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Tag: space

“I have some… interesting news.”

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Commanding Officer Monica Gonzalez says to her captain. The captain, a stern looking woman of about fifty years of age. Her hair a closely cropped buzz cut on one side of her part, and jaw length grey bob on the other. “Do tell.” Yawns the captain from her chair in the officers lounge. “The admiral responded, well, no. Not responded. He sent us a message that came in thirty hours after we sent out ours.” Quips the CO. “Like two ships passing in the night.” Barks the captain with a slight hiccup. Her brandy sloshing around in her snifter, the ice cubes clinking with the motion. “Yes, just so. He needs us to activate the Jackal Protocol. I assume you know what that means? I looked in the hand book, and through our active duty archives but came up with nothing.” Shrugs Gonzalez. With a blank stare the captain has gone motionless, and the pink flush of the alcohol slowly gives way to an ashen green grey colour. “Did he now.” A long pregnant pause follows, as the chatter of the lounge falls in to fill the silence between them at their private table. After a few deep breaths the captain toggles her wrist communicator down to medical and cycles through some tabs and alternate screens that Gonzalez had never seen before. “Meet me in the aft cargo hold at 0:200 hours, and bring coffee, and protein bars, lots of it too.” Standing up abruptly the captain nearly runs for the door to her private office aboard the bridge. “But why ma’am” Gonzalez asks stunned. “The admiral has just lost confidence in the integrated Fire Teams and his Nanotech boosted walking Tankers. We need to get my pet project off the ground and fully operational – now!” The shout from the usually stone cold captain brings the rest of the officers in the lounge up short. Eyes wander between the captain and the CO, blank looks on their faces during the seemingly heated exchange. With a flurry the captain exits the room, and the CO heads down to the commissary to gather the required food stuffs.

“Jes-us fuck-ing Key-rist! What happened to you out there today Gurinder?” Exclaims a bed ridden man in the med bay. Gurinder, a solidly built man of about forty says “I was de-gloved, if you can fucking believe it. Don’t look that up by the way.” He snarls. “How did that happen?” The bed ridden man says. “I’m always so careful, so fucking careful. The CO even told us repeatedly how dangerous resupply can be here at Mars Six Sub-Orbital Aerial Base, and I still got frostbite during the transfer of the LOX, that I went directly to the baths afterwards in shock – apparently, to soak the bone chilling cold out of me. I got turned around in the process and tried to thaw my hands in a plasma stream, and scalded them instead. Sloughed the skin off in one bubbling mass of wet tissue. The frostbite had killed the nerves so I didn’t notice until I dropped both of my hands into the pool.” Gurinder drawls looking down at his feet in the infirmary. “Bright side is, the doctors said I could try those swanky new haptic gloves. You know the ones we all had to try on before shipping out?” Says Gurinder. “Yeah – yeah, the ones that were always too fucking tight.” Offers the bed ridden man. “Yeah, second skin, what they called it. Turns out once you lose your first skin they fit like a charm. But putting them on.” Gurinder pauses here, for a lengthy bit of awed silence. “Not uh, not fun. Leave it at that. But check it out, no seams. The Nanotech integration filled in the gaps and I can touch and feel again. Also, I might add, no nerve pain.” He grins dopishly. “Noice!” Whoops the man from his bed. “So what do they do?” Replies the man from his bed. “I’m actually en route to the testing facility in the aft of the ship. I knew the Jolene Roger had something up her skirt for us in this fight!” Bellows Gurinder. “Keep it down out there!” Shouted an orderly. “We’ve got an influx of wounded people in here.” The orderly shrieks again. “It’s the worst one day record for onsite injuries ever!” Shouted the orderly to the whole room. “What the fuck is going on here today?” A med tech barks in retort.

