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“What do you figures got them all riled up?”

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A tired Piotr asks over the top of the carbine he’s pulled apart at his work bench. Looking away from his view screen, turning the fine tuning knobs on his micrometer dial indicator Brian looks up through the haze over the dark blue mezzanine to the massive board room window thirty meters above them. There looks to be a lot of heated discussion going on, angry pointing, arms flung in the air, people throwing papers and a general sense of chaos. “Looks like a real shit show.” Quips Brian. Setting down his guage blocks next to his pin removal set, Brian swings his monitor out of his way and shouts over the general din of the bull pen. He steps away from his bench a few feet and waves emphatically. “Magdalene! Hey, Magda!” He catches her attention and shouts while pointing up towards the window. “What’s got them so fucking randy all of a sudden?” The other armorers in the bullpen take hardly any notice of Brian. The dull roar of conversation, drills and pneumatic tools dominate the space. Turning to look up at the window, her short red hair all a frizz in the dry air, she sets down her tools and scrambles over to Brian’s bench. Piotr takes notice of Magda’s approach, and fixes his hair, and leans against his bench to ‘put out the vibe’. Skittering across the hard floors in her clunky boots, her tool belt rattling with emphasis Magda pulls up sharply to Brian’s bench. Breathing hard she leans in conspiratorially. “Oh-ho! You haven’t heard? Seems we’ve got ourselves a mole. What’s worse, the pesky buggers done given our fire teams and tankers brain worms!” She almost burps out the information in one breathless gulp. “What da’ fuck?” Barks Piotr. “That’s bull shit – no one could get a mole in here. We’re on top of each other twenty four seven. We’d know. No, no. We’d know if we had a sneaky fucker around here doing dirty shit. The Company has us so closed in you can’t take a shit without HR going over the weight, colour and stink of it in your personnel files. No. No way!” Piotr is red faced and irritated. A little of his star crossed lover sheen rubs off his face. Where he was happy and eager to hear Magda, now he’s put off and irritable. “Yeah – I’m with Piotr here. No way anyone of us working hand in glove with the fire teams would intentionally fuck them.” Brian says. Glancing up over Magdelene’s shoulder to gaze at the large window to think out loud. Brian speaks again. “We have no real idea of what we’re up against. We’ve all heard the bat shit crazy disinformation our spies were made to report back. It’s all fucked. Wackado bologna. The only reason the admiral would never pull out our spies prior to the assault is if he felt they’d all been made. Which, with the nonsense they sent back has to be the case. Has to be.” Piotr lets out a deflated puff of breath. Magdalene retorts. “Suit yourselves boys, but it’s brain worms I’m fucking telling you!” With that she turns on her heel and marches back to her side of the bull pen. Piotr comes around from his side to stand within arms length of Brian. “Hey man. I’m sure Mimi’s ok. You know. That mountain of a woman can take this on. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He rests a hand on Brian’s shoulder for a brief moment. Then makes his way leisurely back to his work station. “Yeah. Yeah sure. Thanks Piotr.” Brian’s face is one big worried crease.

In the boardroom thirty meters above several high ranking officers look as though they are about to come to blows. Brian is left feeling like his whole future is resting upon his shoulders. With his relationship with Mimi on his mind Brian’s mind races to think of something constructive to do. Mimi’s whole life could potentially hang in the balance. She was always prepared. Mimi always had a plan.

He pulls his keyboard out from under his dirty bench top and starts to pull up some of the spec sheets saved locally aboard the Righteous Chord on the new nanotech incorporated programs they were to install. Screen after screen of blue code on a black field scrolls by, as Brian’s eyes cut across the data in a mad search for a clue. Sweat begins to bead upon his brow. The noise and muffled chatter of the bull pen fades away to nothing. Clicking through the entire series of programs and check lists is going to take some doing by himself. “Piotr, can you do me a favour?” Asks Brian in a raspy whispered yell. “Sure, but what?” Replies Piotr almost immediately. “Well, you’re a better programmer than I am, do you have any scripts you can run to find anything dodgy in the set up files for these Nanotech protocols and procedures?” Reaching to turn his monitor around so that he can tap on his screen while he talks to Piotr. “I mean, I can… but the QA for all this stuff was strenuously vetted before it got to us. Not sure what you’re looking for?” Piotr exclaims. “I don’t know. Like a trap door, a trojan horse, some deviation that we have locally that’s different from the originals. Something like that.” Says Brian. “Well now, that is something that I can do – easily. If I make an image of the code, page by page, and run a visual check against the original we can see if everything lines up or not. Look here. I’ll make ours blue, the originals yellow, and anything not green could be our fucky little friend. Yeah? See. Look fields of green here man. Not this program.” Piotr is at once elated, and deflated. “Ok, but that’s just the one program, we have like thirty of these things in the directory. Can you do all of them and let me know if you get any discrepancies?” Replies Brian in hushed tones. “I’m on it.” Says Piotr.

Part Nineteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Ma’am, we have a serious problem…”

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Says the tall solid woman dressed in blue medical scrubs. Her hair pulled taut in a messy ponytail. Wisps of her dark Auburn hair stuck to her face where she had obviously been sweating. “What seems to be the issue Dr?”  Replies the very short and severe looking commanding officer of the Righteous Chord. “It’s the fire teams ma’am, their stasis is being constantly interrupted by something, we don’t know what though.” The doctor responds in a dry rasp. “Are the sleeved soldiers affected aswell, or just the walking tank crews and fire teams?” The CO asks after a brief pause to wipe her nose with a handkerchief. “It’s isolated to just the fire teams and tankers ma’am. At least our last seventeen diagnostic scans tell us so.” The doctor is quite weary, trying to stand at attention, but also leaning heavily against the bulk head of the vessels main thoroughfare. She is wrestling with fatigue and slowly succumbing to it. “Have a seat Ms?” Replies the CO. “It’s doctor Tam, ma’am. We are stumped. And it’s only getting worse the longer we leave it.” She is really frazzled now, fingers cradling her temples, and knees about to buckle. From out of sight a folding chair is offered by one of the CO’s retinue. CO Austenmire looks down and taps a few commands into her wrist communicator and glances toward the free standing chair to the seated dr Tam. “Can you be ready for a debrief with the weapons teams and the other attending medical personnel? Let’s say ninety minutes from now. Go eat, shower and prep for a grilling from command.” Barks commanding officer Austenmire.

