrantine zone declared. Nothing was allowed into the sector until this was cleared up. Nothing.
Waffles reached the command center, an empty, quiet room with no chairs and only a few consoles. It was an efficient place to work in the most demanding of situations. Thankfully, the sirens were muted inside the room. Iry, Slime, Arlina and Drazed were huddled over the large chart table in the center of the room, a schematic of the station visible on its surface, discussing the situation.
"I thought they checked for this kinda thing? How could one fall though?" Arlina asked in a demanding tone. "They do, but I guess one got by the screening," Slime offered. "So, how bad is it?" Waffles asked as he approached the table. "Bad," was all Iry could muster, his eyes fixed on the display. They all fell silent as they studied the data, running the scenario over again in their heads.
They were all startled when a whisper of a beep came from the communications console. Drazed was the first to speak. "I thought we were jamming all incoming transmissions?" he asked. Waffles walked over to the console, reading the message. "All but the encoded ITAN signal. And I'll be damned if it isn't exactly who can help," he said. With that, he reached over and pressed a button that started the signal started playing over a small speaker.
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...I'm coming home..."
Waffles reached the command center, an empty, quiet room with no chairs and only a few consoles. It was an efficient place to work in the most demanding of situations. Thankfully, the sirens were muted inside the room. Iry, Slime, Arlina and Drazed were huddled over the large chart table in the center of the room, a schematic of the station visible on its surface, discussing the situation.
"I thought they checked for this kinda thing? How could one fall though?" Arlina asked in a demanding tone. "They do, but I guess one got by the screening," Slime offered. "So, how bad is it?" Waffles asked as he approached the table. "Bad," was all Iry could muster, his eyes fixed on the display. They all fell silent as they studied the data, running the scenario over again in their heads.
They were all startled when a whisper of a beep came from the communications console. Drazed was the first to speak. "I thought we were jamming all incoming transmissions?" he asked. Waffles walked over to the console, reading the message. "All but the encoded ITAN signal. And I'll be damned if it isn't exactly who can help," he said. With that, he reached over and pressed a button that started the signal started playing over a small speaker.
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...I'm coming home..."
(4 months ago)
He hated the ship.
It wasn't "his" ship - it was "the" ship. The seat wouldn't adjust comfortably. It didn't feel right. It wasn't an extension of his body; it felt more like a tool, one that was unfamiliar in his grasp. It fought him, reluctantly performing maneuvers that were so effortless before...before...
He shook his head to clear his vision. No, he wouldn't go back there, not now. Sweat poured from his skin, soaking his flight suit, long since stained with the sweat of other moments like this. His hands tightened around the throttle and stick, sweat stinging like acid in his eyes and the abraded skin of his hands as he fought the ship around, lined up the shot, and blasted the bot into debris. Pulse pounding, hands shaking, he relaxed. Still the ship fought him, the seat fitting uncomfortably.
He hated the ship. It was the symbol of his failure, his mark of shame. Unbidden, dredged from distant memory, came the voice of his father. "You'll never amount to anything." He flinched away from that memory, that voice, his hand jerking the controls and slewing the ship around, as a gauss bolt passed by, the electrical charge making his skin crawl.
Instinct took over, and he wrenched the ship into a well-practiced dance of evasive maneuvers, while his eyes scanned the stars - there, there it was. The radar locked on, identified the target, another bot...no, wait...a Serco fighter. This deep in Itani space? Impossible! He blinked, refusing to believe. The image on the radar wavered as he spun, rolled, dived, trying to line up the shot: bot, Serco, bot, Serco. Which was it?
"Come on," he grated through clenched teeth. The stars spun as he danced, locked in mortal combat. It was a dance of death, one he didn't care if he won or lost. "You can't win," the Voice said. "You can't do anything right." Other voices filled the cockpit; "What happened?" "Why didn't you follow orders?" "Are you ok to fly?" He screamed against them, poured his rage into the gauss cannons slung under the wings of the ship, blasting the bot/Serco/whatever into dust.
His eyes scanned the stars, seeing movement - other ships. He closed his eyes, remembering the stares of the others on the station, the accusing looks, the affirmation that he had failed. "Not good enough," the Voice whispered. "Never good enough."
His eyes opened. "I'll show you. I'll show all of you." His hand slammed the throttle forward, kicking in the afterburners. The distant ships grew larger, resolving themselves. The radar scanned, identified, displayed - bots...no, Serco...Serco everywhere! He dove into their midst, dancing and sliding, weapons ablaze with death.
He would show them. Or die trying.
He hated the ship.
It wasn't "his" ship - it was "the" ship. The seat wouldn't adjust comfortably. It didn't feel right. It wasn't an extension of his body; it felt more like a tool, one that was unfamiliar in his grasp. It fought him, reluctantly performing maneuvers that were so effortless before...before...
He shook his head to clear his vision. No, he wouldn't go back there, not now. Sweat poured from his skin, soaking his flight suit, long since stained with the sweat of other moments like this. His hands tightened around the throttle and stick, sweat stinging like acid in his eyes and the abraded skin of his hands as he fought the ship around, lined up the shot, and blasted the bot into debris. Pulse pounding, hands shaking, he relaxed. Still the ship fought him, the seat fitting uncomfortably.
He hated the ship. It was the symbol of his failure, his mark of shame. Unbidden, dredged from distant memory, came the voice of his father. "You'll never amount to anything." He flinched away from that memory, that voice, his hand jerking the controls and slewing the ship around, as a gauss bolt passed by, the electrical charge making his skin crawl.
Instinct took over, and he wrenched the ship into a well-practiced dance of evasive maneuvers, while his eyes scanned the stars - there, there it was. The radar locked on, identified the target, another bot...no, wait...a Serco fighter. This deep in Itani space? Impossible! He blinked, refusing to believe. The image on the radar wavered as he spun, rolled, dived, trying to line up the shot: bot, Serco, bot, Serco. Which was it?
"Come on," he grated through clenched teeth. The stars spun as he danced, locked in mortal combat. It was a dance of death, one he didn't care if he won or lost. "You can't win," the Voice said. "You can't do anything right." Other voices filled the cockpit; "What happened?" "Why didn't you follow orders?" "Are you ok to fly?" He screamed against them, poured his rage into the gauss cannons slung under the wings of the ship, blasting the bot/Serco/whatever into dust.
His eyes scanned the stars, seeing movement - other ships. He closed his eyes, remembering the stares of the others on the station, the accusing looks, the affirmation that he had failed. "Not good enough," the Voice whispered. "Never good enough."
His eyes opened. "I'll show you. I'll show all of you." His hand slammed the throttle forward, kicking in the afterburners. The distant ships grew larger, resolving themselves. The radar scanned, identified, displayed - bots...no, Serco...Serco everywhere! He dove into their midst, dancing and sliding, weapons ablaze with death.
He would show them. Or die trying.
(18 hours ago)
Every time he put on his cap, his tight, restricting, suffocating cap, it felt like his head was going to burn up. In fact, the starched blue shirt tucked into the pressed blue pants made his skin crawl. The highly polished brass belt, which he meticulously made sure was buckled properly, brass on brass, brass on brass, his ass, felt as if it were going to cut him in two. His shoes? Those damned black shiny shoes with the waxed black laces? THOSE shoes? Ice. It felt as if his toes were being frozen off. He dared not take them off unless he was in his quarters for fear that his toes would actually be frostbitten and frozen to the inside of those black traps. He also carried a weight around with him, something that slowed him down, made him sluggish; an acid-covered weight, eating away at his hip. He dared not touch it, dared not remove it - fear welled up inside him, no, No, NO! Fear was screaming at him, "Don't you touch that DAMNED thing! They will see you touch it! And they will KNOW!!! They KILL those that they KNOW about!" Fear was his only friend.
