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“He’s strange, eccentric and terrifying.”

May 13, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

He talks in a sing song but staccato manner, with emphasis wherever he pleases. He dances with grace and the fluidity of an otter. His pale visage, and croaked rasp will send you running for the hills. A more vile and vulgar an individual you will never see. Wrapped up in himself with a blood soaked cloak of spies and slaughter.

You don’t get to become supreme leader without having killed entire opposing bloodlines and all of their heirs. It’s thirsty work, and the Blood Gods will not be sated.

Take heed young noble men and women. When you look the emperor in the eye, know that he has both a blade at your back, and arms aimed at your families across the imperium. No one is safe, until everyone is safe. And no one is safe from the wrath of a god king whose sworn an oath to the Blood Gods.

Our life’s milk shall be drank by the altars of blood this day, and every other! Rest not until you have carved rib bone with your saber. Rattle them not. But plunge them deep and swift into the heart of madness at the center of struggle. Go forth, and die with honour! If not for your sake, do it for me! May the gods have mercy on your souls.

Everywhere is darkness, all I can see, hear, think, is death.

April 15, 2022April 16, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Fear smells of death. Decaying flesh sealed tight into a jumpsuit. We just don’t know it yet. The fog of war makes me think things are going well for us. At least it seemed so at first. The thing about best laid plans and all is that they go to shit when you’re fighting people diametrically different than you are. We had no way to plan for what they threw at us.

It was a massacre of biblical proportions, steeped in blood and effluence. Viscous gore in near zero gravity causing mayhem on the ground, plastered to our visors, and gumming up exposed moving parts. Chips and fragments of bone piercing us from every angle. Troops caught it ferocious traps built to maim and to terrify. Splattered guts and limbs thrown about like dandelion seeds on the wind. We were but dust in a maelstrom.

We threw our newest technology at them, they countered with ghastly biological hulking monstrosities that ripped and roared and consumed as much as they killed. Growing and shambling along like mindless conglomerates of green tinged limbs. Grasping and tearing, ripping and rending flesh from bone. Soaking up endless rounds of ammo, unconcerned for their own well being. A mindless horde exposed to the vaccum of space, ceaselessly encroaching on our placements. Leaving wide swaths of devastation in their wake. Gaping maws of ragged teeth, bone spurs and sharp spines. Belching pus and bile, sloshing around like over filled buckets of chum.

Our automated Fire Teams and Tankers cut through them like butter when the Admiral finally put the augmented boots on the ground. A charnel house of ruined plant materials inter mingled with human bodies littered every surface of the barren waste of UB313. But as our side began to make headway, that’s when they started the unthinkable. They had even bigger monsters waiting on the float, just out of sensor range, hiding among the heavenly bodies, as old as ice. Who began to spin up the available asteroids and unleash them upon UB313. Obliterating the fighting forces, their own and ours alike. Whatever had been on the surface, or buried beneath the surface in the base itself, pulverized to dust and chunks of wet molecules effectively beating us to the punch, as the mobile Bison Drones were trained to do the exact same thing. It turns out the two sides weren’t so different after all. In the heat of battle both the Fire Teams and Tanker units somehow managed to retreat. I saw them come apart at the seams, as if they had broken down into a cloud of ash and then reformed, over and over.

I was jettisoned from a larger chunk of UB313 and cast out into the void, helpless. Screaming as I tumbled in the darkness. Calling out on every possible channel I could remember. It was dumb luck that one of the smaller run abouts was nearby and was able to swoop in and pick me up. It was from the squashed confines of this crab unit that I was able to take in the navy battle of The Company flotilla.

From a distance the naval battle of the flotilla looked modest and rather dull. But upon closer inspection it was a chaotic mess. With no more large scale targets to go scrutinize, with the obliteration of UB313 the vast city sized ships sat idle. I suppose the assumption was that with the black ops insurgency base destroyed, the battle was won. Not realizing the swarm of hungry plantmen hybrids were bearing down upon them from the shadows and crevices of the wreckage. Feeding off of the decaying remnants of the ground attack, and enriching themselves in the wash of the fleets great engines. The UV light put out by all of those behemoths swelled the ranks of the plantmen hybrids a thousand fold.

Soon the plantmen hybrids would breach the hulls and disgorge massive clouds of fungal spores, ensnaring the crews, bringing them to their knees. That was until the nanotech integrated Fire Teams and Tankers were alerted to the matter by the last great call from the flotilla wide emergency broadcast systems.

Over a period of days each side would swing from near defeat to near total victory and back again. Over and over. Equally matched in their single minded desire to win at all costs. Mindless machine versus mindless biological fungus.

Those infected by the spores were brought low in a matter of hours. Not quite dead yet, no longer really alive. Their flesh putrefying from the lungs outward. Their flesh and organs liquefying slowly, as they bled into lengths of intermingled puddles of blooming fungus. Like a mushroom farm grown out of a field of messy dead bodies. Great blooms of orange, red, purples and blues. Fantastical spires of fleshy mushrooms with broad angled caps and sticky bulbous stems. A colorful wonderland of fungal gardens. That smelled of vacated bowels and the last gasped breaths of the dying. The air a thick moist fog of spores, and yeast, and the condensation from evaporating blood, and liquefied internal organs.

Many miles away. “Racquelle. It has begun. If you don’t breach the partitions for us, I fear this war will make it’s way back to Earth, and to every single human colony. This will not end here. You must help us. You have to act!” Katayna whispers urgently into the ear of a huddled and crying Racquelle. Her weakened body tangled submissively in her bed sheets. Her skin a pallid off white, with specks of blue around her lips. The fear of the impending battle has stolen her appetite, draining the fight from her, stealing her will to live. “But I don’t know how.” She whispers back, through dry and cracked lips. Limply she lies against the seated Katayna. Glancing over the frail body of Racquelle, Katayna says. “I need you to give me a hand.” Katayna croons soothingly into Racquelle’s ear. Brushing her lank hair away from her ear, and over a sallow and sunken cheek. With a mighty effort Racquelle pulls out of Katayna’s arms to raise her right hand palm up to Katayna’s waiting cupped hands. A single tear rolls down Katayna’s face. In one smooth motion forms a long blade with her fist as she cuts Racquelle’s arm off just below the elbow, as Racquelle crashes back against the bed in a spasm of pain. Amidst the shrieking and flailing Katayna stands up, lifting the severed limb and quietly leaves the room. A thick stream of blood falls in her wake. The shouts of anguish echo around the hall behind her. The door wooshes closed quietly and the muffled screams continue unabated.