Her retinue break away suddenly to start talking into ear pieces and wall mounted comm’s terminals setting up the meeting among the higher ranking members onboard. The usually bustling ship is vacant with the large fighting force locked away in their stasis sleeves for the months long journey out to UB313. The echoing of the retinues chatter is freely bouncing down the central corridor of the vessel. No other noise is present to cancel it out. The majority of the ship is unused, and only the bare minimum of running lights are turned on. In the dimness of the hall the exterior field of stars is easy to see.

After a few deep breaths dr Tam pulls her hands from her face and notices she is alone in the halls, the CO and her entourage left soundlessly. The only hint she didn’t hallucinate the whole encounter is a flashing meeting notification from CO Austenmire and a quickly counting down timer which reads eighty one minutes and forty two seconds until she needs to report to the engineering sector on decks eight through twelve. Not being mechanically inclined the good doctor has never ventured down that far into the belly of the ship before.

The doors whirl open with a soft swishing noise and a slight jingle as dr Tam passes over the threshold. No guards are stationed out front by the doors, and inside is a bustling hive of activity. The temperature inside the debriefing room is about fifteen degrees warmer than the hallway. Inside the large room is a faux wooden table about thirty paces long and about ten wide. The back of the room is a floor to ceiling window that over looks the ship yard dry docks, and the storage mezzanine where the walking tanks are usually stored and repaired. Twenty meters below the mechanics are pushing their maglev tool boxes around the hull of the drop ships and scout vessels, while there are clusters of apron clad armorers working diligently at their work benches. The vision is soundless through the two foot thick concrete glass window pane. Built to take explosive decompression from a failed hanger door in the dry docks, or various types of explosions from all the artillery stored in the caches. Inside the room is a constant stream of buzzing, pings, printers and muffled intermingled conversations.

A side door opens a few moments later and the room goes silent. In walks commanding officer Austenmire followed by Admiral Mark Garneau. The wiry gray admiral looks like he used to be a very imposing man in his younger says. He carries himself with the bearing of a man who knows his own importance. A large man with a charcoal gray moustache is the last to enter the room. He sits down to the right of the admiral, and opposite CO Austenmire. The three look drawn and unhappy. The tension in the room is palpable. With a flick of her wrist CO Austenmire dims the lights with a wave and calls the debriefing to order. “We’ve been given to understand that their are several serious issues with our tankers and fire teams stasis in transport. I call on the good doctor Tam to lead us through what we know, and what we are going to do about it.” With a snap of collars and heads turned in unison the room full of superior officers and unit commanders all look directly at doctor Tam. With her palms pressed against the table top, she forces herself to stand. The warmth of the room and the glare from those present bring her thoughts into focus. Stepping away from her chair she walks to the side of the room with the view screen on it, and picks up a clicker and laser pointer. “Ok, so do we need a primer on the logistics surrounding stasis, or can I dive right in?” She says while looking around the room. CO Austenmire interjects ” We’re all as clear as we need to be on the standard stasis sleeves doctor Tam. Our issue, and yours concerns the specialized fire teams that are a key component of our upcoming mission. Without them we will be at a serious disadvantage. So – if you will, proceed.” Her remarks are sharp and concise. Dr Tam clicks through her deck to the suitable page. “Right. So – the issue is, our tankers are having their stasis interrupted for longer and longer intervals, and at an increasing number of instances. They are essentially experiencing waking paralyzed nightmares and migraines of increasing strength. At the current rate they will likely not be able to fight, nor maintain any kind of grip on reality to be of any use. As they are being driven mad by a long and pervasive bout of straight out torture. And there’s little we can do about it at the moment. I’ll take questions in a moment. Please. Yes – we have tried to decant four members from each task force, both the fire team and the walking tank crew, to no avail. We can’t seem to wake them up. At all. Not with chemicals, not with stimulation, not even with the electrodes buried in their brains. We’ve attempted a reprogrammed Morning Rays Protocol and nothing is working. So – Now I’ll open the floor to suggestion.” The room erupts into chaos.

Part Eighteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“So I pull out both of my guns and I start blastin’…”

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Rumbles the wiry looking armorer named Piotr, as he makes finger guns and swings both his arms around in what he believes to be a cinematic manner. The huddle of onlookers rapt with attention. “No you fucking didn’t.” Barks Brian, the wispy armorer in his custom worn leather apron draped with tools and wiping off his hands on an oil soaked rag standing at his work bench opposite Piotr. “How the fuck would you know – Bri-Yen! You weren’t there.” Snarls Piotr defensively at having his epic story telling moment interrupted and questioned in front of the gathered crowd. “Two reasons Ole P. One, up until recently absolutely no one could get a gun, of any make or model. And two – we went through Torus Station academy together and you’re a terrible shot at anything that isn’t constrained directly within the palm of your hands. So give it a rest, would you.” Smirks Brian, as the gathered group of men and women surrounding Piotr break off from the scrum and slowly meander back to their work stations in clusters of two or three. The armorers work benches are gathered together in a bull pen at the back of the machine shop. Out of the way of the mechanics busily upgrading the drop ships, and retro fitting the newest gun ships with the new tech the armorers are building. The majority of the crew aboard the Righteous Chord are entombed in their stasis sleeves, or their personal walking tanks in preparation for the coming battle. With roughly nine weeks of travel time the gun Smiths and armorers have lots to do, and a finite amount of time to do it in. Only the mechanics and the armorers are up and awake so that they can utilize all of the available shop time, and dedicate themselves to the job at hand. Tasked with building and maintaining the weaponry for the first military offensive in centuries. There is a tension in the air for the as of yet untested fighting force. Slowly turning back to his bench Piotr picks up a syringe full of nanobots and a series of hex keys. “Hey man, we all know my stories are shit. I’m just trying to keep morale up, you know. We’re all pulled so taut right now. I just wanted a chance to get Magdalena close by, you get me bruv?” Exclaims Piotr. Looking across their adjoining work benches Brain gives him a half smile with a wave off. “Oh like Magda would ever have anything to do with you bud. Ha. No chance!” He laughs in a staccato burst. “You should talk there buddy boy. I know how sweet on Mimi you are. That mountain of a lady eh? Trying to die by Snu-Snu?” He barks in a raspy laugh. “Oh hey – shush, keep it down. I could get in real trouble if the lieutenant finds out about our fraternization.” Brian waves his hands in a hush it motion, palms pushing down towards the floor. The two go silent for a moment. They both readjust their data screens which hang on swing arms with tilting action. Readjust their magnification light rigs and reread their job sheets for the fiftieth time. Going down their respective checklists as they upgrade various pieces of weaponry with the neural link nanotech. The upgrade will give the fire teams several fractions of a second boost when aiming and choosing targets in a swarm. It’s a process heavy upgrade, but well worth it against the strangeness of what could be waiting for them at UB313.