He was supposed to stand in front of a door all day, all damn day. No one goes through the door, and if they do, they only stay for about six minutes. He doesn't know what is behind the door, isn't supposed to know, and doesn't care. All he cares about is the faces of the people - do they look like their security card, can they look in the stupid box, does the light on the box turn green? Yes? Yes? Yes? Hurray! We have a winner! Here's your prize, a trip to "who gives a damn". Then, out they come. They never smile. They never say, "Thank you." They never look at him. He hates them. He hates the door. He hates everything. Well, almost everything. He doesn't hate the cat. He dislikes the cat; but everything else, he hates.
He was walking back to his bunk, his seventeen square feet of privacy, when he heard a request over the comm to gather in the main assembly hall if available - the elections were over. The new council had been decided. Did he care? The answer would have answered the question, did he vote? Hell, no. He went in anyway. He took his seat. He listened. He heard words, but they were not the words coming out of the commanders mouth. They looked like the commanders words, they sounded like his words, but they were definitely not his words. No, they belonged to the other One. Damn, that One! Always there, always behind him, always talking to him. The voice that talked of fear, of pain, of revenge. Revenge, what a beautiful word. He saw it clearly, understood its simple beauty for the first time. They will listen to him now, because he was listening to the One that knew everything. Everyfuckingthing. He began to smile. It might have looked as if he were happy to hear that the council had been selected from the finest the Guild had to offer, but he wasn't. He was smiling because his feet were no longer cold, his skin didn't crawl. He was't going to be torn in two by his ass-brass belt, and his head was't going to catch fire. He was smiling because he was no longer afraid of the acid-coated weight, the tool they used to keep him slow.
He stood up and left the auditorium. Turning left, he headed toward an open lift. He had a plan; it was a good plan. Hell, it was a great plan. When the doors of the lift closed, he reached down and pulled his sidearm out of its holster. The acid stung his fingers, but he did not care. He did not fear the tool anymore. They were going to fear the tool. This, too, caused him to smile.
Every time he put on his cap, his tight, restricting, suffocating cap, it felt like his head was going to burn up. In fact, the starched blue shirt tucked into the pressed blue pants made his skin crawl. The highly polished brass belt, which he meticulously made sure was buckled properly, brass on brass, brass on brass, his ass, felt as if it were going to cut him in two. His shoes? Those damned black shiny shoes with the waxed black laces? THOSE shoes? Ice. It felt as if his toes were being frozen off. He dared not take them off unless he was in his quarters for fear that his toes would actually be frostbitten and frozen to the inside of those black traps. He also carried a weight around with him, something that slowed him down, made him sluggish; an acid-covered weight, eating away at his hip. He dared not touch it, dared not remove it - fear welled up inside him, no, No, NO! Fear was screaming at him, "Don't you touch that DAMNED thing! They will see you touch it! And they will KNOW!!! They KILL those that they KNOW about!" Fear was his only friend.
He was supposed to stand in front of a door all day, all damn day. No one goes through the door, and if they do, they only stay for about six minutes. He doesn't know what is behind the door, isn't supposed to know, and doesn't care. All he cares about is the faces of the people - do they look like their security card, can they look in the stupid box, does the light on the box turn green? Yes? Yes? Yes? Hurray! We have a winner! Here's your prize, a trip to "who gives a damn". Then, out they come. They never smile. They never say, "Thank you." They never look at him. He hates them. He hates the door. He hates everything. Well, almost everything. He doesn't hate the cat. He dislikes the cat; but everything else, he hates.
He was walking back to his bunk, his seventeen square feet of privacy, when he heard a request over the comm to gather in the main assembly hall if available - the elections were over. The new council had been decided. Did he care? The answer would have answered the question, did he vote? Hell, no. He went in anyway. He took his seat. He listened. He heard words, but they were not the words coming out of the commanders mouth. They looked like the commanders words, they sounded like his words, but they were definitely not his words. No, they belonged to the other One. Damn, that One! Always there, always behind him, always talking to him. The voice that talked of fear, of pain, of revenge. Revenge, what a beautiful word. He saw it clearly, understood its simple beauty for the first time. They will listen to him now, because he was listening to the One that knew everything. Everyfuckingthing. He began to smile. It might have looked as if he were happy to hear that the council had been selected from the finest the Guild had to offer, but he wasn't. He was smiling because his feet were no longer cold, his skin didn't crawl. He was't going to be torn in two by his ass-brass belt, and his head was't going to catch fire. He was smiling because he was no longer afraid of the acid-coated weight, the tool they used to keep him slow.
He stood up and left the auditorium. Turning left, he headed toward an open lift. He had a plan; it was a good plan. Hell, it was a great plan. When the doors of the lift closed, he reached down and pulled his sidearm out of its holster. The acid stung his fingers, but he did not care. He did not fear the tool anymore. They were going to fear the tool. This, too, caused him to smile.
(3 months ago)
He couldn't have pointed to when he made the decision. There was no defined moment in time where he decided, "This is what I'm going to do." A year ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of being here, yet it felt like this was the place he was always heading toward.
He'd fought them all, and won. One by one, their taunts and accusations faded - whether they had come to him over the comm or not was unimportant; that they had silenced, was. All was quiet, now; the only sound the sound of his breathing and the ship, that cursed, hated ship. For a while, he'd left the volume on the comm open, listening to the banter that broadcast throughout the known systems; Itani, UIT, pirates and Serco. Eventually, distance and the magnetic variances introduced into the signal by ion storms and stellar flares had distorted most of the traffic into an unintelligible mess. Then, and only then, did he turn the volume down to a low hiss, allowing only the closest of signals to penetrate his consciousness. Eventually, in time, those faded as well.
But, he'd fought, and won. What was his prize? Where was his recognition? He didn't care. On a deep, primal level, he knew what he'd done, what he was doing - he was trying to die. That he was unable to do so by his own hand was his one remaining, ultimate failure. It would have been so simple - deactivate life support, blow the canopy. But he couldn't.
Instead, he shut down what systems of the ship - his ship, his tomb - that he could, and left it to drift in space. Idly, he wondered what some spacefarer in the far future would find when they finally stumbled upon his ancient craft. What would they think, what story would they piece together out of the subtle clues that his blast-scarred ship would present? He contemplated the stars - "stargazing" as he had told Waffles, a lifetime ago. He would let the future wonder.
Alone, quietly, he drifted into the Void.
He couldn't have pointed to when he made the decision. There was no defined moment in time where he decided, "This is what I'm going to do." A year ago, he wouldn't have dreamed of being here, yet it felt like this was the place he was always heading toward.
He'd fought them all, and won. One by one, their taunts and accusations faded - whether they had come to him over the comm or not was unimportant; that they had silenced, was. All was quiet, now; the only sound the sound of his breathing and the ship, that cursed, hated ship. For a while, he'd left the volume on the comm open, listening to the banter that broadcast throughout the known systems; Itani, UIT, pirates and Serco. Eventually, distance and the magnetic variances introduced into the signal by ion storms and stellar flares had distorted most of the traffic into an unintelligible mess. Then, and only then, did he turn the volume down to a low hiss, allowing only the closest of signals to penetrate his consciousness. Eventually, in time, those faded as well.
But, he'd fought, and won. What was his prize? Where was his recognition? He didn't care. On a deep, primal level, he knew what he'd done, what he was doing - he was trying to die. That he was unable to do so by his own hand was his one remaining, ultimate failure. It would have been so simple - deactivate life support, blow the canopy. But he couldn't.
Instead, he shut down what systems of the ship - his ship, his tomb - that he could, and left it to drift in space. Idly, he wondered what some spacefarer in the far future would find when they finally stumbled upon his ancient craft. What would they think, what story would they piece together out of the subtle clues that his blast-scarred ship would present? He contemplated the stars - "stargazing" as he had told Waffles, a lifetime ago. He would let the future wonder.
Alone, quietly, he drifted into the Void.