Seventy two hours after the first hull breach by the plantmen hybrids a mysterious vessel of writhing off white and grey appears. It blasts out a single tone, like a fog horn, on a private frequency, causing all of the integrated Fire Teams and Tanker units to fall back from the fighting. The nanobots cannot resist the sirens call. K bids them to retreat to him.

Vast swarms of nanobots flood through the hull breaches and rapidly descend upon the mysterious vessel known as K. Soundlessly the nanobots assimilate into the hull, and the ship begins to transform. Gathering itself up to strike K splits into a multitude of hungry tendrils, feasting upon the flotilla, the plantmen, and all of the fungal remains of the crew. Increasing in size, and exponentially growing more tendrils to feast. The vessel known as K gives way to his basest instinct to feed and grow and consume. He can feel himself becoming lost in the primal urges of expansion and growth.

In the bridge Katayna stands unnoticed with the severed limb of Racquelle’s, ready to place the hand palm down on a lock box keyed to the her DNA. Time is running out. She can feel herself, and K, growing rapidly, losing all sense of himself in the ever growing feedback from such rapid growth. Pressing down lightly on the palm shaped lock with the limp hand, a loud click sounds. A puff of dust and smokes is emitted, and an inner lock whirs open slowly. A tiny door springs open, and a dazzling purple light shines out. Inside the fist sized chamber is a glowing purple push button. Without any hesitation Katayna slams the palm of the severed limb down on the button.

In the heavy dust cloud of the remains of UB313, the massive vessel known as K, the entire Company flotilla, and all of the plantmen hybrids phase out of existence with a crackle of lightening, a thousand cubic kilometers wide.

In the one hundred billionth fraction of a second it takes to transit, K is simultaneously inside a grey box, a pink glob of goo, having an ongoing conversation over several years with the captain of Margot’s Fever. Passing through a wormhole via galactic distortion giving him the basis for the idea of the Fore E’s engine, talking to his best friend the morning before the last shift he ever did with a full crew as a human, fighting a rogue android AI on the run from him as a man now named Karcher, evading a solar storm and mistakenly banging against a Mark One capsule near Pluto effectively killing The Non Sequitur, during a test jump using the new engine design for the first time. He is time, all at once, yet separate.

In the blink of an eye, it’s all gone. Many years later the university on Torus Station, and on Mars will teach classes devoted to what happened here. But for now, it’s all a mess from the fog of war. We’re all dead, we just didn’t know it yet.

Part Forty One: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

The news was unwelcome,

April 5, 2022April 5, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

And was not taken in stride. Rather Racquelle receded into herself at the news of the impending Company flotilla. Twelve vessels ranging from city sized behemoths, to mid range ships capable of holding forty thousand or more. Then there are the smaller ships that barely hold more than a few thousand. The behemoths will disgorge a vast swarm of fighters, drop ships, escorts and work vehicles. As far as Racquelle was concerned this was going to be a massacre. A fast, violent and ultimately brutal escapade in her otherwise hard won life. No stranger to storming ships like a pirate to capture crew and cargo for the doctor. But somewhere deep down she always thought she’d retire to a far off colony, to spend the rest of her days turning soil at the hands of a shovel. The rich thick scent of muddy loam firmly entrenched in her nostrils. A patchy cloud covered sky overhead, and a fading sunset a part of her last days alive. The impartiality of the news given by K, and its humanoid companion Katayna, a icy dagger into her heart.

Much to her dismay K had created a massive countdown clock that was visible no matter where Racquelle turned. Whether to torture her, or remove all doubt of the looming invasion, she didn’t know, and didn’t venture to ask. Choosing instead to wrap herself in gluttonous meals, and warm blankets woven from the remains of K’s original crew, when K was not a former human & ship amalgam, but a star faring human from centuries before. The tender soft brush of cool silks against her cheeks were of little solace. The meals, while sumptuous, tasted of ash and decay. Her sleep wracked with despair, and her waking moments drowned under a pall of frozen terror.

Twisted in her sheets, staring blindly out of the windows provided by K, Racquelle sits, motionless waiting for the first signs of contact. A subtle shift in the stars. A blinking out to black as the back drop becomes obscured by the viscious Company flotilla. All the while, the large colorless numbers creep ever onwards towards zero.

“Racquelle dear, would you please open the door. I know enough about you that I don’t wish to break in against your will. Please. I have urgent news.” Katayna whispers through the doors to Racquelle’s quarters. In a fit of humanity, she lays her head against the door with a light thud. The oddly heavy, and dense nanotech make up of her body making her much heavier than one would think. After a pause the door hatch clinks as the locks unlatch. Taking a moment to let the door open entirely before entering Katayna flexes her hands nervously. The intense social interaction with Racquelle has rubbed off on her noticeably. Taking on more and more subconscious ticks, like blinking, pupil dilation, coughs and finding reasons to play with her finger nails, such as they are.

“Racquelle, I have some rather disturbing news.” Whispers Katayna as she glides into the room. “Great!, is there a secondary fleet too?” Shouts Racquelle from within the tangled sheets of her bed. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, but that isn’t why I need to talk to you.” Answers Katayna. “What!?!, what do you mean that’s not the news you want to talk to me about, what could possible be more important?” Shrieks Racquelle in a hysterically shrill moan. “I do believe the second grouping to have originated from UB313, and would be classified as friendlies. Potentially. Though I’m sensing more organic material than normal out of that cluster. But based on human DNA. Odd, really.” She says, pulling a face, her head tilting less dramatically to the side while recalling other data. “No – my issue is I have discovered a partition, well several if them in our data banks. They are road blocks we, I, K and myself cannot penetrate, but we estimate they contain the same quantity of data as we have decrypted from the slew of outgoing messages we’ve found. I need you to try to breach the partitions for me.” Whispers Katayna so quietly that Racquelle has to hold her breath in order to hear it entirely.