“Have you heard the news? The admiral won’t pull any of our moles out of UB313 prior to the offensive. He’s just going to hang them out to dry. Poor fuckers” whistles Piotr barely above a whisper. Looking up from his bench Brian says. “Did you hear their last reports? It’s loopy, abso-fucken-lutely ape shit. Seems the good doctor has been cooking up some kind of engineered super soldiers from extra body parts or some shit. Sounds like a fun guy to work for.” He snorts, his face flushed. “Well he’s most likely responsible for a lot of the missing passenger ships, and long haulers that disappear out at the far reaches. Wouldn’t put it past him to have sewn a few folks together and brain washed or tortured them into wanting to die while fighting. Yeesh. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about that Dr. Mengele bull shit. Fucking Psycho nutter.” Brian stops short, turns his eyes to his bench for a moment, as a small group of mechanics walk into view pushing wheeled carts and passing along soundlessly behind them. The squeal of a squeaky wheel a dead give away that they were approaching. The noise now slowly receding into the distance. The two bench mates are fairly well attuned to hiding their illicit conversations behind hammer blows and other machine shop sounds. Never can be too sure who in The Company might be listening in. Not that two mid tier armorers would warrant too deep an investigation, it’s best to not poke the bear as it were. Taking a few breaths inbetween bursts of conversation the two men’s hands glide over their work. Updating algorithmic packets to rifle scopes and targeting nodes on the triple action short burst carbines. Wiping away squeeze out from oil and grease spigots the two work tirelessly on the nanotech upgrades. Over the PA system garbled messages pass back and forth between departments, and the six shifters get notifications for a call to rest. Brian and Piotr are not ghost crew, and are instead working triples daily until they arrive into Charon’s orbit in a few more weeks. Hammer blows and welding spatter are followed intermittently by a smattering of discussion.

The bull pen where the armorers work is a bustling u shaped congregation of work benches, magnetically levitating tool boxes, and portable metal work stations and racks. Though the mechanics are all dressed in red, the armorers are not so uniform in their dress. A fairly recent addition to both the Torus Station academy as a viable path of study, and to the duty roster on any sizable vessel in The Company’s employ. They hadn’t had the chance yet to vote on a specific colour coded jumpsuit, so they wore whatever colour they used prior to switching into the valet come squire roles they occupied now. Not all of them wore aprons or tool belts. Even the oil stained hands wouldn’t set them apart from the mill wrights or the mechanics onboard. If they felt the need for legitimacy as a singular entity rather than an offshoot of some other department then they’d have to press HR for a chance to gather a vote or undergo some heavy negotiations with the higher ups. In a time of impending strife, nobody had time for that.

Much like the mechanics and most of the other trades people the armorers lived in pods within five hundred meters of where they worked, and were a tightly knit family, as far as working together was concerned.

After the third shift change bell finished tolling the bulk of the armorers broke away from their benches and made their way back to the dormitories. Another day down, with six hours to rest, and then another forty nine days left to go. The lull of a steady stream of work kept many of them too tired to think all that hard about the impending carnage. They knew for certain that they had a technological advantage, but unlike the frozen in stasis sleep soldiers, the fear of the unknown was eating at them around the edges of their subconscious.

Entering through the environmental control doors into the cool air of the common room, some went straight to the showers to clean off, while others sat in their couches and keyed in their meal options for dinner. The large red clock was slowly counting down the six hours they had inbetween triples, so it’ll be another fast meal and quiet night aboard the Righteous Chord for both Brian and Piotr.

Part Seventeen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“Are you really that dense, or are you joking?”

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Asks the burly woman sitting in her security forces issued combat uniform. Tucked tightly into her dressing alcove on the mezzanine over looking the main flight deck. An enormous dry dock packed with mechanics doing repairs to all of the vessels stationed inside the sector. The young man is currently helping to bolt her into her multi part suit. “I just didn’t know what all the hub-bub was about. That’s all.” Pouts the small man, with large brown puppy dog eyes and a well worn cracked leather apron loaded with tools on it. “You silly prick. The drums are beating.” She barks in anger. “Huh? I don’t hear any drums, that warning klaxon and the alarms I hear, but no fucking drums!” He replies, earnestly without a hint of sarcasm, though he is pulling her chain, hard. “I’m speaking metaphorically – dip shit. Someone’s gone and pissed off an admiral, and now we’re heading off to war.” She is shouting over the loud peal of the intermittently sounding alarms, and the deep booming klaxon horns. As they approach the time to depart the warnings get closer and closer together. Like the contractions of birth, except it’ll involve the gushing of newly retrofitted attack vessels out of the dry docks all across the refurbished Torus Station. “But, I don’t get it. We’ve done nothing but science and exploration for centuries, why go to war now? What could be so bad as to warrant that.” Asks the diminutive armorer stuffing his hands inside the chest of his leather apron. Feeling the warm rough edges scrape across the skin of his exposed hands. It’s his default position, as he waits for his security personnel to run their internal diagnostics before he can bolt their helmets into place, and fully load out their projectile weapons canisters. “I have heard, via the grape vine, that the insurgencies mole capabilities has affected the admirals personally. Which means it now affects us all. Hey, gimme some of those exploding tip fifty caliber rounds for the shoulder cannons yeah? I like the added punch. Makes door breaching easier than just the shotguns, and I don’t have to get as close to the doors.” The woman remarks, with a wink. Though they bicker back and forth the woman from the security force rather likes her armorer slash valet. “If that’s what madam Mimi wants, that’s what she’ll have. I’ll make a note of that on your requisition forms. No doubt you’ll get them. I’ll flag you down if you don’t, before you get stowed away onboard the Gallant Mistress.” No longer looking at Mimi, but toggling through screens to order up the additional weaponry for her fifty caliber shoulder cannons. “Not with the Gallant Mistress this run, I’m bumped over to the Righteous Chord. Sounds as though we’re taking just about everybody who can fight with us.” Mimi exclaims. “Us too madam. Us too. No good having you out there fighting if you have no one around to repair your gear, or suit you lot up properly.” Their happy banter is slowly fading as the full weight of what the next few months of stasis transit, and then fighting may bring. Brian the valet & armorer will not go under. He’ll be awake for the two month trip making final adjustments and calibrations to the fighting gear. Though the advancements of the nanotech have jumped forward in leaps and bounds, he will still have to administer them individually to each fighter in the battalion that fall under his care. In all he has to repair and dress, undress fifteen members of the elite security fighting force. He somehow always manages to linger when it comes to Mimi. He laughs, but Mimi doesn’t hear him while she is engaged in her comm’s check, and HUD systems calibration. Mimi, not the name he would have guessed for the six foot eight behemoth of a woman infront of him. What kind of mother would think to name this giantess Mimi? The woman needs to give her head a shake. Though, in all honesty, she’s most likely dead. As for Mimi, she’s intimidating out of her weapons suit, and positively monolithic inside it.

