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What treasures lie at the 77th meridian?

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Just imagine what’s down there between the North Pole across the Arctic Ocean, North America, the Atlantic Ocean and hang a left at Albuguergue. Such mystery, much wow.

Not going to lie, besides building a hundred plus pie charts in the next few days, and a 3D rendering of an instore install item, I won’t be doing much of anything. Well, beyond resting my wrists and stretching my back every so often that is. I’m nearing 2/3 rds done, so I’m on track, but the last 16 blocks of data are big, unwieldy and looking to break my spirit on the daily. *Editor’s note: have blocked in all 108 pages with 190 pie charts left to build, place and populate with figures..

Like I said, big and unwieldy. Chat when I’m not so pressed for time!

Day 75! Woah. That’s like a milestone or somethin’.

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Early start on this weeks paid work project. Hoping to get through the first forty or so pages before Monday morning. Still going to be a challenging week even with a forty page head start! That’s pretty insane. But it pays well, and I’ll have two more after this one is done coming to round out my spring.

So Day 75! I’m happy to report I had a tiny spurt of creativity last night while watching Hacksaw Ridge on tv. I worked hard in the morning, and went skating (where I fell on my left elbow) ouch! But had a great time in the blustery icy winds. I dressed accordingly and was thus richly rewarded. A hard fall on my elbow and shoulder when I caught an edge, but, as I said, well padded in warm winter clothes, so beyond the pain of the bump, no real damage done. But these forties, they keep on coming with the physical disadvantages! For real. Makes me question my desire to down hill ski or snowboard any more. Perhaps a shift to only cross country skiing could save me from potential calamity! Plus – exercise and loud music!

Ten pages left to reach today’s goal, so I’ll leave you all to what’s left of your Sunday.

“Do you know why I asked you come here Ms. Darla?”

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“Hm. Do you have some terrible inkling for what I might have in store you for?” The doctor asks through his surgical mask. He isn’t facing Darla whom is strapped down onto an icy cold metallic gurney. His attention elsewhere as he is looking over his personal hand written notes and diagrams tapped up to a wall in his private surgical bay. The drawings are gruesome but are also the product of someone with artistic talent, and more than a little flair.

The sage green tiles of the operating room glisten with moisture as the large overhead drum lights buzz loudly in the quiet theater. The quality of the light is a brilliant, nearly pristine blue white. Darla has to squint to make out the shape of the doctor across the room from her. But the starkness of the paper stands out against the darkness of the rough hewn rock walls above the green tiles. Massive double doors swing gently as the air circulates constantly through some whisper quiet hepa filter units. The air tastes astringent, like bleach residue and quat sanitizer spray mixed together. It tastes thickly on her tongue and sticks cloyingly in her throat. The center of the floor, directly under Darla and her gurney is a sloped polished cement floor that terminates in a large drain grill that occasionally gurgles and burps as the base UB313 tilts and rotates under its orbital stresses.

A panicked and afraid Darla can’t turn her head more than a few inches or move any of her limbs at all, the tight straps are biting into her flesh sharply with every twitch and tug. Her heart is thumping in her chest, and her breaths come in ragged bursts. “Well aren’t you the excitable type.” Quips the doctor as he turns away from his notes, pushing his glasses up his nose with a single finger. “Not to worry Darla. I’m not going to operate, but you see I have other needs of you. No- no, not those kind either, I’m afraid.” He chuckles leering over Darla’s nude figure writhing on the gurney. Leaning towards her he picks up a needle from a tray covered by a blue cloth. “No, even I have my limits. Apparently I can’t just kill all of my Risk Assessors in one fell swoop. Your friend Trevor is quite right, I do need the processing power which the Oracle network soaks up.” He says jovially. With a quick and practiced motion he swabs her arm and plunges in a syringe attached to a tube and collection bag. ” I need it to feed my babies. I know everyone thinks I’m mental and that I don’t believe it Nanobots or Nanotech, but the truth is, those are artificial. More machine dependencies. No!” He shouts angrily.”Here, with what I’ve learned, with the experiments I’ve cultivated. I have harnessed uniquely natural energies to power my beasties. My darlings, my lovelies. No-no, for you I just need plasma, some platelets, and various other minor ingredients which my standing army has trouble processing in abundance. I had hoped i would have the time to help them so that they could synthesize the remaining items better, but not to worry! A little prick, a pinch and a squeeze and you’ll be back to your desk in no time.” Laughs doctor Jang heartily. Pulling his mask down around his chin, he circles the gurney to stand at Darla’s head. Bending at the hip he Whispers into her ears, so softly she can barely hear him. “Do you want to know why I’ve exposed you? Left you nothing to hide behind? Showing me just how afraid of me you are?” His breath a soft caress of her cheek. “Because I get off on it.”