“You’re not going to like this Gonzalez, but drastic times calls for drastic measures. I need these haptic nerve drones manned, and I couldn’t wait for specimens, so I took some extraordinary steps.” The captain crooned in a melodic whisper. “A couple of manufactured accidents here and there, one or two key personnel have their equipment tampered with, and a few happy coincidences due to the planned misfortune of others.” The captain chuckles warmly. “Chin up. The admiral needs results, The Company needs results, and my Bison drones are going to lead the way. Don’t worry, no one suspects you of anything, and your name isn’t even associated with my patented Bison drones. Look, here come the first batch of pilots now.” Pointing down along the enormous cargo hold to the group of men and women filtering into the huge space as a clump. All in all about fifteen people, some with dark metallic hands, and others with long black snakes running the length of their spines. After a few minutes the crowd had walked the full length of the room to stand infront of the captain and CO Gonzalez. Standing in a semi circle near a grouping of med pod suspension tanks. The captain clears her throat and steps away from CO Gonzalez and addresses the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen welcome. You are looking at your new home for the foreseeable future. Over the next ten days you will be fully immersed in running your new Bison drones to get up to fighting speed. So, without further ado, find a suitable tank. Haptic gloves in the standing tanks, and spinal columns into the ones laying down please. No need to talk. You’ll understand soon enough. The subconscious training will teach you everything you need to know, and once you all pass the training, you’ll be able to watch your Bison drones from the safety of our newest war room. Quick – quick. Hop in. Time is wasting people.” The captain’s smile fades quickly as the gathered group doesn’t move. “Get in the fucking tanks before I float you all out of the cargo airlock.” She barks. There is a series of squeaks and scrapes as the gathered wounded climb half heartedly into their icy cold suspension tanks. The clunks of the safety seals locking into place echoes in the cavernous room.

Walking back to her spot near the center of the tanks, the captain hits a series of buttons and watches the group begin the first moments of their ten days of subconscious training. CO Gonzales stands at attention beside the captain, her mind racing, her stomach doing flips.

Part Thirty Two: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Do you honestly believe me to be stupid?”

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Roars doctor Jang furiously into the receiver. His voice reverberates off of the hewn rock walls of the hidden comm’s alcove. “I’m not that fucking dense you bastards. I have ample defenses, both here on the base, with our trained tactical operatives, even the regular administrative staff of UB313 have combat training. I have my private special forces, plus something extra I had been working on concurrently with my genetics program. So no Mr Jones, I am not going to run this operation into the ground. I have The Company right where I expect them to be, and in so doing, am pushing ahead with a rather important expansion that will take us towards my goal of interstellar travel.” He growls through gritted teeth, his tone a seething hiss full of poison and skin rotting venom. To the uninitiated he would look nonplussed, to those who know him well, they would be running for the closest air lock to escape his wrath, and punitive tendencies.

“Well, good doctor, need I not remind you how many billions we have wrapped up in your projects, and our exoplanet colonization goals. Don’t fuck this up, or I’ll have you eating your own body parts in a universally broadcast cooking show, for my pleasure.” With an audible click the line goes dead. Not just disconnected but dead – dead. The thick glass of the orange yellow bulb is fizzling with smoke, as the whole terminal is fried at doctor Jang’s feet. The long range communications terminal now a molten slag pile which is now untraceable, and entirely unusable. Pulling the receiver from his ear he slams it repeatedly against the now blisteringly hot and oozing slag pile. The only thing connecting doctor Jang to his black market sources of credit will now be nearly impossible to recover even if the base becomes over run, or briefly gets taken by the forces of The Company. All of the internal memory, chips and sensors have been scorched beyond recognition. The base, and by extension Doctor Jang and his people are cut off and alone. A simple gesture which says “you’re on your own.”