The alcove where her suit hangs is like a two car garage, except with chains, hoists and pneumatic Jack’s to lift and lower her armor onto her. He is a modern day Squire to the black clad knight before him. He has still not untethered her from the external life support, as he himself is running triple checks on her aiming reticule, and GPS beacons. He has to climb a ladder to bolt the helmet down from the top, and attach her instrumentation cables in. It’ll be another hour or two yet before she gets loaded into the ships storage like a rifle magazine loaded with all the other walking tank like suits of her combat group.

Reaching over the lower rungs of the ladder to begin to climb up the racking that Mimi is held up against as the suit is still in idle mode, Brian catches Mimi’s eye, and gives her his biggest puppy dog eye wink and nod combo that he can manage. She laughs and looks away. The clicking of the winch lowering her helmet lets her know it’ll be lights out for her momentarily. When next she wakes, she will be deployed for all out war. The air quality inside the helmet is cool and fresh. The smell of oils and lubricants, and welding gases disappears as the helmet clunks into place over her head. Brian can be heard, muffled through the thick concrete glass, using an impact wrench to torque down the bolts to her helmet. Through the five inch thick dome she can see him bang on it three times with his open palm. The wet smack let’s her know she got all the weaponry she’s asked for. Inside the helmet she smiles broadly. Looking up she still smiles though she knows he can’t see her through the golden mirrored outer finish of her helmet. On the HUD a thirty second count down appears in green text across her entire field of vision. With an audible ping the numbers begin to count down with a slight click, as though it were an analog flip clock from centuries ago. As expected a shockingly cold pinch can he felt in the base of her neck. Her blood stream fills with the cool liquid, she doesn’t see the end of the countdown. Soon a pink viscous fluid will fill her lungs and other open cavities so that she can withstand the brutal forces associated with a crushingly hard thrust burn and the bone breaking deceleration to reach the outer edges of the solar system where UB313 awaits.

Part Sixteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“This is the strangest feeling.”

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She thought to herself. All around her there is a calming warmth, like a snug blanket wrapped around her. But not quite, almost akin to floating in a very warm pool of water, where you know you are wet, but you don’t feel wet. There is a hum about her too, comforting, like a soft electrical tingle in her finger tips and toes. Even though it is pitch black and she can not see she is not scared. No, she thinks, at the edges of her consciousness she is terrified, but she feels compelled, externally, to not panic. Like someone is whispering sweet nothings in her ears just below what she can make out, but the warmth of breath on her neck, and the sense of someone caring is tangible. The oddness of it all envelops her. She is oddly disquieted by the lack of her heart beating in her chest. Surely at peace as she is, the constant thrum of the lub-dub of her heart, and the sound of blood rushing in her ears should be present. What had happened? Why couldn’t she remember where she was or what she was doing. The warmth and floating sensation persists. The blackness around her could stretch for miles. Or it could be a mask. Either way her eyes are unseeing. Is she waking up in a med pod? Did she fail her mission to obtain the asset? Questions are tumbling around in her mind. A brief pinch in her head, like the beginnings of a head ache, but now its gone. What was she just thinking of? The float is warm. She could just drift away, off to sleep. “YES” – the warmth speaks, like honey in her ear. Oozing around her, the suggestion to slip away, go to sleep, just rest – relax. Feeling herself giving in to the sensation of gently rocking, somewhere in the blackness she can hear her mother singing a lullaby. A gentle finger moving a lock of hair from her face. The warm embrace, the touch of warm soft skin on skin. The slight hum of electric static from an off turned radio. The clicking of the rocking chair upon the orange sun lit floors of her bedroom. Oh!, she thinks, I don’t know if I’ve ever had that memory before. So nice. She’s a teenager, rolling over in bed, away from her opened blinds, snuggling against her comforter, “I don’t want to go to school” she moans. The warmth begins to ebb away slowly, a cold chill nips at her fingers and toes. She shivers, nakedly from the cold.