(16 Hours Ago)
"What are you doing? Holster that weapon! NOW!" The voice was stern, commanding and cold. He felt someone grab his right shoulder and spin him around. He was stunned to find no one there, yet the invisible force pushed him against the wall. "Do you want them to see that you have no control, no foresight?" The One was right; it always was. "Hurry, or those two will see you!" He did as he was told, just in time to bring his hand away from his weapon as two maintenance workers came around the corner. They both stared at the man standing against the wall like a stiff board. "You ok there, bud?" one of them asked. He only replied with a nod. They kept on walking past him, only turning around once to get a last glance at him. "That was a close one. You need to be quicker." The One always had good advice. The next few minutes were full of pictures, plans, and ideas; some were his - most where His.
He made his way back to his small, private space to prepare for the rest of the day. He removed his uniform - the cold, hot, tight, uniform - then laid down to try and sleep off the rising anxiety. It didn't help; instead a new feeling began to creep into him. Dread. What if they already know, he thought? What if they try to stop me? "They don't, and they can't." Ah, that voice. He did love that voice. He tired to remember when he starting hearing it. He thought that maybe it was always there; he could remember one or two times as a child hearing that voice. The real question, he guessed, was when did he start listening to the voice. "That IS the question isn't it?" the One with the plan asked. He looked at the clock. He had an evenings worth of hours yet before his shift began. He closed his eyes, calmed his mind and fell asleep, preparing his body for the tasks ahead.
He awoke with a start. He was standing in the the small arms locker down the corridor from his station. He wondered briefly how he had gotten here, but he knew how. The real question was, how long he had been here? It didn't matter, he supposed; what did matter was that he was ready. He checked his watch - 20 minutes. He stepped out of the locker and made his way to check in and start his shift early. "Always make a good impression," his mother had told him. Once he relieved the other guard and took his post, he waited. It only took 38 minutes for a tech to come by to check the status of events in the room - his room. He did his job with a smile. It occurred to him that this was probably the first time he has ever smiled on the job. As he checked her ID, he became aware that he couldn't actually remember the last time he had smiled, much less twice in one day. Would the wonders ever cease? Speaking of wonders: she looked him in the face, no, the eyes, and smiled back. "Her, she's the one." The One that interrupts said, "Be ready when she goes in." He was ready, excited even.
The door unlocked and slid open. She stepped through. The door began to close and at the last second he stepped through as well. "What the hell are you doing?" Surprise rose in her voice. He only continued to smile. It was then that she understood why she had smiled back at him earlier. She had never taken any notice of him before because he did not notice her. But his smile was so big and inviting. She thought about that smile again, and it was the same smile he had on now. The smile had made her nervous then, so she smiled back. It was the only thing she could think to do at the time. She hated herself now for smiling back. That smile was not inviting - it was insane.
The timer clicked, and the inner door opened, allowing them through. This was the real door, the door that actually mattered. She spilled onto the floor in her attempt to get away from that menacing smile. He stepped over her, completely ignoring her. She was unimportant, now. He walked up to the console and began typing. She saw her opportunity and took it. His back was to her. He was bigger, but she had the element of surprise. She jumped onto his back and tried to choke him with the time-honored sleeper hold. It worked on the holovid shows, it should work now. It didn't. His neck was like steel, inflexible and hard; it was even cold. He paused in his typing, reached up, grasped her arm and threw her to the ground, not even bothering to turn around. She wished she had a gun. Until now, she had never needed to have a gun. Ironically, he always had the gun so she didn't need too.
The door began to close, and it wouldn't unlock again for another five and a half minutes. She did not want to stay in here that long, so she made a mad dash/crawl for the opening. Pulling her legs through, she snuck a look back at him. He hadn't moved; he was still typing and clicking. The door locked behind her, sealing him in there. He won't last long, she thought, not in there. The outer door opened and she ran out. She spun around looking for thing she was told about, the thing she was trained to use. The thing no one ever expected to use, nor wanted to have to use. She found it. A small glass sheet covered it; the glass broke easy enough, bloodying her knuckles. She pushed the small round red button under the eye scanner. It didn't move. Fear swam into her stomach. Frantically, she pushed it again, harder. Something snapped and the button depressed an incredible half inch before coming to a stop. Instantly, the lights went out and an eery red glow filled the corridors, while the air was filled with an ancient, almost alien sound - an alarm.
The alarm that signaled a critical situation in the main reactor.
"What are you doing? Holster that weapon! NOW!" The voice was stern, commanding and cold. He felt someone grab his right shoulder and spin him around. He was stunned to find no one there, yet the invisible force pushed him against the wall. "Do you want them to see that you have no control, no foresight?" The One was right; it always was. "Hurry, or those two will see you!" He did as he was told, just in time to bring his hand away from his weapon as two maintenance workers came around the corner. They both stared at the man standing against the wall like a stiff board. "You ok there, bud?" one of them asked. He only replied with a nod. They kept on walking past him, only turning around once to get a last glance at him. "That was a close one. You need to be quicker." The One always had good advice. The next few minutes were full of pictures, plans, and ideas; some were his - most where His.
He made his way back to his small, private space to prepare for the rest of the day. He removed his uniform - the cold, hot, tight, uniform - then laid down to try and sleep off the rising anxiety. It didn't help; instead a new feeling began to creep into him. Dread. What if they already know, he thought? What if they try to stop me? "They don't, and they can't." Ah, that voice. He did love that voice. He tired to remember when he starting hearing it. He thought that maybe it was always there; he could remember one or two times as a child hearing that voice. The real question, he guessed, was when did he start listening to the voice. "That IS the question isn't it?" the One with the plan asked. He looked at the clock. He had an evenings worth of hours yet before his shift began. He closed his eyes, calmed his mind and fell asleep, preparing his body for the tasks ahead.
He awoke with a start. He was standing in the the small arms locker down the corridor from his station. He wondered briefly how he had gotten here, but he knew how. The real question was, how long he had been here? It didn't matter, he supposed; what did matter was that he was ready. He checked his watch - 20 minutes. He stepped out of the locker and made his way to check in and start his shift early. "Always make a good impression," his mother had told him. Once he relieved the other guard and took his post, he waited. It only took 38 minutes for a tech to come by to check the status of events in the room - his room. He did his job with a smile. It occurred to him that this was probably the first time he has ever smiled on the job. As he checked her ID, he became aware that he couldn't actually remember the last time he had smiled, much less twice in one day. Would the wonders ever cease? Speaking of wonders: she looked him in the face, no, the eyes, and smiled back. "Her, she's the one." The One that interrupts said, "Be ready when she goes in." He was ready, excited even.
The door unlocked and slid open. She stepped through. The door began to close and at the last second he stepped through as well. "What the hell are you doing?" Surprise rose in her voice. He only continued to smile. It was then that she understood why she had smiled back at him earlier. She had never taken any notice of him before because he did not notice her. But his smile was so big and inviting. She thought about that smile again, and it was the same smile he had on now. The smile had made her nervous then, so she smiled back. It was the only thing she could think to do at the time. She hated herself now for smiling back. That smile was not inviting - it was insane.
The timer clicked, and the inner door opened, allowing them through. This was the real door, the door that actually mattered. She spilled onto the floor in her attempt to get away from that menacing smile. He stepped over her, completely ignoring her. She was unimportant, now. He walked up to the console and began typing. She saw her opportunity and took it. His back was to her. He was bigger, but she had the element of surprise. She jumped onto his back and tried to choke him with the time-honored sleeper hold. It worked on the holovid shows, it should work now. It didn't. His neck was like steel, inflexible and hard; it was even cold. He paused in his typing, reached up, grasped her arm and threw her to the ground, not even bothering to turn around. She wished she had a gun. Until now, she had never needed to have a gun. Ironically, he always had the gun so she didn't need too.
The door began to close, and it wouldn't unlock again for another five and a half minutes. She did not want to stay in here that long, so she made a mad dash/crawl for the opening. Pulling her legs through, she snuck a look back at him. He hadn't moved; he was still typing and clicking. The door locked behind her, sealing him in there. He won't last long, she thought, not in there. The outer door opened and she ran out. She spun around looking for thing she was told about, the thing she was trained to use. The thing no one ever expected to use, nor wanted to have to use. She found it. A small glass sheet covered it; the glass broke easy enough, bloodying her knuckles. She pushed the small round red button under the eye scanner. It didn't move. Fear swam into her stomach. Frantically, she pushed it again, harder. Something snapped and the button depressed an incredible half inch before coming to a stop. Instantly, the lights went out and an eery red glow filled the corridors, while the air was filled with an ancient, almost alien sound - an alarm.