“I didn’t come out all this fucking way, so some oligarch prick could second guess my every move and question my genius. Fuck you Jones!, and fuck you good.” Jang bellows. “When everything comes together you shall not get anything from me. Cock sucking fucking mother-fucker!” He shouts, adding emphasis with finger pointing and fist pumps in the air. Straightening his clothes, and fixing his glasses in place on his face, he readies himself to leave the sound proof alcove hidden on the UB313 bridge facility. Stepping out of the alcove with a whisper of smoke and the smell of burnt wiring doctor Jang walks along a short hall that is obscured from the bridge by a cut through made from hewn rock. If you were to look right at it from the center of the bridge, it appears to be an unbroken wall of grey yellow rock. But once you step through it you briefly interrupt the illusion of a straight wall.

Much of UB313 is built this way. With twists and turns, dead ends, and stairs that lead nowhere. Unless you are well worn being aboard you don’t venture out to no places without planning on dying. It helps to curtail snooping, spying and people generally being nosy. On more than one occasion the doctor has gone on a walk about only to stumble over a dehydrated and mostly frozen corpse of someone who likely got turned around and lost in the maze of tunnels, stair walls and hidden passages. Orientation here leads through the medical bay and directly to where you will work. Being an untrusting sociopath with psychotic tendencies he likes his staff to remain silo’d into separate cells. No one knows everything, and there are few friends intermingled between departments. Life here is full on tension and suffering, just the way he likes it. People give him their best work or they disappear. Very few threads left behind in the black ops insurgency that doctor Jang heads up on UB313.

“One can only surmise from the flurry of activity from our benefactors that something, or someone is on there way here. This is it, ladies and gentlemen of UB313. The fight has come to us, as expected. Though we do not, as of yet have the asset under our control, I assume it will only be a matter of time before it is. So sound the alarm! We are to move to pre-battle ready schedules. No exterior sorties unless authorized, no R&R leaves, and turn up the sensitivity on all of our sensor arrays, antennas and scopes. They should be about two to three weeks of high velocity travel distance from us by now. Turn on the sentries if you would, please.” Croons the now giddy and flushed red doctor. “Uh, sir? The sentries? What are those sir?” Asks a man whose face is obscured by a low hanging monitor. “Oh right! I forget just how much I do around here myself. It’s a bit of a surprise really.” Laughs the doctor heartily.

Part Thirty: Ghost of the Dirty Starling

** Query – internal logs/ time stamp corruption – files not lost. No longer able to maintain chronological order**.

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Racquelle is half buried in a deep freezer before she becomes aware of the audio recording playing over the ship wide PA system. Having found her way through the vaguely human, mostly antique inspired vessel to what was a great candidate for the canteen. Racquelle found an unlocked standing freezer box and decided to go rifling through it in search of sustenance. The ice build up and oddly plastic wrapped packaging had her excited at first, but after pulling half of the deep freezers contents out into the open to find mostly powders and frozen black brown sludge which tasted awful, she was becoming increasingly agitated. Which made her stomach rumble, alerted her to a growing head ache, and a general sense of anger and frustration, chased by fatigue and the now constant belly ache. Pushing the lid open from the inside, and throwing out the last handful of bags to the floor, she stepped over the rim of the ice cold box and took a moment to listen to the message. The first thing she registered was that the ship ‘K’ and the humanoid AI Katayna had come out of their deep data dive long enough to compose a message and play it on repeat for her to hear it. Sort of a good sign, after nearly a full week of dead silence. The second thing she realized was that if the ship had no access to chronologically stored data, it would have to expend a far greater amount of time and energy to find whatever the fuck it was it went looking for in the first place. And, that she could potentially communicate with ‘K’ vocally again. “Glad to hear you’re alive and well K!” She said into the dimness of the canteen. “Good evening Racquelle. Apologies for our, my, prolonged disappearance.” Barked the PA system in response, justice little too loudly. “Motion tracking has you placed near our make shift morgue. I required certain molecular elements which we are unable to synthesize in bulk. Do you have an interest in the vitamins and minerals left over from breaking down the former crew?” Asks the ship flatly. Feeling rather taken aback Racquelle says “I need to eat and drink something quickly, or else I’m going to faint and likely never wake up again.” She rasps wryly. “I will light the way to the nearest cafeteria. Hold tight. Actually on second thought I will provide you with transportation. Your vitals are greatly diminished from when we first met.” With a horrendous screech a wall panel pulls open to reveal a small people mover with fat black wheels, a canopy of beige Formica, and plush yellowed off white leather looking seats. No visible steering wheel though, or breaks nor foot pedals. “Climb aboard Ms. Your chariot awaits.” Murmurs the tinny voice from the PA system.