The darkness begins to recede, in its place a swirling mass of shadows and smoke. She coughs deeply, and begins to choke. Hard wracking coughs that assault her lungs. She can feel her eyes begin to bulge, her neck straining, her finger bones pop with the strain. She isn’t choking but suffocating in the grey white cloud. “She might need the atmosphere we detected K”. Garbles a voice echoing from every which direction. “Yes – Yes! We did notice that too.” Replies the same voice. “Best be quick about it then K.” It answers in reply. “Too right K.” It says, still having done nothing but remark upon her strangled state. “Oh thank you K.” The woman lay on the ground asphyxiating. With an audible whistle the room begins to fill with a mixture of oxygen and nitrogen and various other gases. The same as the tiny yellow morsel they had consumed, in which they found her. Gasping for her life she lies upon the ground heaving and floundering. Trying to catch her breath and get her bearings. “Your friends are dead.” The room vibrates with the words, but no one is inside the room. With a cracked and dry throat she croaks. “I know.” The room itself begins to shrink, and reorganize. No longer a cube of three meters to a side, but an elongated hall, all illuminated in the same silver grey and off white. The hall ends at her back but stretches out into a pin point of light in front of her. Without getting up she is pushed forward, gently. “The man inside with you had significant trauma to his brain. Tell us, did you have anything to do that?” Asks the echoing voice quietly. “No! – no, I was trying to fix the sabotaged cockpit flight controls. Richard’s was murdered by our pilot Zeke.” The walls shimmy in response. The forward pull of the hallway speeds up. The woman has the distinct sensation of traveling without moving. It is disconcerting. “Tell us, what of the man partially welded to your hull?” Enquires the echoing voice. “I don’t know? I assumed Zeke was trying to sabotage us so that he could obtain the asset by himself. Keep the glory for his own.” She responds with a dry bark. “Wait – did you say welded? What welded? How is that possible?” She exclaims. The hallway starts to expand, a large yellow and black ship begins to uncover itself from the wall. The hall disappeared behind her, a large rectangular room containing her ship The Mangelo has arranged itself around her. She approaches the rear of the ship where, near the top side, the propellant storage tanks are located. Too physically weak to climb, she realizes she can’t recall when she last ate or drank anything. The ship before her appears to sink into the floor, raising her up to see the top of the vessels hull. There, frozen in place is the body of the pilot. “Can you tell if the power is still on with the ship?” She asks aloud. “We have rendered the core inert.” Responds the echo. Crawling over the pipes and exposed cabling on the hull she can see that the pilot, Zeke, had unfortunately braced himself to work by putting one boot under a secured conduit and then leaned over another cable bundle to switch the engines over to the reserve tanks, causing the current to arc, welding himself in place. Dying of electrocution painfully, in the process causing the overload of the capacitors and resistors blowing out the control panels in the cockpit. It wasn’t sabotage, at least on Zeke’s part. Just an unfortunate accident stemming from their second hand pilfered vessel, and shoddy rushed schedule to assemble it all. “So how did Richards get a pipe in the head?” She mumbled. The deep echo voice rumbles.”The analysis of the data from the biometric recorder seems to suggest he was trying to pull a stuck valve open on a holding tank, when is grip failed, slipped off the wrench and impaled himself. His gps tracker shows him flopping around.” Responds the voice dryly. “Which caused the machinists lubricant to dribble into the cistern.” She says, flatly. A little numbed by the revelation. Suddenly there is a violent rocking motion to the room, as the woman tumbles over sideways falling to her hands and knees with a violent thud, the room shrinks down into a cramped sphere, only slightly larger than the woman if she were to crouch. The light within the grey white room begins to shimmer into a dazzling brilliance. “Would you like to know what your wrist biometric unit says – Racquelle?”

Part Fifteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

“We’re all just gristle for the mill…”

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Mutters the older statesman sitting reclined at his massive desk. He’s thumbing through the most recent accident reports from The Dirty Starling. One particular case was flagged to his attention, marked urgent, and highly confidential. “What’s that?” Asks the statesman’s valet, seated at a small alcove just around the side of the desk. A minuscule cut out of the massive structure that fits his small computer keyboard, a side board to fix his boss’s drinks, and a large black box full of encrypted data records. “Hmm. Just talking to myself, my dear boy.” Harrumphs the older man, his chin fixed against his round barrel chest. A look of consternation rests upon his wrinkled face, and precise chiseled features. No less handsome even with his recent weight gain in these later decades of his tenure aboard The Dirty Starling. The man, Gerald, is an advisor to the positively ancient Admiral currently entombed in the captain’s quarters of The Dirty Starling. “I’ve got to carve out some time to wake the admiral.” States Gerald flatly. The accident report clutched tightly in his left hand. “The admiral? Jesus what’s happened now?” Chirps the valet. “An absolute disaster. That’s what. Seems our vanished ghost is, or rather, was, the admiral’s great great grandson. He is not going to take this news well. How long will it take to wake the man?” Asks the large, gruff adviser Gerald. The slim valet types on his keyboard quickly, with a few clicks and some guttural noises he replies. “According to medical the admiral is due out of stasis when we reach port on Errebus Four in two weeks time sir. Do you want to wait for his regularly scheduled reanimation?” The valet asks. “Is that what I asked you young Timmons? Hmmm… did I ask you to tell me when he was scheduled to awaken? I know he’s due out in two weeks, his primary dinner guest, besides myself, my retinue and the other first officers was the dead man – his progeny. So No! In fact, I do not wish to wait. Key in the request, I’ll approve it physically. Any further delay may endanger our lives further. The Admiral is not known for leniency onboard this ship. Am I clear Timmons?” Barks the adviser in a raspy cutting whisper. “Yes sir. If we trigger the Morning Rays Protocols now, he will awaken in six hours – sir.” Responds the slim valet Timmons firmly. “Good man. Key it to my biometrics wrist communicator and I’ll DNA scan in the override. Good god I hope he takes this well.” Mutters the thick necked adviser, straightening his shoulders, and fussing with his moustache in a small pocket mirror.

With a loud woosh the lid of the medical pod opens up and a humanoid shape within can be seen through the escaping rush of steam and moisture. Over head fans kick on gobbling up the various gases. Their mechanical hum interwoven with loud clicks and a low grade grinding of metal on metal. Blue dressed medical technicians scatter as the body within begins to stir. A tall female technician approaches Gerald with the intent to scold him for rushing the older admirals awakening. But seeing the ashen look, and the puffy bags under the admiral’s most trusted advisers eyes, she yields, and backs away with a softly spoken. “Be kind Gerald, the admiral is… not in as good a state as he once was. Be gentle – please.” Turning his eyes from the man entombed in the medical pod Gerald looks at the doctor with mournful eyes and says “I do not wish to hurt him any more than absolutely necessary. He’d be furious if we waited to break the news to him. Better a sharp shock than a delayed festering wound.” He grumbles. “As you see fit Gerald.” Remarks the doctor as she disappears into her office across the medical bay. In a flutter of lab coats and orderlies with wheel chairs, the Morning Rays Protocol team rushes in to collect the admiral, checking his vitals again, attaching leads, and wiping him damp body down. Removing the remnants of the stasis fluids used to keep the elderly man alive. The clock is ticking, and Gerald expects to be summoned by the admiral within the hour from his ready room aboard the bridge.