The alarm that signaled a critical situation in the main reactor.
Stunning in its wonderfulness!
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Are you reading me? Over."
"That's strange," Mac muttered to himself. Briefly, he wondered if the Universe had gone to hell in a handbasket while he'd been away. It would be awfully awkward to have missed the Apocalypse. He hoped his side had won, or at least had given a good fight. He keyed the mic again, "Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Come on, guys, I know I've been away for a while, but this isn't funny."
Nothing. He keyed the computer, which sent out a coded challenge/response sequence. Nope, he was on the right frequency, and the encoding key-cipher was still valid. Coalition HQ was receiving him. "Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Whoever's on comm, put down the Deneb rum, and pick up the mic. I can't hear you when you're talking into the rum bott..."
"Mac! Mac, is that you?" Mac struggled to place the voice, still somewhat distorted by magnetic variances.
"Iry?"
"Yeah. Listen, we've got a bit of a situation here. I'll let Waffles fill you in on the details, but it's good to hear your voice."
"Uh...ok?"
"Great. Here's Waffles." There was a click and a hum, followed by a few seconds of silence, then Waffles came on the comm. "Mac, where have you been?" Waffles asked.
"Here and there," Mac replied. "Mostly there." Waffles chuckled. "So," Mac asked, "I hear that there's a 'situation'. What's going on?"
"That's strange," Mac muttered to himself. Briefly, he wondered if the Universe had gone to hell in a handbasket while he'd been away. It would be awfully awkward to have missed the Apocalypse. He hoped his side had won, or at least had given a good fight. He keyed the mic again, "Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Come on, guys, I know I've been away for a while, but this isn't funny."
Nothing. He keyed the computer, which sent out a coded challenge/response sequence. Nope, he was on the right frequency, and the encoding key-cipher was still valid. Coalition HQ was receiving him. "Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Whoever's on comm, put down the Deneb rum, and pick up the mic. I can't hear you when you're talking into the rum bott..."
"Mac! Mac, is that you?" Mac struggled to place the voice, still somewhat distorted by magnetic variances.
"Iry?"
"Yeah. Listen, we've got a bit of a situation here. I'll let Waffles fill you in on the details, but it's good to hear your voice."
"Uh...ok?"
"Great. Here's Waffles." There was a click and a hum, followed by a few seconds of silence, then Waffles came on the comm. "Mac, where have you been?" Waffles asked.
"Here and there," Mac replied. "Mostly there." Waffles chuckled. "So," Mac asked, "I hear that there's a 'situation'. What's going on?"
I'm rather enjoying this. Makes me want to do an "I'm coming back" story myself someday (of course, I'd have to renew my subscription first -_o).
"Explain," Iry said to Waffles, "exactly how you think Mac can help?"
Waffles shifted uncomfortably under the commander's gaze. "Well..." he trailed off. "That's what I thought," Iry replied, as he turned back to the table. "No!" Waffles exclaimed. Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. "Look," Waffles said, "Mac has been gone, what, five or six months?" Arlina nodded in agreement, and Waffles continued. "We all know he was in a pretty bad headspace when he left." He gestured at the console. "Now, he's coming back. Mac wouldn't do that unless he'd gotten himself together."
The comm crackled to life again. "Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Are you reading me? Over."
"What's your point?" Drazed asked, ignoring the comm. "Our guy down there in the reactor - he's obviously in a pretty bad place, too," Waffles said. "And who better to talk someone back from the brink than someone who's just made an all-expenses-paid round-trip?" Slime concluded, questioningly. "Exactly," Waffles replied. He looked at Iry with a hopeful expression. "Don't you see? It makes perfect sense."
"Everyone, give me a status readout," Iry said, his eyes returning to studying the display on the table.
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Come on guys, I know I've been away for a while, but this isn't funny." Waffles' finger hovered over the transmit button, his eyes fixed on Iry. "You know I'm right," he said.
Iry slammed his hand down on the table, "I know! But we can't do anything until you people get me those damned status readouts. Move!" Four people launched into action, calling up displays, checking readouts, and then double checking them.
Arlina gave a low whistle, and Waffles stepped over beside her. "He's hacked the entire mainframe," she said. "Impossible," Waffles replied, "it can't be done!" Arlina flipped through several screens, pointing. "Look. Here. Here. And here." She looked up from the display. "Iry?"
"What do you have?" Iry asked. "He's hacked the mainframe," Arlina replied, holding up her hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "He's re-routed and locked us out of station sensors, both internal and external, environmental, stabilization thrust control, and..."
The comm panel let out an unexpected beep, indicating that a challenge/response sequence had been received and acknowledged. Everyone in the room turned to look at the source of the noise. "He might be monitoring tactical systems," Arlina said, never taking her eyes off the comm. "Somebody better let Mac know before he does something that our friend in the reactor interprets as an attempt to hack the controls back..."
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Whoever's on comm, put down the Deneb rum, and pick up the mic. I can't hear you when you're talking into the rum bott..." Iry rushed across the room, his hand slamming down on the transmit button. "Mac? Mac is that you?"
"Iry?" Mac sounded confused.
"Yeah. Listen, we've got a bit of a situation here. I'll let Waffles fill you in on the details, but it's good to hear your voice." Iry waved Waffles over to the console. "Uh...ok?" Mac replied. "Great," Iry said. "Here's Waffles." Iry hit the mute, and grabbed Waffles by the upper arm. "This had better be a damn good plan," he said softly. "It will be," Waffles replied, before unmuting the mic. "Mac, where have you been?" he asked.
"Here and there," came the answer. "Mostly there. So, I hear that there's a 'situation'. What's going on?"
"Nothing much," Waffles replied. "Just your everyday, 'recruit hacks mainframe, takes over station control, and locks himself in the reactor' kind of thing."
Waffles shifted uncomfortably under the commander's gaze. "Well..." he trailed off. "That's what I thought," Iry replied, as he turned back to the table. "No!" Waffles exclaimed. Four pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. "Look," Waffles said, "Mac has been gone, what, five or six months?" Arlina nodded in agreement, and Waffles continued. "We all know he was in a pretty bad headspace when he left." He gestured at the console. "Now, he's coming back. Mac wouldn't do that unless he'd gotten himself together."
The comm crackled to life again. "Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Are you reading me? Over."
"What's your point?" Drazed asked, ignoring the comm. "Our guy down there in the reactor - he's obviously in a pretty bad place, too," Waffles said. "And who better to talk someone back from the brink than someone who's just made an all-expenses-paid round-trip?" Slime concluded, questioningly. "Exactly," Waffles replied. He looked at Iry with a hopeful expression. "Don't you see? It makes perfect sense."
"Everyone, give me a status readout," Iry said, his eyes returning to studying the display on the table.
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Come on guys, I know I've been away for a while, but this isn't funny." Waffles' finger hovered over the transmit button, his eyes fixed on Iry. "You know I'm right," he said.
Iry slammed his hand down on the table, "I know! But we can't do anything until you people get me those damned status readouts. Move!" Four people launched into action, calling up displays, checking readouts, and then double checking them.
Arlina gave a low whistle, and Waffles stepped over beside her. "He's hacked the entire mainframe," she said. "Impossible," Waffles replied, "it can't be done!" Arlina flipped through several screens, pointing. "Look. Here. Here. And here." She looked up from the display. "Iry?"
"What do you have?" Iry asked. "He's hacked the mainframe," Arlina replied, holding up her hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "He's re-routed and locked us out of station sensors, both internal and external, environmental, stabilization thrust control, and..."
The comm panel let out an unexpected beep, indicating that a challenge/response sequence had been received and acknowledged. Everyone in the room turned to look at the source of the noise. "He might be monitoring tactical systems," Arlina said, never taking her eyes off the comm. "Somebody better let Mac know before he does something that our friend in the reactor interprets as an attempt to hack the controls back..."