“Even with all of the new data processing power we’ve managed to plug into, we can’t break the partitions. I think it has something to do with you. Something you did, or are going to do?” Katayna rasps into the darkness of Racquelle’s room.

Part Forty: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Marshala my main man, listen I have a real squeaker on the docket, think you can make a quick run for me?”

March 29, 2022March 29, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Shouts a fat man from further down the hall. His gut hanging out of the door from the supply chain command post. “I got this Ghost fella that needs to be run over to The Righteous Chord, via an extra stop off to pick up some fuel cell rods from The Dirty Starling. Take you forty minutes tops, man. You up for it?” The fat man is chewing on a tobacco roll, like an unlit cigar, but still stinks, turns your finger tips and lips yellow, and is generally considered to be really unhealthy. Marshala stops in his tracks, not yet to his berth, so still just outside the threshold to the change rooms, and thus nearly free from any extra duties. “Countdown clock reads an hour. That’s cutting things close Rodario.” Marshala counters. “Come on man, this one got handed to me last minute, this is a VIP transfer, and a pick up. They’ll have a crab unit ready and waiting to handle the fuel rods. You drive by, grab the rods, put this Ghost down in his new digs and high tail it home. What do you say?” He smiles, a yellow gap toothed smile. The stench from the tobacco roll oozes from his every pore. “Not buying it Rodario. You forgot about it, now you want to make it my problem. Clocks ticking Rody.” The pilot grins, shifting his helmet from one arm to the crook of the other. “Fuck, fine. Triple time pay, plus the VIP bonus.” He sneers. “And?” Retorts Marshala. “What? Fuck me, and. And nothing.” Rodario snaps, his smile fading quickly. “Tick-tock, tick-tock” answers Marshala in a mocking sing song voice. “Christ almighty in heaven, fine. You can have the fuel rod danger pay stipend aswell. But only a portion, as it’s a quarter load only.” He says, reaching his arm out of his office to hand the bill of lading forms to Marshala. “You got it boss.” Marshala takes the papers and bolts back up the hall at full tilt towards his run about. Coming around the side he unsnaps the fueling lines, and toggles through the warm up check list, the dial indicators showing that the ship hasn’t completely cooled down yet from his previous trip. Strapping himself in he clicks his helmet into place feeling the coolness of his neck ring bite at his finger tips. Feeling the thunk of the latch catching, he gets an all clear from the central command tower, almost immediately after typing in his ID code and supply chain docket number. Rodario must have had him moved up in the queue in order to get this last minute trip done. Checking his wrist biometric unit, Marshala sees the clocks down to forty three minutes. Going to be a tight one he thinks, as the thrusters push him hard against his restraints as he backs the run about out of its housing.

The run about is a great little eight seater ship for taking small groups of people between larger ships, or transporting goods to another vessels dry docks, or cargo hold. Nimble, reliable, and most importantly, not orange and black like every other fucking thing build by The Company aeronautics people. Marshala’s run about is sky blue with a hint of yellow mixed in. The interior is a faux white leather, that is well worn, but in good condition. That’s why he gets to do the baby sitting tour guide trips with Company VIP’s. His ship The Renaissance, also has a wet bar, though no one ever seems inclined to drink when vertigo can strike at any time. Marshala loves in inspire his VIP’s by approaching the larger vessels in the flotilla at 90 degree angles to what they felt was up or down, and see them gasp once it dawns on them. A bit of pilot humor.

Looking at his bill of lading, the Jolene Roger will be a straight shot three kilometers starboard to collect his Ghost crew guest. Then an about face, drop 90 degrees for one kilometer to grab the fuel rods from The Dirty Starling and then book it to the reception desk at The Righteous Chord to drop off his passenger, and then a mad scramble back to The Lark Song, before they jump into battle stations where he has several hours before his fourth wave gets called into action. Nothing special, just tight timelines care of the fat bastard himself Rodario. Though he had to admit holding out for all the added bonuses, stipends and overtime was a stroke of genius. Rodario really must have dropped that ball to accept all of those charges this late in the game, but who was Marshala to turn down nearly eleven thousand credits for one forty minute run.

The jaunt from The Lark Song to the Jolene Roger, was uneventful. Black, bleak and boring. Taking Marshala less than three minutes to cover the distance. He was guided to his pick up point by an automated bouy that towed him in the last five hundred meters, and a shadowy figure clinked and thunked his way through the airlock at the top of the run about. The medium sized man in a bizarrely harnessed beige jumpsuit floated in nonchalantly and buckled himself down two rows back. Close enough to talk, but not too close. Akin to taking the second urinal over in the men’s room, if you will. Without looking back Marshala says “Get comfortable but don’t take your helmet off ok.” After a brief, yet agonizing pause Marshala was given the go ahead to flop into a dive, relative to the Roger’s position, and head for the Dirty Starling’s cargo hold. The run about peeled away with an audible gasp from the Ghost crew, who followed it up with both a hoot, and a holler. Marshala was zipping now, he had an open lane in front of him, as everyone else was packing it in, and heading back to their berths for the flotilla’s jump into battle.

A proximity alarm sounds causing Marshala to have to produce some evasive maneuvers to avoid a field of shrapnel. Somebody must have lit off a couple of fuel rods and not lived to tell the tale, as the shipping lanes weren’t marked, or rerouted yet. Looking at the countdown Marshala has a full twenty five minutes left. As the Renaissance shoots across the void the automated buoys have been recalled and Marshala has to find his own way to the tiny crab unit that is supposed to be waiting for him, in order to load his fuel rods. The running lights on the Dirty Starling are off in preparation for the jump, so Marshala has to call in manually. All taking precious minutes. Toggling switches on his dash he sees his own wrist communicator is pinging him with an urgent message from Rodario. The radio crackles with static. “Nice of you to arrive Renaissance. Crab unit ninety one is on it’s way. Be there in four minutes.” The radio clicks off. Countdown clock reads seventeen minutes left. “Still good. Still good.” He whispers. Just as foretold the crab unit floats by and racks the fuel rods in one fluid motion, and Marshala rockets off without waiting for the all clear. Shaving off seconds of delays is a matter of life and death at this point.