“Come on Darla, are you being serious right now? We’ve all had to take turns donating blood, why would he put you in the surgical bay naked for what amounts to a blood drive. That’s insane. Just tell us where you were, and why you’re three hours late for your shift?” Quips the short, fat man with a ridiculous moustache. “I just fucking told you why, Ricky!” Screams Darla as she shakes and trembles at her desk. “Yeah, well… un-fucking-likely, am I right!?” Snivels Ricky in response. “Oh, your buddy Trevor left you a note on your desk. He wouldn’t let me read it, said it was for your eyes only. Technically I’m not your boss per se, but I’ve been here like three weeks more than you, so… you know. I kinda am.” He trills weakly turning back to his own work station, leaving a very upset Darla sitting alone in her cramped office. Slamming the door shut after Ricky leaves, Darla crumples into her chair with hot salty tears streaming down her cheeks. After a brief period of tremors she sniffles, rubs her eyes with her palms and finds a small envelope sealed with black wax tucked in beside her computer terminal. “Where does he get all this shit?” Darla mumbles to herself, looking over the black wax seal, and the rough off white paper envelope. Using her finger nail to pick the wax seal off whole, she pulls out the slip of folded paper and unfurls it. The rough hand made paper smells like lavender, and is rough to the touch under her fingers. Her fingers make an audible scrape as she runs her nail over the textured paper. Two words are scribbled in the center of the slip of paper, along with a red blob. Pulling her desk lamp over towards her, she flips on the dim bulb to reveal what it says.

The blob at the center looks like a bloody finger print, and the note reads “We’re fucked!”.

Part Twenty Six: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

Busy one.

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The next monster report came in midway through yesterday, and then other clients had changes I wasn’t expecting, so now I’m working off & on over the weekend to capture those missed hours. This is a long one, with lots of extraneous parts, so I have to concentrate. Kids are home, and they chose not to sleep in, so now things are getting messy. Weee!

Sun is out and shining, so I’ll wager that it’s cold as all get out outside today. Trying to stay sane and get work done in drips and drabs.

Seventy three feet below the surface,

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And i’m beginning to feel a lot like Hans Moleman. Short, shrivelled, thick coke bottle glasses and desperately in need of a kick to the balls to remain relevant in today’s media environment. Or was it a football to the testes that garnered him the win during the short film contest? It’s been so long that I forget. A lone “Ha-ha!” Booms out from the distance, as Nelson Mandela Muntz skitters back into obscurity behind a dumpster somewhere.

Yeah, so…. busy week I guess. A long feeling short week coming off the holiday Monday. Looks like Ukraine has a shit tonne of bad to look towards for the foreseeable future. That’s just going to be a horrific mess no matter what. You know what, I don’t really know enough to make any real qualitative statements, so I’ll just leave it alone, from a policy, or action view point. Just to say, I feel for Ukraine and its people. I hope they prevail, and that most of their people make it out the otherside alive and well. But, God-Damn!, what a mess.

Looking like white out conditions here. The starting temperature was minus twelve, plus whatever the wind chill factor is because she’s a tad blowy out there fellas. It’s fucken WIMDY, as the memes would say. Sad wind blown fox on a field of white .jpeg – as it were. It usually doesn’t snow once the degrees drop that low, but again, not a meteorologist. Studied weather, climate and ecology a little in university, just enough to be a useful idiot I suppose. I had a broad but shallow base to my post secondary education, excluding the Print & Web Graphic Design stuff. That was laser focused and very intensive. But that was from two separate Art Schools and not the University I attended as well, so – Nyah!

The last couple weeks have been busy with work, so my brain hasn’t occupied the creative writing space in a number of days. Next week won’t be any better in that front as I have the first of three big spring reports coming, and those will soak up some serious brain power, focus and wrist strength. Although, you know I’ll say that, and then will desperately need a break from it all and will write something. So who knows any more. I don’t think this second book will reach sixty thousand words, but if I hit forty thousand then cumulatively I’ll have done 100,000 which is like a short-ish full sized novel. Which is cool.

Strike that from the bucket list. Check! Just need to write and record at least one song, produce a comic book of 32-64 pages in length, and I will have a good chunk of my childhood dream projects completed. I’m a working artist, I own my own business, I sculpt reasonably well, I have made tables and wood working projects. Went to art school, but also did Soc & Business in university, traveled across Europe, got married, have kids, had a lovely old fat dopey mutt (until he passed away at 12 yrs old) and have worked on major campaigns for multiple big breweries, and have helped launch smaller micro breweries too. Do I wish we were rich beyond measure, sure, but we’re also not doing too badly either. Working for myself affords me the time to be with my kids, instead of leaving the house at 6:00am and getting home after 8:00pm, and being a grumpy shit. I do school drop offs and pick ups, I’m here for sick days and appointments. I fix lunches and breakfasts. I brush teeth and hair. I can do bath times and bed time stories. It’s rather lovely when you compare it to my days before kids.

The last Thursday in February.

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It holds no special meaning beyond its proximity to March, and thus March Break and the foretold lead in to spring. The winds are bitter and cold, but carry slightly more moisture than weeks passed. And are therefore more biting, and cut deeper toward the bone. A listless jab to the body on the way out for another year.

Almost two months down into the new year, and once again the threat of war looms low over the headd of Eastern Europeans, and eventually the world. Let us not forget that West Taiwan wants to attack Taiwan proper for similar land grab and control reasons. Colonialism at its worst, and therefore also its finest. Because that’s what the machine does best, slow roll over everything and everyone in order to enrich itself and crush that which stands in the way of ever increasing expansion, and the industries created to maintain it. Weee! Splat.

Perhaps the sanctions will be enough to send the incursion packing after they’ve done a few days of random, yet targeted shelling in Ukraine’s “contested” territories. I used quotes here as the only one contesting it is Putin, and his Colonial over reach across borders. Eating up another country bite by bite, like he did with Crimea. Carving up a smaller neighbour for the sake of expanding a border and reclaiming some semblance of the USSR’s control over the region. Talk about boomer energy. That’s some rose coloured, nostalgia heavy talk of returning to the past. But with heavy casualties, death and dismemberment.