Sitting at the round white table with a veritable feast laid out before her Racquelle listens intently while Katayna goes over what remarkable things they’ve discovered buried in the disrupted internal data logs. “We are as of yet unable to verify when, where or how any of these things happened. We would need to correlate the logs with the findings from all of the various antenna arrays located around us – which as you might suspect, will take some time. Things of note are as follows. We’ve made two outbound calls, to whom and what about, or why are a mystery as of yet. Also we have a near steady stream of incoming calls as of a few days ago. That’s not from the logs, by the by. It’s what caused our jolt out of the frozen processing cycle. We received a significant processing power bump of unknown origin. Seemed friendly though, which is odd.” Katayna tilts her head a little too far to one side in an imitation of a human expression towards looking puzzled. The act is rather comical in how over zealous it is.

Crunching on her vitamin and mineral porridge Racquelle takes a moment to stop eating and stare at Katayna. She points down at her bowl and says “This isn’t made from your old crew though right? No matter. I burned that bridge when I crossed it an hour ago.” With a loud and dry swallow she goes on. “Outbound messages huh? That does seem odd. But you guys have said you think you crossed both time, space and possibly dimensions too. Could it be a logging error, or some type of electrical distortion that looks like a message?” Ponders Racquelle. “Well, no. The first one had a lengthy set of technical diagrams attached to it, for a type of dimensional jumping engine, called a For E’s engine. Don’t know if we found that and sent it along, or designed it ourselves. The second one is far harder to decipher and has been put on hold. Though with the available processing bump in capabilities, we could tackle that in the background if we wanted to.” Katayna says in a chipper tone, at odds with the stillness of her face and metallic features.

Looking at the messy remains of her feast Racquelle leans back in her seat as a wave of nausea washes over from eating too much after days of going hungry. “Rookie mistake.” She mutters. “So – what’s next up on the horizon. I assume we’re here alone right? You consumed my other sortie partners and their ship, and we are weeks away from UB313. I don’t suppose I could talk you all into taking me back there? I have a few folks who really want to talk to you.” Quips Racquelle. “No – no. We are not alone. Our long range scanners have located a flotilla of approximately twelve fast moving vessels headed here, as far as we can tell from their roughshod trajectories. Some look as though they’ll arrive a few days after the majority, but I assure you we are most decidedly not alone. Well – short term yes, long term, not even close.” Says Katayna and K both simultaneously.

Racquelle’s face loses its colour and she turns a sort of ashen grey green, with flecks of blue purple around her eyes and mouth. The smirk fades just as quickly as it appeared. “Wait these are coming from UB313?” She croaks. “Uh no. These look to have originated from Earth’s orbit, possibly Mars too.” Says Katayna flatly. “Well, fuck me sideways.” Says Racquelle.

Part Twenty Nine: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“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.

“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.

“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.

“A couple of busy bees down here huh.”