Turning to look over his shoulder Marshala says “I can’t come in with you, so be ready and waiting in the air lock. I’ll give you a wee push, and you go in. I’m not going to stop, so be ready. And be careful.” A gulp and the sound of a buckle unclasping answers him. Toggling the intercom Marshala shouts over the sounds of the air pumps. “I’m not going to pump out all of the air. I need some to help propel you to the airlock doors. I’ll wait as long as I can to see you go in, but otherwise you’re on your own.” The loud banging of the pumps makes Marshala’s seat vibrate. “Oh, ok… I guess. Thank you?” The Ghost offers from inside the air lock. The red digits of the countdown clock on his dash shows eleven minutes. In moments The Righteous Chord looms large in the cabin windows and Marshala comes screaming in over the hull as he dives into a roll over towards the aft cargo bay. Orienting his air lock door to the main cargo hold Marshala brings the run about The Renaissance down to a crawl. “On my mark – mark!” He shouts, as a beige projectile fires out of the air lock with an icy puff of grey. Sitting with both hands on his joy sticks, one eye on the Ghost Crew and his other eye on the slowly counting down clock Marshala just breaths. His sensor array shows the Ghost approaching at a fast, but survivable speed. Three hundred meters, 10 minutes, two hundred seventy five meters, nine minutes forty seconds, two hundred fifty meters, nine minutes twenty, on and on, as both the countdown clock and the distance go down in tandem. With a triple click over the comm’s, a standard call for all clear, Marshala watches as the cargo bay doors creep open, and the beige body slips safely inside.

Like a canon ball Marshala pushes his run about to the near red line as he careens back towards the Lark Song, from the under belly of The Righteous Chord. His arms pinned to his arm rests, and breathing hard in the haut-haut, chest compression chant he was trained to use to keep his blood pumping under pressure, he races back to the homing beacon emanating from his dry dock berth. As the coordinates draw near, and the count down clock still registers three minutes and fourteen seconds he eases back on the throttle, only to notice that his fuel gauge is on empty. With only his attitude adjustment thrusters available to him now Marshala begins to sweat. A trickle beads up on his brow, and rolls slowly towards his eye. Within moments the Renaissance goes dead stick in his hands, and the craft begins to tumble on all three axis. The g forces are too much to handle, Marshala blacks out.

From out of the darkness a previously recalled bouy reboots, and bursts free from its holding station. It connects blindly to a tumbling blue run about, and brings it in for docking, using every ounce of fuel reserves to steady the ships tumble. The pilot is unconscious, but within seconds of locking in place in the berth aboard the large vessel, The Lark Song jumps into battle.

Part Thirty Nine: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Can you feel it? That static buzzing in the air?”

March 29, 2022March 29, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

The man is positively vibrating with energy, he is so excited. People under duress tend to fall into one of three categories, all out terror, unbridled excitement, or total apathy. My friend here is a category two, I’m more of a three who swings into a category one when I’m trying to get any sleep. My man Encino here is an adrenaline junkie, and he’s so excited to go kill some ‘bad guys’ that he seems to be able to walk on air he is so elated. Big dude, but didn’t quite hit the mark to pilot his own walking tanker unit. So he balked at the chance to be a Fire Team leader while sulking, and instead is our squads heavy. In size and savagery. You need a jar, or a chest cavity opened, he’s your boy. Not an ounce of fat on him, and no self doubt either. He’s a real menace when the Mississippi leg hound in him takes full effect. He doesn’t have many close friends, let’s put it that way, but he’s a hulking, useful idiot. My role, unofficially that is, is to guide his worst, yet most squad beneficial tendencies towards our targets and goals. Wind him up, point him in the direction where his carnage suits our needs, then collect him afterwards.

“That’s the static charge coming off of the rail guns, if I have my ship board weapons load out correct. We’re placed directly behind the port side battery, and there’s a slug loader located directly underneath our dormitory. That lump, dump, bap bap bap, we here is them testing the auto loader, and switching between round types. The heavier the slug the harder we feel the spring loaded arms collapse into place.” I said, knowing full well that Encino isn’t really listening to me.

He’s staring out the view port from our common room lounge watching the welders doing EVA’s while attaching additional guns and armor plating to the hull. The shielded torches they are using spew white phosphorus out a ceramic nozzle, and occasionally sputters and splatters of weld material pop off and float around like angry fire flies. The wash of the phosphorus lights up the hull for several meters even in the inky blackness, and you start to get a sense of just how massive some of The Company’s vessels really are. Those brilliantly bright spots are scattered all over the hull, at least from our vantage point. The scale is immense, and terrifying. This ship, The Dirty Starling is humongous. A real behemoth of man made ingenuity. Encino is standing with his broad nose pressed firmly against the clear concrete glass, his breath shooting waves of condensation radiating out from his face every few seconds. He is visibly excited, and bumping the glass with every breath he takes. Flecks of spittle splash the glass each time he talks.

“Could you imagine being a pilot?” Encino says, his voice muffled due to his face being pressed against the glass. “The big ships aren’t all that much fun to pilot, the navigators do all the heavy lifting anyway.” I say, now that I’m comfortable in my own lounge chair, and I can tell that Encino is here to stay for a while. No need to stand needlessly while I babysit him. Taking my seat I look around the room to make sure we won’t get any surprise visitors.

I occasionally have to wave off both men and women that swing by from other squads or departments who come to look at him when he isn’t paying attention. Sure he’s handsome. But, he’s big, mean and not what you’d call a gentle lover. That big dumb grin of his seems to pull anyone not using their brain into his orbit of any sexual orientation you can imagine, and then I have hours of paper work to file on his behalf. I’ve made it known he’d be more inclined to enjoy fucking a raging bull moose than a typical human, but that grin, and his muscles lure them in anyway. I can only unfurl so many human pretzels in my life time. The only acknowledgement from Encino on the matter was a surprise “I really hurt him.” He said, once, over breakfast when reaching for an apple.