On a lighter note, who wants icecream? Hard to make a segue into any topic after talk of war in Europe. But I tried, an attempt was made. So – big picture talk here. What to do with the house come Spring & Summer? I think i want to tackle the screen door again. Build one from scratch. The basement needs to get more reasonable air flow. I also invested in a bigger and better table saw late last year, and think i can do a much better job of it now, that how i did it before. Still going to be a challenge, but i think i can get it done this year! I’d also like to challenge myself to build either a table or a chair this year too. Just one chair, not a set. That sounds tedious to me. One off items are way more exciting to produce, as far as I’m concerned. Spring will also bring a new round of heavy cleaning, decluttering and a broken toy purge. Have tackled the girls closets for ill fitting clothes. Bigger kids stuff if not ruined goes to the youngest when she’s big enough for it, and clothes from older cousins & friends filter back into the older ones closet in a seemingly endless cycle. Glad for it too. Besides pant legs much of this stuff doesn’t see enough action under one kid to go into a landfill. What we don’t use/need goes to other family members in the surrounding area. I’d love to do one in one out, but sometimes that’s not the case. Swim suits get destroyed by the sun and chlorine and heavy use, so we couldn’t donate as many of those as we actually use. If you swim two or three times a day, as is the case with us during the summer, then they (swimsuits) disintegrate pretty rapidly. Girls get duck bum, as the elastic goes in the rear and a saggy duck tail appears in the fabric as it settles. Straps wear out, and whole thing sags, and then it’s just trashed after several months. Wouldn’t want to give that mess to someone else, that’s just rude.

Will need to look at my mower again this spring, see if I can convince the old girl to give me a sixteenth cutting season! Wash and clean the filters, new oil, blades sharpened, clean the spark plug, oil it up and hope for the best. Bought it in January of 2006, and has started by the second/third pull every single year since then. Doesn’t owe me much, but I’d be thankful if it kept going a few more years yet.

A taste of earlier today in this dad’s life. Sorting out laundry loads five and six. Which was the last scraps of the kids stuff, and my wife’s clothes. Then sorting out all the one off socks we seem to have accumulated. Stacks upon stacks of singular socks. Now I don’t know if the opposites have been lost, left behind places, developed holes and were thrown away, eaten or sacrificed to the washer and dryer, but I know this. One day I will go and buy bags upon bags of plain black and white socks, that fit my wife and daughters, and then I will never sort another sock again. You get 2 lbs of B&W socks, so do you and you too. I don’t want to pair, fold, stash another sock after that happens. Theme socks seem like such a good idea until no one can keep them together to get washed at the same time, or sorted and paired again after wearing them. I’ll wager good money a fair few socks are under beds throughout the house.

“Good morning, and how is my patient today? Hm…”

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“Oh now don’t get up Mimi.” Chuckles the man to himself. “I realize you’re catatonic in your stasis sleeve.” He says walking around her as she is stuck hanging frozen in her pod. He comes to stand face to chest with Mimi as her enormous body hangs several inches in the air, suspended in her metallic egg shaped pod. The biological ingredients of the slurry she’s encased in keep her body clean as well as the cells fed, without having to run a more intrusive feeding tube, or catheters for waste removal. The magazine like structure where she is warehoused during the transit from near Earth to Pluto is one long thin room, lined with hundreds if not thousands of similar stasis pods that extend out away from her into darkness. The long hall sloping upwards like a giant wheel seen from the inside. Each one of the sleeves containing other members of her fire team or tanker unit swinging and swaying gently in the dimly lit room. The closest source of light is a sickly green glow from below the dirty floor grates. The grime covered bulbs burning a small trail of oily smoke upwards leaving a thick dark soot upon the wall opposite her. There is motion in front of her eyes as Mimi stares at the man, his breath begins to fog up her clam shell glass door. Besides the man, and the endless rows of sleeping infantrymen, the two are effectively alone. The man of medium build, and bushy brown hair looks vaguely familiar, but it’s really hard to tell from the distortion of the clam shell doors, and his fogging breath. “Have I got some fun in-store for us today Mimi. Oh baby, you’re a big girl. I’m going to have some fun!” The man shouts as he turns in a circle in front of the pod. His soft moccasins make no noise on the open metal grate floors. The green sickly light of the room sparkles off of all the full stasis pods, catching on angles and all of the beveled curves. The man is clapping and hopping about excitedly. As the fog from his breath begins to recede against the glass Mimi can see the man wheel over a cart full of tools and surgical implements. Her heart rate begins to increase. Inside the stasis pod the paralyzed Mimi begins to panic. “Oh Mimi, we are going to have so – much – fun.” The man grins widely, as he begins to open up her pod. The soft hiss of escaping gas, mixing with the rank smell of his hot breath crawls deeply up inside her nasal cavity, to cling cloyingly in her throat. “Don’t worry baby doll, daddy’s got some new tricks today.” He whispers thickly into her ear.