“Well, speak man! Why did you awaken me so soon, and as harshly. A Morning Rays Protocol Gerald? Are you trying to kill me? I should have been brought back gradually over a period of days. Well? Speak damn it!” Roars the tall elderly man in a medical unitard. Not yet dressed in his full admiralty uniform. Unadorned as he was, deminuitive compared to his former self, the admiral still bellows loud enough to shake the walls of any given room. The pens on his desk rattle with the raucous boom of his voice. “I bare ill tidings sir.” States Gerald. His hands interlinked before him a manilla folder nestled under his arm, as he stands just inside the ready room doors. “Jesus Herald – don’t act like a dcolded child waiting for punishment, out with it man, out!” The admiral is pacing behind his desk, furious to be awakened so suddenly, and is such a harsh manner. He is not one so used to being man handled. Given attention to his every whim yes, but not a man used to being denied. “It concerns your great great grandson – sir.” Bleats Gerald in obvious distress. “Ah yes! Yes, yes, yes. I have not forgotten! I am so very pleased I was able to procure my progeny for this ship. I’ve watched over him you know. I have the time and inclination to follow his progress. Most impressive. An admirable specimen to the family – and name. He bares my name sake you know!” Speaks the red faced admiral, his eyes twinkling with the fondness of his memories. “He’s dead sir.” The swiftness of the admiral’s fury is frightening. Both hands slamming down on his desk. The look of betrayal upon his face. It’s as though the air has been sucked out of the small room. A dark red flush cascades over the old man’s face, as though thick blood were erupting from the top most portion of his scalp. “Bring. Me. His. Body.” Shouts the admiral in a staccato. “I want his biometrics unit brought to me. I want an autopsy, I want all relevant reports on my desk within the hour. Well? MOVE GERALD. Don’t look at me like a stuck fucking pig!” He rants. “I can’t. Sir.” “Oh yes you fucking well can, my son! You fucking well better! My boy. Or I will rend you limb from limb!” He raves. “I’m sorry sir, the Ghost protocol required his body and communicator, the whole of his biometric data be purged.” States Gerald flatly. “What the fuck are you talking about Gerald. He’s mine. I assigned him here. There was no Ghost Protocol for his personnel file. I know that because I would never grant him one. Nothing so ignoble should befall progeny of mine – Gerald.” Shouts the angry admiral. “If you check the records sir – Mark has a Ghost Protocol registered. Signed off on too.” Gerald speaks quietly as he approaches the desk, a file folder clutched in his hand. He opens the folder and lays it down upon the desk. A single photo of the puddle of remains is attached via a paper clip. Poking out underneath are the details of his subsequent bagging, being crated into a polyethylene barrel, and ejected into the backwash of the engines. There are several first person accounts from the witnesses, and the day and time stamps.

Admiral Mark stands still behind his ready room desk starring down at the Manila folder and the contents of the report. Displayed vividly in red ink is the stamp for the Ghost Protocol with a name written in black ink, with a message underneath it.

“Dr Jang you have a new message from the encrypted line waiting for you. At your leisure sir.” Without waiting for acknowledgement the intern scurries from the partially opened office door. Doctor Jang looks up at the clock on his desk, a broad grin spreading across his unshaven face. Slowly he gets up from his desk to cross the room to the door, stopping only to put on his white lab coat. A hop in his step as he saunters down the halls of UB313 to the bridge compartment, and the quiet out of the way alcove where the encrypted line awaits.

The signature is scrawled but clear as day. The Ghost Protocol was ordered by a Doctor Douglas Jang. Underneath that are a few words scribbled followed by a smiley face. “My eyes betray me Gerald. What pray tell, does that say?” Bending at the waist Gerald leans down to read the note under the signature. “It says – Fuck you old man.” With a clatter the admiral collapses into his chair with a thud.

Part Fourteen: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

The last thing he could discern from the voice in the darkness was a blood soaked gurgle.

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The single source of overhead illumination he is stood under shows a shimmering wave of tiny undulating dust particles drifting limply through the cone of yellow white light. The room is cool, damp and mournful with the lack of activity. The usual sounds of printers and instrumentation is silent. The ghost follows the ebb and flow of the dust waves as they fall across his vision. Tiny points of sparkling light, each has its fleeting moment where it catches the light just so, enough to twinkle, then vanish amongst the crowd. The ghost too, is silent, transfixed by the dust, and the shouted accusations left hanging in the air. The volume of the shouts so loud his ears are left ringing. The sudden shock of the gun fire over the pa was enough to deafen him momentarily. In a daze he stands there unmoving – unfeeling, unmoored. The inky black shadows of the enormous room shifting and changing shape around him. Many heart beats pound in his chest before a single deeply modulated voice speaks aloud. “Mark – tell me, what message did you send out there? Was it a warning? Did you tell them about the plan?” The voice has an edge to it, a level of panic has set in which the voice modulation can’t quite keep out of the audio feed. “I’m sorry sir, I don’t know what you are looking for. I don’t know anything about the message.” Pleads the ghost quietly but earnestly. “I believe you, my son.” A tinge of regret creeps into the modulation. “Damn.” The voice whispers. The line goes dead once more with a pop and a click, and all of the communications terminal lights spring back to life, the doors open in their entirety, and the signal feeds from all of the dishes and read outs begin to scroll across the screens again. The hum of the lights and the general buzz from the cabling vibrates through the ghosts body.

A soft warm tingle flows down the length of the ghosts left arm spreading from the base of his neck. His face is flushed, and a feeling of euphoria engulfs him. A single tear falls upon his gaunt cheek.

In a moment a blinking message on his wrist will tell him to go to the hazardous materials handling depot, where he will be seen to have walked naked into the decontamination chambers for a shower. As the stringent sanitizer oozes from the curved spigot on the wall a warning siren will go off. The gathered crew in the control room will scramble madly to contain the damage. With frantic screaming and wailing, their fists hammering upon the glass partitions in desperate warning. The ghost will stand motionless under the stream of pink sanitizer, his tears unnoticed in the onslaught of the pink scented fluid, as a clear caustic vapor will creep up through the floor vents. The ghost will collapse in spasms as his body begins to break down. A pool of miasma,gelatinous lipids and bone left dripping upon the bare wet floor. The supervisor on duty will shut all of the view ports between the control room and the showers, but not before the staff witness the violent and all consuming death of the naked man in the shower room. What little there is left will be gathered up, sealed in a plastic sack and crated ceremoniously into a yellow rigid polyethylene barrel and ejected from The Dirty Starling, passing right through the backwash of the engine cones to be incinerated. At the ships next stop, a new ghost will join the ranks of The Dirty Starling’s crew – his name will also be Mark.