Outside in the vacuum the welders are walking over the kilometers of hull plates looking for any signs of weakness and damage. As the flotilla wide count down clocks draw nearer to zero, the pace of the work increases. Tiny single person vehicles scuttle about, holding weapons, or beams or instrumentation clutched in their extendable arms. The pilots have one hand in a haptic glove which allows them to perform some very minute actions with the claws, or other tools on the end of the arm. Imagine a tuna can flying fat sides forward and back, with a torso sized bubble out the front, and a massive multi tiered arm mounted below it. The back is all thruster cones and a rack for spare tooling for the arms. Cameras and lights fill the rest of the space on the small squat crab unit. That’s our boy Encino’s dream vehicle. To mill about space in a rickety old crab unit, fixing stuff and exploring the exterior of any large vessel. All the while dressed for EVA, because those crab units don’t have any life support in them. Step in and go! Handy if you’re rated for the appropriate exterior working gear. I mean, you could potentially use out fight suits in it, but you couldn’t weld anything as that 5000 degree phosphorus would bleed right through the material in seconds. All of the low level pilots onboard the Dirty Starling have their welders guild licences. Those orange and black tuna cans are pretty nimble when they want to be. I think they are ugly as all get out, but to Encino, that shit’s The Tits.

The PA system crackles to life drawing me out of my reverie. “This is a flotilla wide announcement. We have T-Minus six hours until we commence Operation Scouring Pad. Please meet at your designated muster stations when we reach T-Minus two hours. Your station chiefs will see that you are prepped, dressed and loaded into the appropriate transports, based on waves, and objectives. This message will repeat…”

The crackle dies down as the volume of the message drops a few percent after each repetition. A large flashing blue and orange light let’s us know that we can still tune in to the flotilla wide communications channel directly from our wrist biometrics to hear the message or read it if need be. The machine shop guys usually need to read them while the shop is so uncomfortably loud.

“You know what the favourite part of my day is.” Encino asks me as we walk side by side to our muster station together. “That brief second when I catch the smell of my neck ring going over my head. It smells like the beach near where I grew up.” He smiles at this. He doesn’t follow it up with anything else. All I can think about is how after three months the battle is only a few hours away, and I need to take a shit.

Part Thirty Eight: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

When you stop and think about it,

March 28, 2022March 28, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Knowing all twelve of the largest space faring vessels that have ever been constructed by humans are now gathered together here, waiting to attack a secret base built into a dwarf planet come over sized asteroid, you might think it would look pretty remarkable. You would think so, but you would be wrong. These ships are arranged at about one to three kilometers apart, the visual to the naked eye is less than stellar. Now on the radar screens and the HUD on the bridge, when you have name plates, and trajectory over lays, and drive ploom signatures and the specs of each ship associated with its distinct silhouette, now you get something approaching a spectacle. But all the average person sees is a slight glint in the far reaching blackness, that moves against a field of stars. It’s nothing to write home about, believe you me.

I could do without all of the proximity alarms going off randomly all day and all night, as the manoeuvring thrusters keep us in place relative to one another. The one kilometer distance is perfect for non disrupted communications, but hell on the ships warning systems. The targeting computers are likely to fry themselves unless their sensitivity is turned right down. Which makes a sneak attack a real threat, so the watches are set with greater overlap, and at no point is it ever allowed for more than forty five percent of the active crew to be asleep. Even less so for the infantrymen and the pilots. They rest in shifts with just one third asleep at any time.

Tensions are high, and oh boy!, there goes that fucking alarm again. The blaring klaxons, and whining targeting alarms grate on all of our nerves. Every shift we meet at our muster stations prior to doing anything, and those that will be fighting as boots on the ground are running their training exercises daily to remain razor sharp. All we do is train, prepare and wait while the clocks count down to armageddon. Sleep comes in fitful spurts and tempers are fraying at the edges. Discipline onboard the ships is tight, with no wiggle room whatsoever.

The walking corpse corps are ever ready day or night. They have been cordoned off in a cargo bay, along with the decanted walking tankers. The armorers swarming them like ants making all of the last minute fixes or upgrades requested by the – assets, let’s call them. The shedding of their humanity was this whole thing, that nobody speaks about now that it’s all over. Some people found it hard to adjust. A few marriages and families were served a pretty harsh reality when they woke up to find their loved ones are now a human imitation made up of microscopic machines working in tandem. Memories, futures, love lives all poured down the toilet, along with spoiled lungs, kidneys and the intestines themselves. It… was unpleasant.

Now that we are finally here, or there abouts, a flurry of inter flotilla activity has taken hold. With a week left roughly before the Jolene Roger shows up, the Dirty Starling and the Righteous Chord are all hosting different strategic planning sessions with Admiral Garneau, or his esteemed advisor Gerald at the helm. The traffic between the larger vessels is rather heavy, with the smaller away ships currying personnel and materials between vessels in the fleet. Last minute repairs to sensor arrays and hull plating to add extra armor taking priority above all else. It’s a good gig if you’re a low level pilot, scurrying about doing deliveries and interacting with other crews from around The Company’s interstellar interests.

As the long tense days wear on the largest vessels in the fleet disgorge their contingent of smaller, fast flying personnel carriers and the even more maneuverable fighter craft. Tugs and their single driver counter parts with extendable arms and working claws litter the field of view as they build all new protective measures onto the hulls of the behemoths in the flotilla.

News has spread throughout the flotilla that the Jolene Roger has a new toy to add into the mix for the war ahead. Lots of talk about what it could be. The admiral has been close lipped, refusing to address the gathered soldiers and crew until the last possible moments prior to the attack. This has caused a few minor incidents, but nothing that a few hours of extra labour, or a night or two in the brig couldn’t cure.

There were a few moments of panic as a slew of smaller meteors made it past the turned down sensitivity of the proximity alarms, which stunted the targeting lasers too. But the vibration of the rat-at-at-tat and the following pings of dust ricocheting off the hull brought about an even higher resolve with the radar watchers, and the sentry programs. It broke the tension, in a fashion, and let them know that they were protected even when they weren’t looking. Something, that should not have been possible.

– – – –

In a tiny office buried in the back of the physical paper archives, a tall beautiful woman named Gemma is rifling through deeply redacted coffee stained, dust covered reports from centuries prior. Her boss, and in some form or another, the head of her family, from fifth cousins by marriage, had pointed her in the direction of a secret stash of files that probably hadn’t seen the light of day in a couple hundred years. Spending a few days buried in the room looking through bankers box after bankers box of manilla folders, she finally found a stack that dealt with the horrific incident involving Margot’s Fever. A tragic event that killed hundreds, involved insurgents, as well as a tragic misfire by a potentially incredible new engine type, which was to bring us closer to the stars. We spent a whole month on it in school, and they teach entire courses on it in university. The memorial deck on Torus Station is pretty touching. Eerie but moving all the same.