“Uh doctor Tam, we have increased brain activity with Tanker number four eleven, uh, Mimi. Mimi Waters ma’am. Her synapses are going ape shit again.” Says the hunched over orderly in the medical bay. His desk a mess of papers and charts and data logs. Infront of him is a bank of seven monitors all displaying the brain activity of a full platoon of infantrymen aboard the Righteous Chord. A shuffle of papers, and the rustling of pants is all the man hears in response. A moment later he can feel the warmth of an agitated body beside him at the desk. “Pull her up to the main screen. Can we add in an overlay of the last incident. When was that, can I get a time stamp please?” Barks doctor Tam into the general melee of the room. Someone from nearby shouts out. “According to her helmet camera data from the tanker unit she is in stasis inside reads that she only just finished one about an hour ago ma’am.” The response is quick and to the point. “Christ, an hour? What is the actual? Please. Mr… um… Deakins.” Doctor Tam pauses for a breath to allow the tech at the monitoring station to bring up her data. “Actual official time stamp from central monitoring is fifty seven minutes, and two four seconds ma’am.” He says. “Less than an hour inbetween, Jesus Christ. Is this across the board, or only a few rare cases.” Dr Tam asks into the room, to no one in particular. “Looks to be across the board ma’am.” Says Deakins flatly. “Fuck!” Shouts dr Tam. She leans over Deakins shoulder to turn the monitor towards herself to get a better angle. “Can I get a visual of the patient on screen, and bring up all of the play backs of the brain activity. Over lay them all together at once. Same start times and just let them play over in real time with this new incident please.” She says calmly. “Now we watch and wait, and see if we learn anything new.” The doctor pulls a chair close as her whole teams stops to watch Mimi’s face, a frozen rictus of anguish, fear and absolute terror. “Map any micro expressions, or eye movement. I need something from all this, anything at all!” Barks doctor Tam. As she settles in, and steals herself to watching someone in total paralysis have a waking nightmare, and brain damaging migraine combo, for the thousandth time in just weeks.

With a loud creak the bushy haired man cranks the clam shell door open further than it needs to go. Standing in the open door way the man leers inside. “That’s it honey girl, let me have a good look at you. Oh my, we have so much to work with!” He stamps his feet and dances a silly jig like a toddler. “I just don’t know where to start with you today. So many choices, so many rock hard, throbbing choices! You don’t know what you do to me Mimi. If you only knew!” He chirps in a sing song voice. The man’s eyes gaze over Mimi’s nude figure lingering upon the under hang of her breasts and her flat muscular abdomen. He reaches out with both hands to run his palms over her stomach. “Do you know what I really want to try today Mimi?” He whispers as he rests his face against the cool flesh of her belly. Turning his head to rest an ear and a cheek against her tummy he looks up at the frozen face above. He uses a finger to run lazy circles around her belly button before he places several fingers of his right hand into her belly button. “I had a dream last night about you Mimi. I did something naughty. But it felt – so – good!” He says laughing. “You’ll never guess what it was. Not in a million years. You’ll never guess!” He sings aloud.

Mimi is frozen in place as the man before her rests his head upon her belly, she can feel his long bony fingers tracing lazy circles around her belly. With a pinch she can feel him push several fingers into her belly button, as he plays at his version of pillow talk. She is angry, she is violated, she is totally unable to move, blink, talk or do anything while in stasis, and she screams internally for what feels like days on end. With the removal of tension from her belly she can see the doctor pull back. He’s reaching over to the wheely cart behind him, the selection of tools just out of focus from her field of vision. He is talking quietly, Mimi can’t make out what he’s saying to himself.

“The thing is my lovely, we’ve been doing this for years now, and we’ll just keep on doing this for years to come. But the fact is I need something more. I need something new. Variety, my lovely Mimi, is the spice of life. We’ve tried every thing of a natural sort, but now I think we need to get creative Hmm. Yes, yes we do. Ah here it is, you were hiding from me!” The man sneers at his tray of tools. “Trusty scalpel was being sneaky.” He reaches down to pick up the instrument. The sharp edges glint in the oozy green light. The man’s bushy brown hair is now damp, as though he is sweating from exertion or from heightened arousal. “Here’s my plan my lovely, I’m going to cut a one inch hole in your belly, and then I’m going to penetrate you until I spackle your guts from the inside! How’s that for something new!” He squeals in delight as he leans forward to his sloppy work.

Mimi catches the glint of a scalpel in the putrid light of the room. The man is so excited he jolts about animatedly. Did he just say spackle my guts? She thinks. Oh what the fuck is this. With a hideous jab she feels the blade glide through the tissue and muscle of her abdomen, pain blooms from the deep wound. If she weren’t paralyzed she’d have crushed this man’s skull several times over, since he began to visit her in stasis weeks ago. Through glassy eyes she can make out the shape of the man as he moves his cart closer to the open clamshell doors of her pod. Clumsily he climbs up, and begins to pull himself out of his pants and shuffles forward towards her. Pain explodes in her abdomen, as the brown haired man hunches to his work.

“Oh Mimi, oh, oh Mimi, do you know what this needs?” The man giggles as he splashes onto her exposed intestine. “Tomorrow, we use fire!” He laughs, and laughs, and laughs as he wipes himself off and retreats down the hallway into the distance.

Over the video screens doctor Tam can see Mimi’s face scrunch and pulse as her brain waves skyrocket. In the middle of taking a note her wrist communicator pings a notification from both admiral Garneau and his lead advisor Gerald. An emergency meeting has just been booked for the admirals ready room in a few minutes time.