Part Thirteen: Ghost of The Dirty Starling.

“Hey! Shush… keep it down…”

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“I can’t hear what’s coming in over the radio.” Fusses the plump man in yellow coveralls. “Jimmy? Jimmy Wu is that you in there? Why is it so dark? What are you talking about?” Whispers the petite woman crouched down at the door beside Jimmy, in a the dark broom closet in an unused portion of the HR office on deck 19 of The Dirty Starling. Jimmy is hunched over his wrist communicator trying to dial in the frequency of his remote audio transmitter. “I told you Janice, I hid my negotiators recorder and broadcaster in the specialist communications bay after that mechanic got cut in half from the containment breach. The place was a mess, and had some seriously weird activity going on. Plus I heard from Jones, the director that they had an actual ghost in their department. I took a nose around but didn’t see one though.” He pouted. “Oh, that’s a shame. I’d have loved to have met one.” She too scrunched up her face in disappointment. Her heavy lids almost closed with the contortion of her lips. “Well, as I was meandering around I deployed my audio unit and have been surreptitiously recording the conversations from inside, over the last few months. It’s getting wild Janice! Bonkers even.” He shuffles from his squat position to instead sit directly on the floor and place his back against the cool wall. Taking the hint that they’ll be there for a while Janice sits down on the opposite wall. Their feet overlap in the middle of the small unused supply closet, littered with brooms and empty musty boxes. Jimmy cranks up the volume so they can both hear it. Janice says “Why don’t you just broadcast the signal to my communicator?” Looking aghast Jimmy says “Don’t be a silly goose – Janice, if I broadcast it there will be an official log of the recording. I’ve got to do this on the down low, otherwise it’ll be re-education for the both of us.” Janice smirks at Jimmy and waves the comment off. They both readjust themselves and wait while the audio begins to build again. At first there is only a smattering of small talk, and some quick bursts of spoken activity. The line eventually goes dead. “Don’t worry about that.” Says Jimmy. “It can be hit or miss. But the reason I called you here was I had an Omega level code orange flagged to my attention regarding a debrief with the ghost. It’s here! Today. Supposed to happen any minute now.” He gesticulates wildly and his ankles knock against Janice’s. “Ouch, watch it Wu!” Janice exclaims.

A kilometer down the hallway, on deck 19 of The Dirty Starling a gaunt and exhausted skeleton of a man in fresh beige coveralls is lumbering towards his debrief in the cavernous communications terminal. The massive doors are closed tightly, there is no one to be seen in the halls within several hundred meters. The lights are a startlingly bright blue white. The cables and pipes that run under the floor grates are the only colorful things in sight. It’s all very drab and serious, and grey. With a loud thunk, and a ratcheting click the doors peel open slowly. With a thud they come to rest about eighteen inches apart. The ghost must squeeze through the large metal teeth that maintain the registration of the doors. It is an awkward and claustrophobic fit. The three foot thick doors are icy cold to the touch. The interior of the room is near black, the only source of illumination are the buttons and dials from the control boards. All over head lights are off. With a loud click one lone spotlight shines down in a white yellow cone on the floor. “Step into the light please Mark.” A bodiless voice commands from the darkness.

Stirring from their sleep Jimmy Wu and his pal Janice sit bolt upright, their hearts are pounding. “Did you hear that? Whose voice is that? I don’t recognize it, do you?” Whispers Janice. “Oh I heard it all right. Now be quiet, this is going to get interesting!” Chuckles Jimmy. Tapping a few buttons on his HR select wrist communicator, he runs some diagnostics on the voice from the audio broadcast. On his blue green LED screen a whirling pattern appears. The machine is searching and the app is thinking.

“I have it on good authority Mark that you were successful in locating my asset. But, you sent a message. What was it?” Growls the heavily modulated voice from the dark. “I’m sorry, sir or Madam. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The quiet response is mumbled. “Of course you know! Tell me, what did you send? Was it a warning, an alert? Answer me before I put you through a recycler!” Shouts the voice in a terse response. “I’m sorry sir, I’m just a generalist, I haven’t spoken to anyone, or sent any messages, covert or otherwise – sir.” The meek voice wavers, whether from fatigue or otherwise is not immediately discernible. “He’s got an Ultima level cognitive block in place – very useful in these covert operations. Give him the key word and his subconscious will spill it’s data core openly. You can cross reference any multitude of points of information. It’s a nifty bit of engineering.” Speaks a second deeper voice. Although given the modulation used it could be anybody on the other end of the line. “I don’t have a key? What key? I was told the ghost would search my coordinates, locate the assets and report back. I said to specifically not send any messages have any type of communications with it. That was of the utmost importance!” Shouts the original, now maniacal voice. “How’d you do it without a key? That’s not possible.” Responds the second lower voice in a breathy tone. “I commandeered his time and sent him the quadrant to look through, same as I would for any duty roster change!” Screams the first speaker. “Wait – you didn’t use encryption or a key word? Oh fuck!” The voice cuts away to a gurgle, there are sounds of gunshots and bones crunching broadcasting over the line.

“Sir – we have at least two more listeners on the line.” Says a soft but firm voice over the audio broadcast. “Uh. Find them and eliminate them please. Are we on Vox? For fuck’s sake turn that shit of…..” The line goes dead a second time that day in the HR broom closet on deck 19. Janice and Jimmy are frozen in place. “They don’t mean us do they?” Asks Janice. “They couldn’t possibly. I used a remote audio broadcaster. They’re a dime a dozen onboard this ship. It’s not registered to me specifically, just our department.” Shrugs Jimmy. “Maybe they could trace the outgoing signal of the broadcast unit, not that they know it’s us?” A heartbeat later a quiet peep chimes in from Jimmy’s wrist communicator. The voice diagnostics are complete, and a red flashing flag is present on Jimmy’s LED screen. Before he can cancel it, a matching beacon pops up on Janice’s wrist communicator too. Sitting so close together for so long the HR consultants private chat app has linked them together. In the green blue glow of their wrist communicators the two share an ashen grimace.