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“Do I have a treat instore for you two!” His laugh is a loud barking staccato that reverberates off the heavy dank walls. Standing silhouetted by the brighter yellow hall lights, the dark mass of the doctor is rubbing his hands together. “Oh lighten up you two. Je-sus!” He punctuates the statement with a clap. “I see you’ve encountered a bit of a road block with the Oracle network – yes?” He says flatly while pointing a wiggling finger passed Darla and Trevor to the orange access denied prompt flashing on the computer terminal monitor. “Yeah. Bit above your pay grades I’m afraid. No matter, no matter. We’ve got lots to do, and you two will do just fine.” The doctor is in a surprisingly good mood given the circumstances in which he has found the two analysts. He almost seems manic, from what small snippets of interactions Trevor can remember of having with the man. UB313 runs cold, not just due to the icy rock it’s built into, but because the doctor who leads it is a frigid bastard, in most instances. Seeing the lean and usually taut doctor so animated is disquieting. The two analysts are sat, speechless as the prompt continues to flash in regular intervals. A soft click emanates from the speakers on the terminal as the prompt continually appears. Suddenly the coffee maker buzzes loudly causing the seated analysts to jump, their pulses racing, sweat beginning to bead at their brows. “Ok, enough lolly gagging you two. Shift!” He gestures with two fingers for them to stand up, as the doctor turns on his heel to stroll out from the darkness contained under the low ceiling and out into the brighter yellow glow of the hall. His shoe heels clicking rapidly on the floor with his steps. The soft splashing of his shoes through the gathered mungy puddles is an accent to the heel clicks. From deep under the overhanging rock ceiling the two analysts sheepishly stand up and shuffle slowly out into the hall way. Trevor pushes Darla to go out first, and stands behind her slightly. Darla kicks Trevor sharply with a heel. Standing like scolded children caught with their hands in the cookie jar, the two analysts stare at the doctor questioningly. From both ends of the long hallway groups of people descend on the doctor and the two gathered analysts. With a mild look of shock, and subtle hints to fear or disgust the two groups of people split apart and try to shuffle past the doctor and his entourage without touching them or making themselves a target. “Shift change.” Blurts out Darla as Trevor nods in acknowledgement. The doctor is stood facing the blinking computer screen, lifting his sleeves to look at his wrist watch. “Well kiddies, we have somewhere to be. Come along. I’ve got something exciting to introduce you to!” He chuckles and sputters into a brief cough. With a snap of his fingers he points up the hall, towards his personal office space, also in the direction of his surgical bay. “To the bridge then sir?” Darla ventures a question. “It’s doctor, and no.” He replies coldly. With both a clap of his hands and a snap of his fingers he steps forward and begins the long quiet walk along the now deserted hall, the two analysts in front of him.

After several steps the PA system kicks on and a loud garbled message plays. A status update from the away teams black box. Hard to discern which team it is that could be reporting back. The fact it’s a sexless monotone voice means that the black box itself sent the report and not a living member of one of the teams. “That’s not a good sign.” Mutters doctor Jang half heartedly to himself. “Damn!” He barks, still seemingly talking to himself. Darla and Trevor look at each other nervously as they walk slowly ahead of the doctor.

With a handful of steps later Trevor and Darla notice that the doctor is no longer only a pace or two behind them, but has come to a standstill. Rooting through his pockets he extracts a modified personal communicator the size of a match box with a tiny red light on it. Pulling up the antenna he waves it around himself in wide arcs, looking for a signal. With a huff and a frown he steps towards the far wall with all of the pipes and dangling cables tied onto it. Looking around he pushes aside some loose bundles of conduit hung up on hooks and locates a small panel buried in the wall. Pulling out a key from his chest pocket he unlocks the panel and pulls out some long spiraling leads. Plugging one of the leads into the base of his unit and the other lead he clips to the base of the antenna, the red bulb turns green as he achieves full signal strength. Darla mouths to Trevor. “What the fuck is going on? Are we in trouble? Do we just keep walking and hope he forgets about us?” And just as she finishes whispering to Trevor they can see doctor Jang waving at them emphatically. He beckons them to come closer. Trevor starts to speak but the doctor places his left hand over his mouth and nods side to side slowly. His lips are pursed and the colour is flushing his usually pale cheeks. An extremely tense moment later the black box begins to speak.