"Mac Entosh calling COI...Mac Entosh calling COI...Whoever's on comm, put down the Deneb rum, and pick up the mic. I can't hear you when you're talking into the rum bott..." Iry rushed across the room, his hand slamming down on the transmit button. "Mac? Mac is that you?"
"Iry?" Mac sounded confused.
"Yeah. Listen, we've got a bit of a situation here. I'll let Waffles fill you in on the details, but it's good to hear your voice." Iry waved Waffles over to the console. "Uh...ok?" Mac replied. "Great," Iry said. "Here's Waffles." Iry hit the mute, and grabbed Waffles by the upper arm. "This had better be a damn good plan," he said softly. "It will be," Waffles replied, before unmuting the mic. "Mac, where have you been?" he asked.
"Here and there," came the answer. "Mostly there. So, I hear that there's a 'situation'. What's going on?"
"Nothing much," Waffles replied. "Just your everyday, 'recruit hacks mainframe, takes over station control, and locks himself in the reactor' kind of thing."
"Reactor, kinda thin..." Mac stuttered out, "You have been hitting the rum."
"You know me all too well," Waffles replied. "All too well..." he trailed off. Iry shot Waffles the 'you better not screw this up' look. He reached behind him for chair, but found none. Stupid 'efficient' room he thought. "Ok, heres the deal. One of our low end," he snuck a look around the room, "ummm, entry level guys snapped. He's taken control of the main reactor. It looks bad, real bad."
"Can't you bypass the.." Mac offered.
"No, he's highjacked the whole damned station." Waffles interrupted.
"Oh... thats... that makes sense."
"What, how?"
"The main reactor is directly tied to every system in the station."
"Oh, that. I was hoping for a little more, ummm, personal insight."
"Now what are you talking about."
Waffles spent the next few moments filling in Mac with all the details. He began with the report of the tech and ended with first demand that came over the loud speakers in the command center. "I want everyone to be able to leave if they want, or" That was the kicker, or, "I'll put the reactor into critical meltdown."
"So why not just evac?" Mac asked.
"Well, he's locked down the launch bays. And he's locked us out. Pretty impressive actually." Arlina shot Waffles a look that he was pretty sure meant that he'd be filling out all the paperwork on this, by himself. Before he could continue the loudspeaker in the northwestern corner squawked. "I think now that everyone has had a chance to leave, it's safe to assume it's just.." the speaker cut out and the southeast loudspeaker came to life, "us left. I'm going to start purging this station of the pain and acid and cold." It cut out with the same pop that brought it to life.
"Wait! Wait!" Slime yelled into the air.
"Man that was creepy," offered Drazed.
"Mac, you catch that?" Waffles asked.
"Yeah."
Waffles looked around the room a little distracted, "We want you to come back and talk to him."
"Talk to him?" Mac asked. After a few short moments of discussion he agreed.
"Good, start making your way here. You in system?"
"Yeah, It so happens the weather here is rather nice this time of year. Will he let me in?"
Waffles looked up to Iry who shook his head. "We don't think so. Hang out in K-5 for now."
"Roger. He sounds a little jumpy, I'll keep chatter down for now."
"Good call, I'll be getting with you in a bit when we have something."
Mac did not feel it was necessary to reply.
"Oh, shit..." Slime gasped. One of the consoles had begun to flash red. A simple, terrifying alert flashed on the screen, Elevated Radiation Levels. The lowest floor on the station was being flooded with radiation.
"You know me all too well," Waffles replied. "All too well..." he trailed off. Iry shot Waffles the 'you better not screw this up' look. He reached behind him for chair, but found none. Stupid 'efficient' room he thought. "Ok, heres the deal. One of our low end," he snuck a look around the room, "ummm, entry level guys snapped. He's taken control of the main reactor. It looks bad, real bad."
"Can't you bypass the.." Mac offered.
"No, he's highjacked the whole damned station." Waffles interrupted.
"Oh... thats... that makes sense."
"What, how?"
"The main reactor is directly tied to every system in the station."
"Oh, that. I was hoping for a little more, ummm, personal insight."
"Now what are you talking about."
Waffles spent the next few moments filling in Mac with all the details. He began with the report of the tech and ended with first demand that came over the loud speakers in the command center. "I want everyone to be able to leave if they want, or" That was the kicker, or, "I'll put the reactor into critical meltdown."
"So why not just evac?" Mac asked.
"Well, he's locked down the launch bays. And he's locked us out. Pretty impressive actually." Arlina shot Waffles a look that he was pretty sure meant that he'd be filling out all the paperwork on this, by himself. Before he could continue the loudspeaker in the northwestern corner squawked. "I think now that everyone has had a chance to leave, it's safe to assume it's just.." the speaker cut out and the southeast loudspeaker came to life, "us left. I'm going to start purging this station of the pain and acid and cold." It cut out with the same pop that brought it to life.
"Wait! Wait!" Slime yelled into the air.
"Man that was creepy," offered Drazed.
"Mac, you catch that?" Waffles asked.
"Yeah."
Waffles looked around the room a little distracted, "We want you to come back and talk to him."
"Talk to him?" Mac asked. After a few short moments of discussion he agreed.
"Good, start making your way here. You in system?"
"Yeah, It so happens the weather here is rather nice this time of year. Will he let me in?"
Waffles looked up to Iry who shook his head. "We don't think so. Hang out in K-5 for now."
"Roger. He sounds a little jumpy, I'll keep chatter down for now."
"Good call, I'll be getting with you in a bit when we have something."
Mac did not feel it was necessary to reply.
"Oh, shit..." Slime gasped. One of the consoles had begun to flash red. A simple, terrifying alert flashed on the screen, Elevated Radiation Levels. The lowest floor on the station was being flooded with radiation.
(5 months ago)
Mac sat uncomfortably on a stone bench in the dim, cool hall of the Temple. Distantly, he heard the sound of monks practicing their martial techniques, sparring on the expansive grounds. About him, the cavernous chamber echoed the shuffling footsteps and muffled coughs of various visitors and other monks coming and going. He studied the dust motes swirling in the many small shafts of sunlight that pierced the gloom, the swirling air currents making them dance.
"What is it you seek, my son?"
Mac twisted, looking for the source of the voice, finally spying the Abbot of the Order of Eo. He scrambled to his feet, then bowed to the monk, struggling for the words to answer the question. The monk laid a hand on his shoulder. "Peace." Mac took a deep breath, then raised his gaze to see the monk smiling at him. The Abbot gestured to the bench that Mac had been seated upon. "May I sit with you?"
Mac hesitated, then nodded. Again, the monk asked his question, "What is it you seek here?"
"I don't know." Mac shrugged. "Answers."
The monk studied Mac for a few moments, his eyes seeming to peer into his soul. Mac averted his gaze, but he could still feel the monk studying him. He fidgeted, finally raising his eyes to meet the monks stare. Finally, the monk spoke.
"What you seek is not here," he gestured around him, then stabbed his finger into Mac's chest so hard that it hurt. "It is in here. You have only to listen to it." Mac flinched away, then asked, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The monk smiled, then rose. Mac sat, looking up at him, searching his face for an answer. "You must lose your Self to find your answer." The monk bowed, and left, leaving Mac to stare at his retreating back.
"That's just great," Mac muttered to himself as he stalked out of the temple. "I just got told to 'get lost' by a monk."
Mac sat uncomfortably on a stone bench in the dim, cool hall of the Temple. Distantly, he heard the sound of monks practicing their martial techniques, sparring on the expansive grounds. About him, the cavernous chamber echoed the shuffling footsteps and muffled coughs of various visitors and other monks coming and going. He studied the dust motes swirling in the many small shafts of sunlight that pierced the gloom, the swirling air currents making them dance.
"What is it you seek, my son?"
Mac twisted, looking for the source of the voice, finally spying the Abbot of the Order of Eo. He scrambled to his feet, then bowed to the monk, struggling for the words to answer the question. The monk laid a hand on his shoulder. "Peace." Mac took a deep breath, then raised his gaze to see the monk smiling at him. The Abbot gestured to the bench that Mac had been seated upon. "May I sit with you?"