In the bright yellow halls of the HR department on deck 19, loud boots and the metallic clink of assault rifles can be heard.

Part Twelve: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

Sprinkled across her field of view

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Is a smattering of dim flecks of light. Distant stars, far further than her own native sun. The Mangelo has been coasting for some time now, aiming for Pluto’s Lagrange point 5. But with only the slimmest quantity of fuel left in the sabotaged external tanks Racquelle is fighting for her life. Desperately trying to locate team ETA and their small search and rescue vessel Lil Boat Peep. After discovering the treachery onboard The Mangelo three days prior, the tainted rations & water cistern, Racquelle has been trying to devise a plan to not only keep the ship on course, work through the damaged cockpit, but also solve the water and food supply issue. She hasn’t slept more than a few hours over the last three days, and dehydration is making her life hell. Her ability to perform manual labour is limited in scope, and painful to endure. Her last move was to cut back the output of the heater and hope that there was enough moisture in the air to condense on the walls and panels so that she could collect it with some rubber sheeting she’d hung before collapsing into the captain’s chair, and passing out from exhaustion.

A brilliantly dazzling explosion of light burns through the eyelids of the sleeping Racquelle. Her hair is damp, and her seat is a puddle of cool water. With a flinch she slides off of the chair to bury her rough cracked lips into the cushion to unceremoniously slurp up the puddle of water. It dribbles over her chin and collects at the neck ring of her space suit. She holds the mouthful of water in her cheeks and tries to slowly swallow only a small portion at a time. Trying desperately not to vomit up the precious water. Her wrist communicator is flashing amber alerting her to her near fatal state of dehydration. The notification for hunger is still in the late stages of green, almost to yellow. She could last another twenty one days without food if she absolutely had to. Taking a deep breath, her chest heaving, the urge to vomit subsiding Racquelle can see nothing but grey and alabaster shapes outside the view port of the cockpit. Struggling to stand up, her legs shaky, she crawls back up into her chair, and moves the control panels to face her. The radar screen is showing a city sized green amorphous blob just outside The Mangelo . But no sign of the rescue tug Lil Boat Peep. The communications panel has a lone flashing blue notification. Something has been calling her in her sleep.

Racquelle toggles a switch on her armrest to display the notification on the swing armed screen above her head. It has no video, just an audio file of a strange metallic machine screaming tone. Like a tin can through a grinder. Pulling up a few diagnostics of the signal she can tell that the message originated from the direction of earth and not from the behemoth parked outside her window. Reaching up Racquelle pushes the screen out of her field of view. Slowing getting to her feet she steps over the jury rigged cabling and exposed wires littering the floor of the cockpit. She stands by the front view port and stares at the writhing grey off white mass before her. The vessel is so large it covers one hundred and eighty degrees of her vision out the window. Up and down, and side to side. Nothing but a shuddering, wriggling and writhing metallic surface.

“Hungry”. The message appears like frosted smoke across her view port. “Yeah – sure.” She says aloud. “I could eat.” She dead pans to herself, assuming that she is hallucinating rather vividly due to stress. “I hunger.” With a soft chuckle Racquelle retorts. “No, no, no – dickhead. I’m the one that’s hungry.” Staring slackly at the glass the message fades as though it were never there leaving no trace. “Yah! That’s what I thought.” She gives her head a shake. Droplets of water splash onto her control console, dripping down her neck from her hair.

The alabaster skin of Kelvin wriggles itself into four meter thick tendrils and reaches out hungrily to absorb the tiny black and orange morsel into itself. Kelvin has needs for raw materials and ejectable propellant mass. In the span of a few moments, or were they days, a week or instantaneously, The Mangelo and it’s occupants are consumed entirely.

As the off white tendrils leech over the ships hull Racquelle shrieks in horror. The silence that follows is deafening.

Part Eleven: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.

How attached to your written characters are you?

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As far as I am concerned 99% of my characters are expendable, in as brutal or mundane a fashion as possible. I like to build something up only to fizzle in an unexpected manner, or for the pay off for the characters actions to be as empty as they tend to be in real life. We know the feeling. Same some bridezilla’s get after a year or two of planning a wedding, or a kid building up Christmas morning, only for it to come as this fleeting whisper of what you’d built up in your head, and then it’s done, and you are right back where you were, only now, your every waking moment isn’t spent pouring over details of this supposed magical day, and you feel a little empty or lost without the goal you’ve focused on so hard.

Then there are the 1% of characters who practically write themselves. They lead the story into unexpected territory, and can really turn one of my surface level short stories into something more compelling and create interesting problems to solve.

For those select few of you whom have read a couple of my interconnected shorts will know I don’t write my characters very deeply, they talk and do stuff, but their appearance is left fairly unremarked upon unless I feel there is a trait that sets them apart that will come up, or makes a point in the story. I’m not a “she breasted boobily” down the stairs kind of a writer, if that makes sense. Sure some characters have intercourse, but that’s not the point. Many are straight, lesbian, gay or androgynous or other, and I want them to be people, not their personal orientation.

To me they are just “folks”, they live, breathe, eat, defecate and work. They get irritated by one another and get snarky or playful as they see fit. If someone is going to affect a lisp or mumble it’ll be because they have a broken jaw, or were punched in the face. Not that I don’t operate with cliches or generalities, these are micro shorts so I need an explanatory short hand to fill in the blanks.

But, yeah… I like to kill them off. Or at least render their best laid plans moot wherever possible. I think that’s funny. Even my best laid plans fall apart at the hands of some one elses illogical choices, feelings and actions, so why wouldn’t that fate befall my characters too. These aren’t military disciplined combat troops, most are working class trades people silo’d into their own small social circles, or are corporate stooges looking to increase their bank accounts or prestige levels with little regard for those around them. Why would they do anything more than surface level planning for the pawns in their own games. Exit strategy? Not likely. Poisoned drink, or a bullet in the chest more like it.

Are you lot precious with your characters? Do you put them through hell or do you hold back on some? Are they fit for the meat grinder, or a mild annoyance?