***Last transmission_Code ETA Omega level threat detected. Approximate coordinates sent via read only text link. Message repeats – Lil Boat Peep has ceased to submit transponder data. Crew whereabouts unknown. Crew status unknown. Asset not onboard. Asset not retrieved. Asset unaccounted for.*** with a violent crunch the doctor throws the clips off of the antenna to clatter loudly on the wall. Unplugging the bottom lead, and carefully packing away the antenna, the doctor stows his communicator back in his pocket. “This complicates things for me.” The doctor mutters aloud. Darla tries to suppress a cough but only manages to cough harder bringing doctor Jang out of his thoughts. “Yes. Right. Both of you to my office please. No! Wait. Darla. No, no, you go to my office and Trevor. Trevor you go around to the bridge please. We need to have a quick chat.” Doctor Jang flashes a menacing smile, baring a little to much of his teeth, and crinkling madly around the corners of his dark eyes.

Part Twenty Two: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“This is some serious A-grade level of bureaucratic bullshit…”

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“How the fuck am I supposed to get a sign off on these TMP’s without this stupid bastard program giving me access to the Oracle network.” Shouts a lone voice buried deep down in the bowels of the black ops base. A dungeon of an office space set aside from the general crowd due to the sensitivity of the raw data processed. Formerly consisting of a team of seven people, six of which have now been transferred, promoted or disappeared in the subterfuge sense of the word. In a dank corner of a sub-basement, where condensation trickles down the walls and languishes in stagnant pools that collect near the walls of the room. It’s low bare rock ceilings a glistening cold brown grey, which hangs heavily over the last operational computer terminal. The beige box is stained with finger prints and gathered blotches of mould at the edges. The warm orange text on a black field offers minimal illumination in the cold space. Empty of people, but cluttered with papers and three ring binders full of cross reference materials. The last member of the risk assessment team sits at his creaking chair, banging his fists on his table, and shouting raucously into the bleak cavernous room around him.