A commotion at the lab doors breaks out as a team of six technicians drag two badly beaten men into the room by their arm pits. Doctor Tam looks at the message from the CO and shouts over the din inside the lab. “Excuse me, Ladies and Gents, we are working here. These two men are to accompany me to my next meeting, so do be kind, yes?” She shouts menacingly. The gathered technicians slowly settle down into a more subdued state. The obvious adrenaline rush gives way to the shakes, and a few of them sit down as they succumb to the feeling. Turning away from the younger portion of her team doctor Tam goes back to standing watch over the monitors, quietly.

“What was that! Did you see that? Was that a spike, report to me people. Did we catch that? Is it distortion from the camera, is it parallax?” Shouts doctor Tam to her room full of medical staff and technicians. “We have it ma’am!” Chimes in Deakins. “She spiked her neural load so high it was off the charts, she nearly had an out of body experience. I can’t imagine what she’s thinking in there. Whatever it is, it’s fucking awful, ma’am” Deakins says quietly to the doctor seated behind him. “That Mr Deakins is the under statement of the fucking century!” Scoffs doctor Tam. “I need a report of this to take with me to the SLT meeting.” As she walks toward the doors out to the lifts a petite woman hands her the print out of the case studies and has the two semi conscious men in tow.

Chapter Twenty Five: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

And on the sixty fifth day, He said, Oh – Lord, I have finished reading the last book in the series, and was at once, both elated, and forlorn.

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For it was a good series, of both length and depth, but now it is over, and where there used to stand a long winding road full of opportunities there is now only the hard cold truth of the back cover, closed and defined. Like a stone rolled over the door to seal in the freshness. I am sad. I do however have a new book to read, a part of another series I enjoy, plus next month John Scalzi’s new book will drop and I’ll likely enjoy that one too.

I wasn’t going to talk about books, I had something else on my mind which I was gearing up for today, but now that the power has been out since 2:00am, school is cancelled, it’s going to rain like cats and dogs all day, I had to change gear. I imagine power will be back some time between 9:00am and 12:00pm, so it won’t be an entirely lost work day, but with the kiddos home it’ll be a wash. No tv, no microwave, no toaster or fridge, no dvd player, and no furnace. Could potentially be a trying day for us. Oh joy.

Happy I managed to get through so much work on Monday through Wednesday. Could have been a disaster if I’d left it until later in the week.

Now that I think on it, I can’t recall – at all, what I was going to lead with today. Not even a scintilla of an idea of what it was. I know that yesterday afternoon I thought it was funny. But it totally escapes me now.

Oh, to be fair I was reading the Expanse book series, if anyone wanted to know. Book nine finished it all off. Although I did see that they have collected some peripheral short stories from the universe into a book, so perhaps we’re not quite done yet. We’ll see. I liked how it came together, so maybe I’ll leave well enough alone? Or not. I don’t have any other science fiction series that I have been following along with besides Matha Wells’ Murder Bot Diaries (which is also fantastic) oh and Mary Robinette Kowals alternate history A Lady Astronaut Novel series.

I have done some considerable thinking about my next few chapters. Was planning to write one today, but – kids home all day due to inclement weather. Stay tuned, things should get interesting!

“They are absolutely going to crucify us if word of this ever gets out.”

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Groans Piotr to Brian through the partition between their computer terminals. “Oh, I have no illusions that we aren’t going to wind up with bullets in our heads after we complete the upload of this program. Believe you, me.” Barks Brian in response. “You didn’t list crimes against humanity on your CV I see.” Laughs Piotr in a strained voice. “Oh it says here you were convicted of War Crimes, care to tell us more about that?” Mocks Brian with a twinge of pain in his voice.

The two have been sequestered in a private work room on the command decks only accessible by the admiral of the Company fleet himself. The spacious room, meant for tactical weapons strategy teams to develop firing solutions in the event of an or ital ship to ship battle, has become their adhoc work station, and prison cell. Meant to take a staff of twelve the room is broad but low ceilinged. With twelve combat terminals and high powered integrated computers built to process millions of points of data near instantaneously. They have matching cots, and a portable head bolted into the floor so that they can sleep, bathe and relieve themselves without ever having to leave the room. The only interruptions coming from the meal service that swings by three times a day. Bringing in trays of food and removing used utensils, and empty bulbs of fluids. The meal bots surreptitiously runs full body scans on both men to maintain a medical record of their health while sequestered under duress.

A massive portable sensor array is stored in the room along with them. At once monitoring their every move as well as prepping itself to broadcast the final solution program code out to every nanobot in the fleet associated with the heavy infantrymen currently in stasis aboard The Righteous Chord and other vessels in the fleet. Sleeves of people who are technically still alive, but are stored away – dead in the water.

Brian is seated behind his side of the partition with his monitor obscured by a blanket. An added step to make sure both men were not observing each others code, so that they can in turn review the others product knowing it is entirely different from their own. They both opted to write their own version of the programming code for the nanotech update, and then swap it out daily between themselves to review it. In doing so they could check for errors, and find the most robust solution to their problems without influencing each other in the process of problem solving. One who tended towards brute force and the other on finesse and subtlety. Sometimes talking through it line by line, rubber ducking each other to make sure it all makes sense in the review stage. A constant pull between wanting to stay alive through the impending battle, and anger and hatred towards having to wipe out the humanity of four thousand people trapped in stasis hell. It was almost an elegant way of killing four thousand of your closest friends, team mates and colleagues. Or so the SLT was trying to make them believe.