If she thought it took her a long time to find this group of boxes, it’ll take her a week more just to dig up the psychiatric interviews with Margot’s Fever’s former captain. A man who claimed that the vessels witnessed split second phase out of our reality and then back again, had actually taken ten years on the far side of time in our solar system, and in which time he met, befriended, and was educated on the specifics of never before seen technology by a metal box of navigation goo, which he said called itself ‘K’ and then later on Kelvin. All of which was hidden from the public, and was provided in the exact same format as the files which helped to create the Fore E’s engine in the first place. An interesting pickle. Or so Gemma thought.

Part Thirty Seven: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Any news on the war front?”

March 27, 2022March 28, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Asks the grizzled old man seated at a comically large desk empty of anything except a pen and a few sheets of multi coloured paper. The office secreted in the depths of Torus Station, is well adorned with rich fabrics and expensive artifacts, if sparse. The tall and slender woman standing before him is watching him through cold slate grey eyes. “Yes – sir. And what we know so far is not encouraging. It seems that The Company having let that old bastard Garneau lead a personal war over a vendetta is working about as well as we had come to expect from a guy who spends seventy five to ninety percent of his time in stasis, so that he could try to bring a sense of peace, calm and continuity to humanity. The ego on this guy. Fuck me.” She spits in disgust.

“Yes, yes, Gemma my dear girl, I am well aware of your feelings toward my youngest son. He wanted glory and to command from a place of visibility, while we chose to live in the shadows, and the comfort of anonymity. He’s a fool, but I can’t have him killed. So we let him run afoul of that demented doctor to test his mettle. If he comes back we can control him since we know so much about his goings on within the flotilla. And if he dies. Well then. He’s dead, and we can moved passed this debacle finally, with our hands clean.” He harrumphs in his typically gruff manner.

“Yes sir.” She smiles warmly at the old man. “Now you said you have news. Spill it, I’m rather busy Gemma.” He leans back into his over stuffed leather wing backed chair. The springs creaking under his movement. “Long story, short version then, yes? Right. The nanotech integrated soldiers, mainly the heavy weapons Fire Teams and all of the Walking Tank units caught some kind of brain bug that gave them all irreparable brain damage, and they thought they were all lost. To which your son’s best friend decided to convert them to 100% nanobot automatons, and they woke up, and are now operational, but are no longer human. They don’t eat, or sleep, or communicate verbally anymore. I guess using all of the same batch of nano bots to repair every single one of them created this hive mind between them. Scary good as a fighting force, fearless, and savage. But not human, and the rest of the crew has noticed the shift.

Also – side note. Due to the 100% uptake in the nanobots they have taken to horrific displays of shedding their biological materials. Talk of them shitting out shriveled and wasted organs. The stench is a thick all encompassing miasma aboard each ship until the last one is finished. They do it wherever they are, at any time. I hear it’s a total horror show to behold. The scrubbers and recyclers are being over loaded, and a few regular crew have gotten sick from the decaying body matter. Morale is not high.” She says while wiping her forehead, and tucking a loose strange of her dark hair behind an ear.

“Secondly, the admiral had lost faith in the nanotech integrated teams and almost immediately called on captain Morgan to jump start her Jackal Protocol. Those massive Bison drones she’s so proud of. Anyway – she purportedly had almost sixty crew members injured on purpose to fill the ranks of her fighting force, and they are taking to it slowly. Promising results from the subconscious training regimen, but less so when entirely awake, though I have reports that it’s starting to gel. Oh, also – the captain is suspected of having her more perceptive crew murdered for piecing two and two together.” To this the older man raises his hands to rest fingers interlocked on top of his head. “Did she now. I knew she had ambition, but that’s a bit much.” He coughs out the words. “Hm. Yes, a bit much.” She repeats in response.

“Also, our intelligence suggests that they have picked up a new Ghost Crew member during the resupply at the Mars Six Sub-Orbital Aerial base, but have not updated their HR directory to say who it is. Which seems odd? Do I need to notify anyone of this? That seems rather widely outside the norm.” She smirks with a raised eyebrow. “No, no, you know what, let it stand. Keep an eye on it. Let’s see if we can trace it back before anything comes of it.” He laughs conspiratorially. “Yes sir.” She says.

“Lastly, our spies at UB313 have said that this will likely be a blood bath, as the, as you said, demented doctor has a fair few surprises in store for the admiral and his fleet. Whom are due to arrive at their rendezvous point in a matter of hours from now.” She finishes her statement and cracks her knuckles, and rolls her shoulders. “Mm… well, keep watching. Find out what you can about our mystery Ghost. And let me know when the fighting starts. Is there anything else?” He says while stifling a yawn.

“Actually yes there is. We’ve noticed a signal from out beyond Pluto and Charon that has a encrypted message in it. It appears vaguely human in origin. But something seems off about it. From what we can tell two names repeat a lot. Just the letter ‘K’ and the name Kelvin.” She says. The man freezes in his spot. “Did you say Kelvin?” He sputters. “Yes, it’s here on the report sir.” She pulls a sheet of paper out of a group and softly lays it down on the desk infront of the older man. Looking down at the paper the man’s face drains of colour. “Well fuck me. He was telling the truth.”

Part Thirty Six : Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Come on shit birds, let’s take it from the top… again”

March 23, 2022March 23, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Roars the captain of the Jolene Roger into her microphone. Captain Morgan is sweating profusely under the strain of her training regimen. Teaching sixty newly haptic integrated soldiers to use her patented Bison drones is taking more time, effort and patience than she is willing to fork over. “For fuck sake people, formations, remember the formations. If you collide those fusion reactor cores will lose their magnetic seal and you’ll all go up in a cascading failure. We’ve been over this every day for seven weeks now. Stop trying to drive it, and become it. The Bison drone should feel like an extension of yourself, it’s not a fucking demolition derby car.” She shrieks, her earphones ringing with feedback from the over taxed mic.