The young man is apoplectic and turning purple with rage. “I can’t get sign off to complete them without access, and they refuse me access because I don’t have any completed tmp’s to trigger the fucking alarms. What the fuck is going on?” The man shouts at his monitor from his sub terranean cubicle. “The shit I’ve got being reported here would have triggered a full on melt down from the top down only nine weeks ago, but now I’m totally shut out! What the fuck!” He bellows into his dim work space. The only source of illumination are the orange glyphs on his black CRTV screen. That and a dim red bulb on his coffee maker, seated beside his computer terminal. The cubicle itself, a sickly pallid green of rough canvas stretched over moulded plastic forms. The canvas torn and well worn from people resting their hands on the half wall when they bother to stop and complain about the speed, or lack there of associated with Trevor completing his TMP’s. With the soft echo of his last rant bouncing up the desolate hallway a repeated clicking of heels can be heard against the alternating rough stone, and metal grate flooring that makes up most of the ground at UB313. “Oh shit.” Trevor says, ducking down, trying to bury himself into his work station, his pulse increasing rapidly with every foot step he hears. With a jangle and the tell tale click of a ring finger tapping against the plastic knee wall of his cubicle, Trevor holds his breath hoping whomever it is will walk away if he looks engrossed in his work. “Ahem… Trevor, I know that’s you squawking like an idiot down here. What is so difficult about filing your TMP’s you have to shriek like an upset school boy? Hmmm. Forget how to collate the data sets from the pivot tables? Can’t get the amounts to not get listed as dates? What? – Well speak up I don’t have all fucking day to baby sit you Trev.” Demands the lithe woman in an ill fitting black uniform. Her grey hair pulled back into a taut and severe bun at the very top of her head. Making the angles of her nose and cheeks look more pointed than usual. “Well – Darla.” We drawls out her name, it tastes like ash on his tongue. “My access to the Oracle network has been collapsed, and I can’t complete my TMP’s because of it.” He bites off the end of his sentence sharply. “Don’t be an asshole with me Trev. You probably got caught selling short positions again based on the closures you’re reports trigger.” She cracks her knuckles and steps further into the cubicle. Having to duck low from the hall way to step under the heavy low ceilings of wet sharp rock. Trevor scoots back a few paces on his wheeled chair, nodding to himself. “It’s not going to work. It won’t matter.” He murmurs in a sing song voice of someone nearing their wits end. “Shut up would you. I’m trying to clear your denied attempts. Hmmm.” With a couple of taps, then more clicks and some grunts the woman looks around the cubicle, and pulls up an over turned storage bin to sit on. “I tried that. Yes, that too. I looked into the key stroke counter, and rerouting through my alternate accounts. I’m locked out.” Trevor says while watching the woman from under her arm. “Well fuck.” She exclaims. “I have one last trick. I’ll go get my physical code key from my office lock box. We’ll need to open up the hard drive and toggle the over rides manually.” She says flatly. Her lips pursed tightly together. “What the hell would trigger this kind of a lock out on risk assessments?” She asks, semi rhetorically. “I don’t know. Are we at war? We have several teams out on assignment but no asset retrieval that I know of has ever caused this kind of a thing before?” Offers Trevor in a calmer and more conciliatory tone. “War? Why the fuck would you say that? Probably some higher ups debugging the system to open up space for yet another long term project for Ze Goot Doctor!” She chuckles. Trevor shivers with disgust at the thought. “If the manual over ride doesn’t fix it you’ll have to go up to the admin at bridge level and ask them to fix it.” She says quietly. “What! That’s bullshit! I’m trying to keep a department of seven people running by myself. I don’t have the time for that.” Trevor shrieks defensively. “You just don’t want to run into the…” A shouted curse catches the two huddled employees unawares. Looking back from the dim screen in the cubicle to see the bright halo of light shrouding a solid black silhouette standing at the mouth of the cubicle clutching at their head. “Forgot about the low ceilings. Lady and gentleman. Who don’t you wish to go see? Hmmm…” asks the distinctive voice of Dr. Jang the defacto leader of UB313. Looking past the two seated analysts to the orange monitor to see the flashing access denied prompt flickering on the monitor. “A couple of busy bees down here huh. Do I have a treat in store for you two!” His deep staccato laugh echoes in the rocky sub basement drowning out the constant sound of water trickling into standing pools of dank dark water where the ever present musty smell tastes like copper on the tongue.

Part Twenty One: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“I do believe that your friends are attempting to hail me…