The clicking and clacking of the keyboards was a steady cacophony most days. There were just so many variables to content with. Several times the two men had threatened to mutiny in order to obtain some outside help from the original authors of the nanotech coding which they were so familiar with. Piotr was by far more proficient in small edits, but Brian was able to distill broad ideas down into concise if- then, and/or statements.

“How do we account for the replication process? Not all of the fire teams nor tankers are the same size. Hell their BMI’s are different. So are their metabolisms. I’m not even certain at what percentage we need to reach for this to be effective? How do we tell it to stop at a nearly unlimited set of upper limits for four thousand individual cases?” Shouts Brian frustratedly, after slapping his desk hard, causing his palm to go numb. Piotr leans back in his chair, cracking his vertebrae and shoulders in the process. “What do you mean? We go the full 100%. Right? We’re killing them once spiritually, no need to kill them physically too by adding in errors or gaps in service or response time, right? Right?” Says Piotr flatly, beads of sweat forming on his brow. He hated these asides, and pow wows that Brian insisted on every time he had a surge of remorse. It was slowing them down, and was adding fodder to the ‘put a bullet in their head’ camp that held their lives in their hands just outside the room doors twenty feet away. “I know you want to go the full 100%, I do, and I understand why. But we have to leave some room for their humanity. Don’t we? Give us a chance to bring them back from the brink?” Garbles Brian as his head rests in his arms on the table. “I couldn’t agree with anything less than 98%, if I’m being honest. That’s about the 2% +/- margin of error in the replication rates of our nanobots. Anything less and you’re dooming them all, and us to physical death.” Says Piotr from his reclined position. He stands up, groaning with the strain. And walks somberly over to the singular window that spans one wall of the room. The vast empty blackness of space staring back at him. The dim glow reflecting his own haunted visage back at him, only with a blue-green tint from the concrete glass.

“I know that Piotr, I do. But I have to hold out hope that I can get Mimi back. She deserves the chance, even if it’s a small one.” Moans Brian, overwhelmed with grief – again. “We have no idea what will happen to them with a one hundred percent nanobot take over anyway. It’s never been tried. We have strict rules regulating this stuff. It took a war to allow us to boost the regular dose at orientation into the Company up from two to five percent. That level of integration with the weapons systems has not exactly been field tested rigorously. We’re all just experimental monkeys here man. Fuck.”

Chapter Twenty Four: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Good morning doc, how are we looking today?”

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Asks Commanding officer Austenmire quietly. Her voice carries loudly anyway inside the mostly still science lab aboard the Righteous Chord.  “We are still holding, nothing much has changed. Well, beyond the fire teams and tankers getting worse and worse as the days go by. But sure. Mostly the same.” Croaks the tired doctor standing at her work station which is littered with reports and old bulbs of coffee. “So what then, in your opinion doctor Tam is the aftermath of this going to be?” Austenmire replies as she pulls out a chair from a nearby work station to take a seat in the quiet lab. Pushing aside a tray littered with pipettes and petri dishes full of a growth medium or reagents. “Do you want my ‘official’ position or can I speak freely?” Dr Tam’s face is ashy and the colour has long drained out of it. Her hair hangs lank and limp. She’s bone weary and exhausted but pushing through via sheer force of will alone. Her team has taken to sleeping in supply closets or underneath their wheelie cart work stations in order to work the problem around the clock. Austenmire takes a moment to take in all of the clutter and the remnants of chaos in the room before responding. For a brief moment her eyes sweep across the room, catching glimpses of sleeping technicians hiding in the dark corners of the cold white room. “Give it to me straight doctor. I don’t want any bullshit. Lord knows exactly what we’re heading into with this fight. I have to know, will these people be ready to fight come day one?” The question is so softly spoken, the last syllables float off Austenmire’s lips like a puff of smoke. “No chance. Not a single fucking chance.” The defeat in the doctors voice drips with shame and impotent anger. Austenmire asks. “Tell me why. Go through the problem beat by beat. Tell me everything we know up until now, so that I can talk to Admiral Garneau and the rest of the Senior Leadership Team so that we can adjust or adapt while we still can. We have four weeks at least to work something out. So lay it on me Dr Tam. I have to have a starting point to work from.” Her voice rising into a raspy whisper. Dr Tam runs her fingers through her hair, and takes a breath to wipe her eyes. With a heavy sign, and a long drawn out exhalation the doctor replies. “What we do know is, the fire teams and tankers are in an interrupted stasis, yes?” They nod in unison. “The interruptions are essentially migraines that are so debilitating they are causing lesions on the brain. We are seeing similar patterns across every team in stasis, both here on the Righteous Chord and on all the accompanying vessels. The migraines are happening more often, and for longer periods. Due to the nature of stasis, these are like waking nightmares that feel – physically, akin to burning alive while trapped paralyzed in a coffin. Imagine the worst headache you’ve ever had, add in auras, light sensitively, noise sensitivity, and due to the lesions, nerve damage close to the sensation of burning to round it all off. Several times day and night, day after day. We can’t seem to wake them up. Not with chemicals, not by decanting them, not with surgery, not with physical force. These people are fucked. Totally, completely fucked. If the brain and nerve damage weren’t enough, we have nanotech super soldiers in tanks that are most likely bat shit fucking insane. IF, and I do mean if, in the slightest sliver of a single percentage point, we could stop it, you couldn’t treat any single one of them with our best therapies to make them even passably normal in the time frame we have. We have at best four thousand insane highly trained soldiers who won’t be with it enough to wipe their own asses. Is that going to help you CO Austenmire?” She snarls through gritted teeth. “That will be quite enough Dr Tam. I can take this information and we will discuss it with the SLT, and will get back to you as soon as we are able.” With a curt nod Austenmire stands up and leaves the quiet lab under a pall of silence.