Mac hesitated, then nodded. Again, the monk asked his question, "What is it you seek here?"
"I don't know." Mac shrugged. "Answers."
The monk studied Mac for a few moments, his eyes seeming to peer into his soul. Mac averted his gaze, but he could still feel the monk studying him. He fidgeted, finally raising his eyes to meet the monks stare. Finally, the monk spoke.
"What you seek is not here," he gestured around him, then stabbed his finger into Mac's chest so hard that it hurt. "It is in here. You have only to listen to it." Mac flinched away, then asked, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The monk smiled, then rose. Mac sat, looking up at him, searching his face for an answer. "You must lose your Self to find your answer." The monk bowed, and left, leaving Mac to stare at his retreating back.
"That's just great," Mac muttered to himself as he stalked out of the temple. "I just got told to 'get lost' by a monk."
The heat in the reactor visual inspection room stayed at a balmy 104 degrees Fahrenheit (40C). The pipes running to and from the main reactor chiller hummed with activity. A compressor deep in the room sounded with a rhythmic thump every 2.75 seconds, the same sound that brought inspection tech to the room. Every dial, meter and guage was lit up with individual lights. Nothing was left to chance. Nothing. Everything in this room had a place, a purpose, a back up. Everything that is except one. The One that needed no purpose, the One that needed no place, and the One that definitely had no back up.
The sweat began to drip down Virmin Samsa's nose, splashing unheard against the backdrop of machinery. Everything had been going according to plan. A plan that Samsa was slowly beginning to realize had been set into action over the last few weeks. The increase in the power consumption in the 34th grip, the 'lost' maintenance request forms, the gradual increase in pressure on the secondary coolant line, which finally all led up to the mild vibration in the compressor. His entry. His exit from this prison, this hell.
Who had been doing this? Had he been doing this? When had he been doing this? "You've been busy, my friend. Yes, very busy indeed." Sleep. That was when. It started with sleep, well the lack of it. Sleep then became his tool. He had wondered why he had been able to sleep again, now he knew the answer. The One had needed him to sleep. The less he knew of his own plan the better. Can't tell on your self, if you don't know what your doing, thats what his mother always said. Well, she might have said it. She probably would actually never say that, but thats what moms are for, blaming stupid sayings on. And for the first time in his adulthood Virmin Samsa missed his mom.
The feeling was as quick and weak as the heart beat of a humming bird, but it was there. Dread filled him for the second time. "Come, now. Come, now" The One that reassures said. "There is much to do and oh so little time to do it in. So little time." He took a deep breathe and washed away all feeling, all emotion. He closed his eyes only for a second and when when reopened them he reached for the small wired microphone attached to the main console. "I want everyone to be able to leave if they want, or I'll put the reactor into critical meltdown."
He could hear his muffled voice through the twin doors. It made him smile.
The sweat began to drip down Virmin Samsa's nose, splashing unheard against the backdrop of machinery. Everything had been going according to plan. A plan that Samsa was slowly beginning to realize had been set into action over the last few weeks. The increase in the power consumption in the 34th grip, the 'lost' maintenance request forms, the gradual increase in pressure on the secondary coolant line, which finally all led up to the mild vibration in the compressor. His entry. His exit from this prison, this hell.
Who had been doing this? Had he been doing this? When had he been doing this? "You've been busy, my friend. Yes, very busy indeed." Sleep. That was when. It started with sleep, well the lack of it. Sleep then became his tool. He had wondered why he had been able to sleep again, now he knew the answer. The One had needed him to sleep. The less he knew of his own plan the better. Can't tell on your self, if you don't know what your doing, thats what his mother always said. Well, she might have said it. She probably would actually never say that, but thats what moms are for, blaming stupid sayings on. And for the first time in his adulthood Virmin Samsa missed his mom.
The feeling was as quick and weak as the heart beat of a humming bird, but it was there. Dread filled him for the second time. "Come, now. Come, now" The One that reassures said. "There is much to do and oh so little time to do it in. So little time." He took a deep breathe and washed away all feeling, all emotion. He closed his eyes only for a second and when when reopened them he reached for the small wired microphone attached to the main console. "I want everyone to be able to leave if they want, or I'll put the reactor into critical meltdown."
He could hear his muffled voice through the twin doors. It made him smile.
Thirty minutes had passes since the radiation alarms sounded. Reports were coming in, slowly at first, of mustering stations filling their rosters. Slime looked up from a console "All stations have reported in, everyone is accounted for." He let out a shallow sigh or relief. The stations were designed for just such a situation, with the intention of never needing to used. The sections were constructed with redundant power supplies, reserve air filtration and scrubbing. They could be sealed off from the rest of the station in case of catastrophic decompression or in the event of fatal radiation exposure. The lower three levels were completely saturated with radiation. Samsa simply rerouted the air ducts in to the emergency reactor condenser coils. Space stations were designed to as redundant as possible. Each system was developed to pick up any slack created by another systems failure. This is what Samsa was preying on. By closing off specific manifolds and rerouting air past redundant cooling coils and increasing the humidity then reintroducing the contaminated mist into the main ducts, he slowly and methodically laid his trap.
"I'm here to see if I can do anything to help." Paz stuck his head into the Command Center. Iry responded "Actually Paz, perfect, report to the second squad. We need some one to head up an assault if it comes to that, and lets pray to Eo it doesn't come to that."
"Aye Sir!" Paz saluted as he turned to report to second.
"Shit, has anyone seen my cat?" Waffles asked suddenly. Slime did a quick scan of his console, "Umm... Here he is! Looks like he 'reported' to the seventh mustering station."
"I love that little bastard."
Drazed slid a large sheet of paper with just as a large number calculations on it across the main table. "So, is this the plan," he asked pointing at a few numbers and diagrams. The group agreed. "Good, well, here goes."
Waffles walked over the comm station. "Mac, you still there? Here's the plan. Hope you haven't fallen in love with that ship."
"No," was Mac's simple and hesitant response.
"Good, find Peaches on Deneb Meditation, she'll probably be on hanger bay C. I'm going to send you some specs. She'll know what we need."
"I'm here to see if I can do anything to help." Paz stuck his head into the Command Center. Iry responded "Actually Paz, perfect, report to the second squad. We need some one to head up an assault if it comes to that, and lets pray to Eo it doesn't come to that."
"Aye Sir!" Paz saluted as he turned to report to second.
"Shit, has anyone seen my cat?" Waffles asked suddenly. Slime did a quick scan of his console, "Umm... Here he is! Looks like he 'reported' to the seventh mustering station."
"I love that little bastard."
Drazed slid a large sheet of paper with just as a large number calculations on it across the main table. "So, is this the plan," he asked pointing at a few numbers and diagrams. The group agreed. "Good, well, here goes."
Waffles walked over the comm station. "Mac, you still there? Here's the plan. Hope you haven't fallen in love with that ship."
"No," was Mac's simple and hesitant response.
"Good, find Peaches on Deneb Meditation, she'll probably be on hanger bay C. I'm going to send you some specs. She'll know what we need."
Mac read over the plans on the HUD as they came across. It all seemed pretty reasonable, except for the mostly blank section labelled "Peaches - figure this out." As soon as he was 2000 meters from the station, Mac hailed traffic control. "Deneb Meditation traffic control, Mac Entosh calling."
"Traffic control reads you five by five, Mac Entosh, welcome to Deneb Meditation Station."
"Meditation traffic, Mac Entosh. I need a priority vector to landing bay Charlie."
"Negative, Mac Entosh - the pattern is full. In case you didn't notice, there's some sort of emergency over at Elias Stand, so we've got a lot of refugees to sort through. Sit tight, we should have you vectored for docking in....about 2 hours."
Mac flipped a switch, effectively putting Meditation traffic control on hold, and punched up the ITAN channel. "Waffles?" "Yeah, Mac," came the reply. "Have you met up with Peaches yet?"