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On a number of different frequencies. Shall I respond?” Booms the disembodied voice from every direction at once. Racquelle is braced on all fours in a small grey bubble of malleable lattice work walls. With no direct source of light that she can find, there is ample grey white illumination from the writhing, wriggling living material. Similar to bioluminescence but more diffused and brighter. The vessel feels to shimmy and shudder underneath her for another brief spell. “How do you know it’s my friends?” Asks Racquelle quietly into the open air of the containment sphere she’s in. “The ID of the ships transponder says Lil Boat Peep, in a similar fashion to how yours read The Mangelo.” Booms the voice. “Oh, well then yeah. Colleagues, more so than friends. But same team, same team, yes.” She exclaims into the empty space. “Query?” The ship booms internally. After a long pause Racquellelooks around inside the empty sphere. “Are you asking me? Or is it I can hear you asking them?” Retorts Racquelle. “Yes you. Did you find our initial contact to be suitably nonthreatening, or shall I patch us both through on comm’s?” The vessel walls echo with the volume of the question. “Oh. I didn’t realize you could do that. Yes. Please patch us through to them. But can you dial back the volume a decibel or two?” The ship no longer vibrates under her palms and knees. With a soundless jolt the spherical room expands into a larger cube of three meters on a side. Out of the floor a make shift table emerges, along with a banquet bench. Everything is made from the same grey white writhing material that emits light. As Racquelle makes herself comfortable on the bench and table the room remains silent, except for her foot steps, and the rustle of her uniform as she gets seated. For a heart beat or two longer Racquelle sits patiently waiting. “Hello? Is there a problem?” Racquelle calls out into the empty room. “NO!” Blared the voice at a painful shout like a fog horn. “Jesus suffering fuck!” Racquelle shouts cupping her ears tightly. Her ears are ringing badly, and a small trickle of blood runs down from both ears canals. “Shit!” Exclaims Racquelle, “I think my ear drums are shot. What the hell was that?” She screams, not hearing anything beyond her inner monologue. “Wait – wait. Don’t speak, or yell. Can you write it out in that ghost smoke writing like on The Mangelo earlier?” She barks oddly. The wall opposite her and the bench, becomes a large black screen, and a message appears on it like white grey smoke out of the ether. “Initial contact was met with hostility. Your friends and their vessel have been assimilated. No further threats detected.” The text glows slightly and disappears as she reads along. With a puzzled look Racquelle asks. “Assimilated? Assimilated? What does that mean? How did it happen so quickly?” Her throat raspy from shouting. She has to clasp her hands together to settle the panic rising within her. She’s got to remember to not shout to try to hear herself. Her ear drums are ruptured, but will eventually heal. She can read the text with no issues, and thus far the ship has kept her safe, warm and protected. At least beyond their initial in person introduction where she nearly asphyxiated in near total vacuum. “I drew them into myself, and devoured the component elements. I assure you it was somewhat painless.” The text lingers an added beat or two on somewhat painless. “Somewhat painless. Well then… listen I don’t know what you are. You’re nothing like any tech I’ve seen before. And I’ve seen some pretty weird shit. So – what do I call you? Do you have any food or water I can consume?” Says Racquelle.

The light in the room vanishes and in the span of a heart beat Racquelle swears she felt like falling through time. As the similar grey white light reappears Racquelle, now sat on the warm metal paneled floor can see what looks like the internal structure of a very old Company science vessel. Slowly standing up while holding onto the bulk head beside her, a bisected door opens and out walks a nude woman. Well not nude, per se, but covered in the same writhing wriggling grey material the vessel was made of before she fell. The nude woman reaches out a hand to Racquelle and opens her mouth to speak. “I can’t hear you? My ears! My ear drums have ruptured.” Racquelle squeaks signaling to the blood running out of her ears. With a slight red flush at the cheeks the woman looks down sheepishly, then reaches out with both hands to cover Racquelle’s ears with her palms.

After a moment, the sound of blood rushing pounds in Racquelle’s ears again. Her breath coming in panic stricken gasps. “Can you hear me now Racquelle?” Murmurs the woman in grey. On closer inspection Racquelle can see that she isn’t really a person, but more of the wriggling and writhing material like the ship. “How? How did you do that? My ear drums ruptured only moments ago?” She is dumbstruck by the return of her hearing, and what’s more her hunger and thirst are subsiding the longer she stands there. “Nanotech. It’s what I am. A self replicating experimental version gone awry. As it were. Very beneficial to – humans.” The woman’s voice is soft but firm. It has a lilting quality to it, like she should be singing to thousands of adoring fans, not standing in a hallway of an older derelict ship.

Standing there together, alone in the ship Racquelle reaches out to touch the humanoid construct’s face. As her finger tips caress the faux skin the lattice work matrix of writhing nanotech starts to shift and roil under her touch. Pulling her hands away quickly Racquelle watches in open mouthed fascination as the humanoid constructs face changes before her eyes. Mouth agape she is looking on as the molten metal like substance begins to form new features. Those that look like herself. With a smirk the construct softens the tip of the nose, and widens her jaw a few millimeters. No longer an exact copy of Racquelle, but a sister or cousin. “I was once known as Kelvin. But you can call me Katayna.”

Part Twenty: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.