As the doors close before her the lab slowly starts to stir back to life. The whisper yelled report from Dr Tam has awakened many of the medical technicians that were sleeping inside the room. The murmur of sparse conversations brings dr Tam out of her spiral of misery. “Listen up! These units are the linchpin of our military action. I need ideas. Anything at all, be it stupid, crazy, unethical, ridiculous. I don’t care. We’re in the shit here people!” She shouts, as spittle flecks land on the monitor beside her. Around the room there is a flurry of activity. People diving for notebooks and old print outs. Others are frantically searching through text books and the data sets they have been analyzing. There are shouts from the gathered crowd, as the side doors open and more medical staff come into the room. The call for ideas, no matter how plausible has caused a new wave of energy to build up among the tired and exhausted medical team. A small woman standing well back from doctor Tam shout out. “I overheard that the armorers are going over the programming code for extraneous data, or corrupted copies. We should get them in here to report on it. Maybe the nanotech is bad? Or maybe the programming was sabotaged? I don’t know!” The petite technician is tasked with connecting with the armorers to get that report asap. The lab is a chaotic hive of activity. In the excitement a white board is wheeled out into the room and people grab markers and pens alike, to scribble down their ideas. Nothing is off limits, and no one will be reprimanded for outrageous suggestions. The unspoken rule for punishing stupid comments is indefinitely lifted, and the room blooms full of ideas.

Several decks below the medical labs in the cafeteria a petite woman in a blue jumpsuit approaches a gathered huddle of men and woman at a large table. “Excuse me – excuse me!” She blurts out, her cheeks turning pink with the attention from the crowd. “Doctor Tam needs to meet with Piotr and Brian from armory team fourteen. Are any of you he? Or them?” She asks. The gathered group shake their heads and turn back to their meals and conversations. “It’s important. Tell them Dr Tam needs to see them immediately about their breakthrough!” She shrieks, as the frustration of being ignored begins to settle over her. She walks around the table, poking people in the back, and trying to get an ID on the men she needs from the gathered group. While she is frantically searching the shift change buzzer sounds and the room empties out.people from all sixty tables file out of the massive room in clusters of two, threes or more. From far across the cafeteria Brian turns to Piotr to whisper. “What break through is she talking about?” Piotr shrugs and pulls a face. “I have no idea, we did the visual inspection together. We ran the data through our pattern matching algorithms and got nothing. Bubkus.” The two slink out of the cafeteria skirting the raging woman in blue medical gear. They walk back to their crew quarters, as questions begin to build around them. Pointing fingers, and turned faces as the two men pass by. Communicators ping and chirp in the halls. After several minutes of walking their way to their dorm the two men are jumped by a group of men dressed in too large coveralls, specks of blue can be seen in the ensuing tussle. Standing at the back of the fight scene is a petite woman in medical scrubs pointing at Piotr and Brian. She steps forward into the fray, as the larger male tech’s grab hold of the now sufficiently beaten, and subdued armorers Piotr and Brian. She taps their carotid artery’s in sequence with an air powered syringe and the limp bodies of the two men are carried out of the dry dock and up to the labs, several decks above for questioning.

In the fleet admiral’s ready room a new discussion regarding the state of their fighting force is underway. Admiral Garneau is seated at the head of the table, with his right hand man seated close by, his grey moustache twitching as he listens. A soft chime rings from Gerald’s wrist comm’s causing him to raise an eyebrow. With a long breath he exhales, his large belly straining the buttons of his custom jumpsuit. CO Austenmire has the floor. During a brief pause after the opening statement by the Admiral she has taken up a position at the back of the room in front of a large view screen. With the lights dimming, she clears her throat. “Ahem. Ladies, gentlemen. I have grave news. I have it on good authority that both our fire teams and our Tanker teams are lost. We will have to readjust in the remaining four weeks prior to the fleets arrival in UB313 space. No. In answer to your question, that doesn’t take into account the engine issues suffered by The Gallant Mistress, or the slower than expected acceleration of The Dirty Starling. We are hearing that The Jolene Roger is slightly off trajectory, but we expect everyone to be in place in five weeks time. Our own smaller supply line vessels are fine, the drop ships are fine, the attack cruiser is nominal as well. But the four thousand strong complement of infantry are off the board, barring a miracle. So thoughts?” In a change of pace the admiral is the first to speak. Usually a very cautious man, used to listening and weighing options before committing to saying anything, his sudden desire to speak first sets the room to silence. “I have not yet seen a full report from medical stating outright that the fire teams and tank infantrymen are off the board. How is it you are so certain of this Ms Austenmire?” The grey haired admiral sits attentively, his hands clasped together on the table top. His uniform crisp and clean, without a wrinkle in sight. CO Austenmire replies. “I had an unofficial, official discussion prior to this SLT meeting, so that I could present us with the facts – as they are – and not with spin that could potentially flounder our entire operation. Sir!” She bites off the end of the sentence. “So, am i to understand that all of our heavy infantrymen, currently in stasis are as good as dead, but just don’t know it yet?” The elderly admiral ventures. “By all accounts, it would look that way. Yes. Sir.” She responds firmly. All eyes from the gathered Senior Leadership Team are bouncing between Commanding Officer Austenmire and Admiral Garneau like an invisible tennis match. Tensions among the members of the SLT have been strained to the point of nearly snapping since the events of the infantrymen affliction surfaced weeks ago. As the two sit and stare at one another across the ready room’s table, a thick silence settles upon the gathered group of about twenty officers, directors and department heads.