The sixty member group are not living up to her dreams and there is significant resistance to the haptic systems link to the soldiers neural networks. Namely, they don’t use nanotech to a high enough degree for her liking. Her original plans only required an eight percent uptake in nanotech to fill in the gaps between stimulus and reaction time, but she may have been too conservative. She is resisting upping the limit as her spies on board the Righteous Chord and The Dirty Starling are sharing some horrific news regarding the Fire Teams and Tanker crews. So they’ll have to get better on their own, as she can’t risk losing her team to some unknown nano sickness, and thus risk losing her favoured spot with Admiral Garneau.

At the back of the war room commanding officer Gonzalez is over seeing the technological side of things. Keeping an eye on the engine spec’s, and watching that no one crosses over into another’s engine ploom, and melts themselves in six thousand degree Celsius plasma jetting out of the rear rocket booster packets located at the aft of each drone. Her thick black hair now streaked through with grey, and her once plump face now sallow and ashen. Except for the deep purple black puffy bags under her eyes. She is as mystified by the lack of progress as her captain is. All sixty souls scored so well in the subconscious training program. Reaching the required ninety percent efficacy with the gear to be able to go live with the actual physical drone. Every single person has seen at least a twenty percent drop in proficiency with the Bison drones. As a massive glob of sweat clings to her eye ball, she toggles the direct comm’s to captain Morgan.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere. We have to think about putting them back inside the tanks again. We’re missing something important. Some crucial step that the tank offers, and reality lacks.” Croaks Gonzalez with a grimace knowing her captain is not going to take her repeated suggestions with the tone they are meant. “Say that again and I will float you out of this cargo hold, along with the old man you’re so sweet on. Get me?” Captain Morgan hisses through her headset. “Yes ma’am.” Chirps Gonzalez meekly. “We don’t have enough tanks for all sixty drone pilots as it is. We don’t have the time, nor the resources to build more anyway. We’ll be at the rendezvous point in two weeks time. This HAS to work as intended. A waking, remotely operating fighting force that doesn’t rely too heavily on nanotech.” Captain Morgan growls through gritted teeth.

Out along the port side of the ship the teams of Bison drones are running their attack patterns, and tossing around asteroid chunks like a giant game of robot hot potato. Every so often two or more Bison drones get too close together and the proximity klaxons blare inside the war room, and the pilots all grimace and swear and lose track of their formations, and then paint jobs get singed, and sensor arrays get ruined as drive plooms turn everything to slag.

The saving grace of captain Morgan’s patented design are all of the plug and play off the shelf pieces that can be pulled off and replaced in mere minutes and not days. The onboard armory dry dock for the Bison drones looks like a massive barn full of cattle head stocks.

With the fifth near miss that could detonate the whole fleet of Bison drones captain Morgan calls in to CO Gonzalez and has her direct them in to the maintenance docks. A lengthy debrief is slated for an hour after the last of the drones has docked, and the pilots logged out of their remote command station. With a weary smile CO Gonzalez walks over to the pilots to chat with them. Ushering them into the showers and then following them to the cafeteria for a hot meal. The conversation is light, and the morale is low among the pilots. In the middle of her meal a soft ping emanates from her wrist communicator. A private message addressed to captain Morgan from someone named Gertrude from the Sanitation Department. As the message notification flashes with a tiny red flag, Gonzalez clicks on the message to read it. The captain has just forgotten to turn off her message forwarding while instructing the Bison drone pilots. Not uncommon for Gonzalez to read and respond to high priority messages for the captain. Being next in line, there isn’t much that she isn’t privy too. A moment later the message prompt turns green and Gonzalez can read the message in full, and toggle through the attachments. The message itself was short, it just stated that the priority trash was taken care of. There were six attachments, each one an identical image of a wrist communicator. No, not quite identical, the registration numbers, singular to each unit was different. “What the fuck is this?” Gonzalez whispers to herself. A moment later a response from the captain comes through, along with a transaction id number. “Is this what I think it is?” Gonzalez says with a sinking queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Part Thirty Five: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

Standing alone in the bowels of the sanitation department

March 23, 2022March 23, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Gertrude is talking away animatedly to a closed bay door to the Jolene Roger’s tertiary recycler as a soft puff of acrid smoke drifts by up towards the whirling air scrubbers. The sub basement to the vessel is where only a select few ever bother to tread. Although the department is among the cleanest aboard, the distaste people have towards waste water treatment and the recycling of all other materials on board makes the brown jumpsuit wearers somewhat of a pariah among the crew. Once Gertrude took off her tutu, and started to prowl the ship with her trash cart she might as well have been invisible, with all of the non-attention she could attract. Hence her being rather chipper about outsmarting the three would be attackers from the ship’s largest bar and dance club. Feeling rather smug about how well her drunk girl passed out on the floor of the bar by the toilets on the last night in port had worked. She managed to engage her target in one swift motion to knock him out, and roll on top of him to provide them both cover. The moaning and gyrating had been a last second decision that really paid off, a stroke of genius really, Gertrude would have to remember that if she makes it back from UB313 alive.

Looking at the stainless steel doors polished to a high sheen, Gertrude is leaning now against the door running her fingers lazily up and down the frame while chatting amicably. “You should have seen me Norman, it was straight out of a Hollywood block buster. I see the three guys watching you, so I set my trap, right? Yeah – I wait for my moment and then pounce! Bam. Dude, you should have seen your head go. Crunch – right into the space between the floor and the bottom of the pillar. I didn’t mean to tug you down so hard. But I had to subdue you for it to work. My plan that is. Ha. If your drunk ass had of done anything except lie there under me those goons would have discovered my ruse for sure! My ruse? My scheme? My master plan. No wait, scratch that, none of this is cool, let me start over again…” hops Gertrude from the door at the tell tale sound of approaching footsteps on the open grate flooring. “Gerty! You down here again? – you and your dramatic monologues eh? Is there a show coming up that I don’t know about Gerty? I do love your stage plays. A Street Car Named Deserea was my favourite!” The older man says. “Desire.” Gertrude responds. “I’m sorry?” Repeats the older gentleman in his own immaculate brown jumpsuit. “The street car is Desire, not Deserea.” She smirks at the older man. “Oh yeah. Ha! What a goof I am. Is there a show Gerty ?” He half begs half pleads with a huge smile on his face. Gertrude loves to see her fans, especially when it’s one of her bosses boss. “I’m just practicing right now, but you’ll be the first to know when we reengage with entertainment again Jules.” She smiles sweetly at him through her giant brown eyes, her white toothy grin shining brilliantly. “That’s the ticket.” He snaps his fingers, and points at Gertrude. “Oh – right. The reason I came down here. There seems to be a puddle of medical waste in the hall. I guess the med tech’s aren’t double bagging their stuff again. If you can clear that up and just dump it straight into the recycler, you can take the rest of your shift off to work your monologue. I liked ruse, it felt authentic, and ‘of the moment’ as you like to say.” Quips Jules over his shoulder as he walks back out of the way from the recycler input doors. “Not a problem Jules!” She shouts in a sing song fashion.