"Negative, Waffles. Traffic control is giving me a 2 hour wait to dock." Mac waited for the inevitable, which took about .2 seconds longer than he would have guessed. Iry came on the comm at about the same time the on hold channel to traffic control started flashing. "I think you'll find your way is clear now, Mac."
"Thanks." He switched over to the traffic control channel. "Emergency clearance to dock granted." "Thank you," Mac replied. "Oh, could you have Peaches Gonzales there to meet me?" The reply from the station was lost in a burst of static that Mac was pretty sure was intentional. He grinned as he guided his ship past the other waiting craft, and into the docking bay.
--
Peaches looked up as the battered Vulture came through the forcefield, and marveled that it was still flying. Blast scars were everywhere, and whole sections of hull plating were missing. Worse than the bearded, grimy pilot that exited the cockpit was the smell that accompanied him. "Phew." She waived her hand in front of her nose. "Bathing facilities are that way." She pointed. "And do us a favor, burn that flight suit." Mac stopped dead in his tracks, reached up and scratched his beard, and smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I guess I've been in there a while." Peaches pointed. "Go."
"Yes, ma'am." Mac went. Peaches looked at the plans sent to her by Waffles again, and the started issuing orders. "Ok! I need this docking bay cleared! All these ships, and non-essential personnel, out!"
--
Twenty minutes, a shave and a fresh flight suit later, Mac was back in the now-empty docking bay. Peaches looked up from her clipboard, and nodded an approval. "You don't clean up half bad." Mac grinned. "You still need a haircut."
"Ouch." Mac looked over at the Vulture, and saw that both of the Gauss cannons had been removed from their mounting points beneath the wings. It looked like a makeshift bracket had been welded in their place, and a light power cell was mounted to it. Peaches grabbed his elbow. "We're about done here, let's go talk in one of the conference rooms."
--
"As you know, we need to get you into O-3 undetected." Mac nodded, and Peaches continued. "Right now, we've got the station computer calculating a vector to make an entry into O-3 with a 'roid between you and the station, to mask the jump rings. As if that weren't hard enough, you have to make the entry...backwards."
"Backwards?" Mac raised an eyebrow. "Is that even possible?" He looked around the table at the assembled mechanics, techs and command staff of the station. Peaches cleared her throat. "Actually, yes. I've been working on a system to do just this, for a while now, as part of a stealth infiltration program. It's been successful in several simulations."
"'Simulations'? Exactly how many 'simulations' have you run on this?" Peaches looked at the floor and mumbled. "Excuse me? I couldn't hear you." Peaches looked Mac squarely in the eye, and said, "Two thousand."
"And you've been successful in 'several'," Mac said. "Three, actually," Peaches replied. "But we think we have the bugs worked out."
"Terrific," Mac said. "No, really. Listen, the theory's sound," Peaches pleaded. "I'm listening." Mac sat back in his chair, a skeptical eyebrow raised.
"Ok, so, when you jump, basically what you're doing is exploiting a fold in spacetime, crossing between two congruous points that can be hundreds of kilometers apart, or even light years apart." Mac nodded, and said, "Wormhole 101. We all know that."
"Yes. A microsecond before you jump, your stabilizing gyro is de-energized, because the dimensional orientation of the departure space and arrival space are not always the same - it has to do with the way spacetime is folded." Mac nodded again, and Peaches continued. "Once your navcomp detects the dimensional orientation of your arrival space, your gyro is aligned and re-energized. This is why you have a navigational delay just after you emerge from a jump."
"But what does this have to do with our situation, and that extra power cell you've rigged outside my ship?" Mac asked.
"Basically, bringing you in 'backwards' means that we get to specify your point of entry and your trajectory at your destination. In order to bring you in 'backwards', it turns out that we need to keep the gyro energized through the jump. All navcomps have a built-in interlock that makes it impossible to operate anything other than the displacement drive during a jump. It's easier to just rig an external power supply to the gyro than it is to override the interlock on the navcomp."
Mac thought about that for a moment. "But, if the gyro is energized, and the dimensional orientation is different..." He trailed off. "You get ripped into a long stream of sub-atomic particles," Peaches said, matter-of-factly. Mac blinked at that. "At least, that's what happened in the simulations."
"And you're telling me that this is our best chance?" Mac looked around the table. "Someone please tell me that you're joking. Please tell me that I didn't come back from six months of trying to kill myself without actually doing the deed by my own hand, just to succeed in doing it in some half-baked scheme."
Peaches coughed. "Actually, that's where the calculations the station computer is running come in to play. If we can calculate the difference between the dimensional orientations of the origin and destination, we can minimize the transitional stresses."
"You mean, minimize the chance of getting 'ripped into a long stream of sub-atomic particles'." Mac looked expectantly at Peaches. "Yeah, that," she replied. "And there's no other way of getting there?" Mac asked. "Not unless you want to spend three months on an orbital trajectory," Peaches replied. Mac sighed, and stared at the ceiling.
"Ok, I'm in."
"Traffic control reads you five by five, Mac Entosh, welcome to Deneb Meditation Station."
"Meditation traffic, Mac Entosh. I need a priority vector to landing bay Charlie."
"Negative, Mac Entosh - the pattern is full. In case you didn't notice, there's some sort of emergency over at Elias Stand, so we've got a lot of refugees to sort through. Sit tight, we should have you vectored for docking in....about 2 hours."
Mac flipped a switch, effectively putting Meditation traffic control on hold, and punched up the ITAN channel. "Waffles?" "Yeah, Mac," came the reply. "Have you met up with Peaches yet?"
"Negative, Waffles. Traffic control is giving me a 2 hour wait to dock." Mac waited for the inevitable, which took about .2 seconds longer than he would have guessed. Iry came on the comm at about the same time the on hold channel to traffic control started flashing. "I think you'll find your way is clear now, Mac."
"Thanks." He switched over to the traffic control channel. "Emergency clearance to dock granted." "Thank you," Mac replied. "Oh, could you have Peaches Gonzales there to meet me?" The reply from the station was lost in a burst of static that Mac was pretty sure was intentional. He grinned as he guided his ship past the other waiting craft, and into the docking bay.
--
Peaches looked up as the battered Vulture came through the forcefield, and marveled that it was still flying. Blast scars were everywhere, and whole sections of hull plating were missing. Worse than the bearded, grimy pilot that exited the cockpit was the smell that accompanied him. "Phew." She waived her hand in front of her nose. "Bathing facilities are that way." She pointed. "And do us a favor, burn that flight suit." Mac stopped dead in his tracks, reached up and scratched his beard, and smiled ruefully. "Yeah, I guess I've been in there a while." Peaches pointed. "Go."
"Yes, ma'am." Mac went. Peaches looked at the plans sent to her by Waffles again, and the started issuing orders. "Ok! I need this docking bay cleared! All these ships, and non-essential personnel, out!"
--
Twenty minutes, a shave and a fresh flight suit later, Mac was back in the now-empty docking bay. Peaches looked up from her clipboard, and nodded an approval. "You don't clean up half bad." Mac grinned. "You still need a haircut."
"Ouch." Mac looked over at the Vulture, and saw that both of the Gauss cannons had been removed from their mounting points beneath the wings. It looked like a makeshift bracket had been welded in their place, and a light power cell was mounted to it. Peaches grabbed his elbow. "We're about done here, let's go talk in one of the conference rooms."
--
"As you know, we need to get you into O-3 undetected." Mac nodded, and Peaches continued. "Right now, we've got the station computer calculating a vector to make an entry into O-3 with a 'roid between you and the station, to mask the jump rings. As if that weren't hard enough, you have to make the entry...backwards."
"Backwards?" Mac raised an eyebrow. "Is that even possible?" He looked around the table at the assembled mechanics, techs and command staff of the station. Peaches cleared her throat. "Actually, yes. I've been working on a system to do just this, for a while now, as part of a stealth infiltration program. It's been successful in several simulations."