In the lurid silence of the room the admiral’s lead advisor clears his throat and waves a finger to catch the attention of admiral Garneau subtlely. Having caught his attention Gerald the adviser nods back towards the doorway. Both men stand up slowly and walk arm in arm towards the side board near the side doors where Gerald fixes the older admiral a drink. “I have been thinking Mark.” Whispers the broad shouldered Gerald, hiding his face with a turned shoulder, to huddle over the crystal bottle of bourbon. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to suggest. I think we’re going to need to clear the room of almost everybody, except the CO and Dr Tam, and perhaps a couple of recruits from the Amorers division.” Rasps Gerald in a deep gravelly boom. “I see. Well – let’s have it, before I Shepherd them all out of the room unceremoniously.” Quips admiral Garneau jocularly. “I’d rather it not be overheard Mark. Sir.” With wild eyes Gerald tries to convey just how unsavory his plan is going to be. “Oh all right. Excuse me. Everyone. I need you all to leave, everyone but CO Austenmire, Gerald, myself and Doctor Tam. If you could Ms Austenmire could you call her up here please.” Barks the admiral suddenly. Around the room blank stares are offered. But dutifully they all gather their things and head off out of the ready room in single file. The stream of men and women from the SLT is about twenty people strong. Gerald turns to Austemire and says. “Please have Dr Tam’s people escort their two guests into the meeting with her please.” Austenmire makes a confused face, but calls down to the medical labs with the new message.

Several minutes later doctor Tam enters the ready room accompanied by two bloodied men in mismatched leather aprons, who are promptly deposited into seats at the massive wooden table. Their faces a mix of swollen eyes, cracked lips and confusion. Brian says excitedly. “We already told those bastards down in medical, we don’t have no cure, no answers ok! Our scans and visual checks all came up clean ok. It’s not a fault with the programming of the nanotech! Ok. Fuck.” Piotr leans back, his head lolling from side to side in the large over stuffed chair. He coughs and a couple of blood droplets fall onto the table. Brian uses his cuffs to wipe the blood drops away. Gerald speaks up. “That’s not why we have you here. I’m going to state some cold hard facts. I’m going to make a proposal. Not one of you is going to like it. But where we are headed, we need every available asset in fine working order. We all die if we don’t have every piece on the board to work with. We all know the insurgents, that ghastly Doctor Jang and his hangers on are up to something horrific. So shut up, sit down and listen to me closely.” Growls the older statesman Gerald. “Dr Tam here says that in almost every respect our fighting force is dead, they just don’t know it yet.” He states flatly. Brian jerks away from the table, shocked and stunned. His heads swimming with the thought of Mimi gone, his thoughts a jumble due to the cocktail of sedatives he was juiced with. “That’s not exactly what I said, but near enough at this juncture as to make no difference. So please – continue.” Says doctor Tam in an irritated tone. “Yes. I think our issue is, we are treating the fighting force like people we want to save, rather than assets we need to use.” Says Gerald matter of factly. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Blurts out CO Austenmire before doctor Tam had the chance to respond. “Well, doctor, Austenmire. It sounds to me like we’re trying to bring these people back from the brink to be… I don’t know, fully functional people again. We are at war! A good portion of them are expected to die, and those that don’t will not be unaffected by what they see and do. So. I say don’t save them. In that sense. Save them as assets.” Gerald is leaning over the table pounding it with his palm to punctuate his statements. “How do I save these people, by not saving these people Gerald. That doesn’t make any sense?” Replies doctor Tam quietly. Brian still reeling from the revelation of his loss looks dead eyed across the table to the standing Gerald. “You fucking bastard!” He screams violently as blood flows from his swollen eye, and his cracked lips. “Excuse me son!” Bellows admiral Garneau suddenly. “Just what are we discussing here Gerald?” Demands the admiral. “He means to use the nanotech to turn the fighting force into controllable automatons, and then claiming the war killed or maimed the survivors so we can hide what we’re about to do to four thousand people. That’s why Brian and I are here right. We’re not tacticians, or soldiers, or of SLT quality, right people. But we know the code back to front, and how to integrate it with humans and weapons. He’s asked us here to wipe out their humanity by pushing one more program on them, sealing their fate. Or we all get killed during the battle in five weeks time.” Piotr drawls slowly around his puffy cheeks, swollen jaw and not quite entirely worn off sedatives from his jab in the neck. “Well fuck.” Spits Brian. “Je-sus” sputters the admiral turning to look at his friend and confidant in utter disgust.

Chapter Twenty Three: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.