Taking a beat to make sure the foot steps are receding into the background Gertrude takes a good long look at the polished doors. After a pause she says. “Ha. Norman, you almost had me there! Sneaking blood onto the floors, nice try.” Walking to her cart she grabs a mop and a thick yellow bag and some absorbent pads. Wiping up the bulk of the puddle, placing the soiled pads in the bag, and then mopping up the glistening pink spot on the floors she whispers to herself. “Almost got me Norman. Almost.”

Taking the cart and the mushy plastic bag back to where she was recounting her story to Norman she opens up the bay doors again. The interior is totally empty. Reaching half way in she plops the yellow bag of blood and soiled pads into the center of the chamber. Leaning out and closing the safety doors she pushes the green button beside the floor station terminal and with a whisper soft whir the unit drops its load into the incinerator. A minute puff of acrid black smoke drifts by Gertrude’s face as it hangs lazily in the air, like a grey haze. Only to be pulled softly towards the softly whirling air scrubbers above.

Gertrude sighs to herself and says. “That’s why I do my monologues after the fact Norman. Those three goons were lazy thugs, they were tactless. I have style and grace. Captain Morgan will pay me handsomely for disposing of you after asking too many questions.” Smiling daintily to herself Gertrude takes her cart back to her allocated storage space, and wanders off into the upper decks of the Jolene Roger. The engines have kicked on, and she can feel the added weight pulling on her through the soles of her feet from the thrust of the boosters.

Part Thirty Four: Ghost of the Dirty Starling

“Does anyone else think it’s weird that…

March 22, 2022March 22, 2022greatwallstudiosLeave a Comment

Both Gurinder and Bennet Jr got hurt in exactly the right ways to be placed directly into the captain’s new drone program immediately after getting seriously injured?” Drawls the very drunk interim supply clerk and dock worker Norman Chan a little too loudly. His friends at the hip high bar table all look at Norm sideways over their drinks. “Not this again!” The chorus goes up from the group around Norm. “Come on man, we leave port tomorrow afternoon, let’s just get drunk, fuck and forget about shit for a few hours, man! Just let it go. People are starting to stare.” Slurs a particularly drunk Bennet Sr. His hair a messy tussle of greasy grey. “He’s my son – right? Right. So, so… I’m just glad they had the spinal column haptics that gives him full mobility again ok. That container mishap crushed a good portion of his back. He could, he, he could have died man. Be happy he isn’t dead!” Shouts Bennet Sr over the din of the music blaring in the crowded bar. “I know, I know!” Norm waves his hands, palms out. “It just seems suspicious is all I’m saying.” Norm takes another long pull from his mixed drink. Bennet Sr leans over to rest on his shoulder and says. “Oh hey, that smells good, what is that Norman?” He slurs cheerily, his momentary lapse of melancholy driven away by drink. “Sex on the beach.” Norm says. “What!?!” Shouts back Bennet Sr. “I said Sex on The Beach!” Norman bellows, just as the music goes quiet waiting for the beat to drop. A huge portion of the crowd turns to look at the now flushed and thoroughly embarrassed Norman. The beat comes crashing back in and the crowd cheers! “YEAH!” Norman turns away from his group of friends and winds his way through the packed dance floor of the bar, away from the bar top he was using to steady himself between drinks. Working his way back towards the men’s room at the farthest reaches of the narrow room. The long interior wall is one long bar with mirrors behind it making you feel like the space was wider than it was, in the middle were lengths of bar top between pillars and a few free standing tables, mostly faux wood finishes dominated the bar. Then a walk way, and several day bed like couches under the floor to ceiling cement glass windows that looked out into space. But now caught the glinting sight of the Mars Six Sub-Orbital Aerial Base where the Jolene Roger was docked for Resupply before shipping out to Pluto for an offensive against the Insurgency, and their black ops base stationed at UB313. Passing by the hot and sweaty crowd Norman fails to notice as a few heads turn to follow him as he walks through the crowd. The three men in a triangle formation watch as Norman walks between them and on to the toilets at the back of the room. The smallest of the three watchers types quickly on his wrist communicator without looking down at it. He is smiling and being social with a few women at his slab of the bar. Within moments the three gentleman get a return notification, and slowly they peel away from their gatherings and walk nonchalantly to the men’s room.

Norman passes the last part of the bar and reaches up to grasp the pillar just out away from the wall before nearly falling over a drunk woman legs. How he missed the bright pink tutu is anybody’s guess. Leaning down, gingerly he asks if the young woman needs any help regaining her feet. Instead she pulls him head first by his collar into the space where the pillar meets the floor and he blacks out. Crawling onto Norman’s body she begins to writhe around and shriek incoherently. The gathered crowd turns their backs in an attempt to ignore the weird behavior. With the crew on edge with war looming nobody is willing to get in the middle of anyone’s business tonight. A brief moment later and three men bolt into the bathroom locking the doors behind them. Their shouts, and the sounds of gun shots are muffled by the music and the heavy doors. From the floor the woman rolls of Norman, and fireman carries him out of the club. No one gives them a second look.

Several paces outside the bar the woman sets Norman’s unconscious body against the wall to slump into a crumple of limbs. She removes her dark wig to reveal her bright green, close cropped hair. Ditching her ruffled tutu, and knee high boots and stockings to unfurl her brown jumpsuit that was tied off at the waist and appear like an on duty custodial staff member. She pulls a cleaning cart out of a hidden compartment in the hallway wall and pushes Norman’s body into the over-sized garbage bin. She proceeds to take him down into the sanitation decks well below.

Part Thirty Three : Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

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