"'Simulations'? Exactly how many 'simulations' have you run on this?" Peaches looked at the floor and mumbled. "Excuse me? I couldn't hear you." Peaches looked Mac squarely in the eye, and said, "Two thousand."
"And you've been successful in 'several'," Mac said. "Three, actually," Peaches replied. "But we think we have the bugs worked out."
"Terrific," Mac said. "No, really. Listen, the theory's sound," Peaches pleaded. "I'm listening." Mac sat back in his chair, a skeptical eyebrow raised.
"Ok, so, when you jump, basically what you're doing is exploiting a fold in spacetime, crossing between two congruous points that can be hundreds of kilometers apart, or even light years apart." Mac nodded, and said, "Wormhole 101. We all know that."
"Yes. A microsecond before you jump, your stabilizing gyro is de-energized, because the dimensional orientation of the departure space and arrival space are not always the same - it has to do with the way spacetime is folded." Mac nodded again, and Peaches continued. "Once your navcomp detects the dimensional orientation of your arrival space, your gyro is aligned and re-energized. This is why you have a navigational delay just after you emerge from a jump."
"But what does this have to do with our situation, and that extra power cell you've rigged outside my ship?" Mac asked.
"Basically, bringing you in 'backwards' means that we get to specify your point of entry and your trajectory at your destination. In order to bring you in 'backwards', it turns out that we need to keep the gyro energized through the jump. All navcomps have a built-in interlock that makes it impossible to operate anything other than the displacement drive during a jump. It's easier to just rig an external power supply to the gyro than it is to override the interlock on the navcomp."
Mac thought about that for a moment. "But, if the gyro is energized, and the dimensional orientation is different..." He trailed off. "You get ripped into a long stream of sub-atomic particles," Peaches said, matter-of-factly. Mac blinked at that. "At least, that's what happened in the simulations."
"And you're telling me that this is our best chance?" Mac looked around the table. "Someone please tell me that you're joking. Please tell me that I didn't come back from six months of trying to kill myself without actually doing the deed by my own hand, just to succeed in doing it in some half-baked scheme."
Peaches coughed. "Actually, that's where the calculations the station computer is running come in to play. If we can calculate the difference between the dimensional orientations of the origin and destination, we can minimize the transitional stresses."
"You mean, minimize the chance of getting 'ripped into a long stream of sub-atomic particles'." Mac looked expectantly at Peaches. "Yeah, that," she replied. "And there's no other way of getting there?" Mac asked. "Not unless you want to spend three months on an orbital trajectory," Peaches replied. Mac sighed, and stared at the ceiling.
"Ok, I'm in."
Can I have one of those backwards jumpy thingys, for parties?
No?
/me slips a few million credits across the bar.
No?
/me slips a few million credits across the bar.
"Final calculations have been uploaded, Mac."
"Copy that, Peaches." Mac locked the coordinates into the standby buffer that had been grafted onto the gyro. "Locked in."
"Stand by to begin your run on our mark."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Well," Peaches said, "you could go before we tell you, which will throw off the predicted vectors. The good news is, you'll never know that you didn't make it."
"Gee, you're just full of optimism and sunshine," Mac replied.
"That's why they call me 'Peaches'. Five minutes to window."
"Copy that." Mac cut the comm, and called up Waffles' plan on the HUD. Aside from playing fast and loose with wormhole dynamics, it was all pretty straightforward. Still, Mac looked it over again to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
--
Waffles looked up to see Iry motioning him over to the situation table. In the time it had taken Mac, Peaches and the crew over on Deneb Meditation to modify Mac's Vulture, Samsa had flooded another five levels with radiation. They were running out of places to put refugees from those decks. "Let's go over the final plan," Iry said.
"Sure." Waffles cleared the table, and called up the station schematics. "After Mac clears the wormhole..."
--
"Thirty seconds, Mac. Commence final alignment."
Mac cleared his HUD, and confirmed that he was in position and pointed in the right direction. "Alignment confirmed," he replied.
"We're confirmed with Elias Stand, and they're standing by for entry," Peaches said. "You've got 15 seconds to back out."
"What, and miss out on all the excitement?" Mac asked. "Not a chance."
"In five...four...three...two...one...commence." Mac slammed the throttle forward, and engaged the afterburners. The Vulture leapt forward, accelerating quickly. "Approaching target velocity and coordinates," Peaches reported. "Stand by to engage displacement in five...four...three...two...one..."
Mac engaged the jump sequence. The familiar tachyon beam shot forward, piercing the spacetime fabric and forming the wormhole horizon. Almost simultaneously, he saw an eruption of tachyons off his starboard side, and the tell-tale expanding rings of an incoming wormhole. Had he had time, he would have cursed. The energy fluctuations of the incoming wormhole, and the gravitational mass of the incoming ship, would throw off the carefully calculated jump. He didn't have time before his ship crossed the wormhole threshold.
At that instant, the incoming wormhole suddenly evaporated, creating an electromagnetic pulse that fried the navigation systems on all the other ships in the sector. The heavier shielding of the station spared it the worst of the effects, causing a reboot of the station mainframe.
--
"Crap!" Peaches exclaimed. "What the hell was that?" She looked around the control center. "Somebody tell me what happened?" Power flickered and computer screens blanked out, then came back on. The comm burst alive with the chatter of dozens of ships, suddenly unable to navigate. All hell broke loose, as traffic controllers scrambled to help.
"Eo be with you, Mac," she muttered under her breath.
"Copy that, Peaches." Mac locked the coordinates into the standby buffer that had been grafted onto the gyro. "Locked in."
"Stand by to begin your run on our mark."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Well," Peaches said, "you could go before we tell you, which will throw off the predicted vectors. The good news is, you'll never know that you didn't make it."
"Gee, you're just full of optimism and sunshine," Mac replied.
"That's why they call me 'Peaches'. Five minutes to window."
"Copy that." Mac cut the comm, and called up Waffles' plan on the HUD. Aside from playing fast and loose with wormhole dynamics, it was all pretty straightforward. Still, Mac looked it over again to make sure he hadn't missed anything.
--
Waffles looked up to see Iry motioning him over to the situation table. In the time it had taken Mac, Peaches and the crew over on Deneb Meditation to modify Mac's Vulture, Samsa had flooded another five levels with radiation. They were running out of places to put refugees from those decks. "Let's go over the final plan," Iry said.
"Sure." Waffles cleared the table, and called up the station schematics. "After Mac clears the wormhole..."
--
"Thirty seconds, Mac. Commence final alignment."
Mac cleared his HUD, and confirmed that he was in position and pointed in the right direction. "Alignment confirmed," he replied.
"We're confirmed with Elias Stand, and they're standing by for entry," Peaches said. "You've got 15 seconds to back out."
"What, and miss out on all the excitement?" Mac asked. "Not a chance."
"In five...four...three...two...one...commence." Mac slammed the throttle forward, and engaged the afterburners. The Vulture leapt forward, accelerating quickly. "Approaching target velocity and coordinates," Peaches reported. "Stand by to engage displacement in five...four...three...two...one..."
Mac engaged the jump sequence. The familiar tachyon beam shot forward, piercing the spacetime fabric and forming the wormhole horizon. Almost simultaneously, he saw an eruption of tachyons off his starboard side, and the tell-tale expanding rings of an incoming wormhole. Had he had time, he would have cursed. The energy fluctuations of the incoming wormhole, and the gravitational mass of the incoming ship, would throw off the carefully calculated jump. He didn't have time before his ship crossed the wormhole threshold.
At that instant, the incoming wormhole suddenly evaporated, creating an electromagnetic pulse that fried the navigation systems on all the other ships in the sector. The heavier shielding of the station spared it the worst of the effects, causing a reboot of the station mainframe.
--
"Crap!" Peaches exclaimed. "What the hell was that?" She looked around the control center. "Somebody tell me what happened?" Power flickered and computer screens blanked out, then came back on. The comm burst alive with the chatter of dozens of ships, suddenly unable to navigate. All hell broke loose, as traffic controllers scrambled to help.
"Eo be with you, Mac," she muttered under her breath.