"This seems like a good spot." I said. "Héloise and Enzo, you might as well take a breather while we set up our field lab. By the look of it, it's going to take us a fair while to figure these gadgets out."
We dismounted, then began unloading equipment crates and supplies from our ExoSuit cargo pods. As an aside, Héloise and Enzo have been on the bounce for nearly sixteen hours now, and they're definitely starting to look a bit blurry around the edges. Nothing that a hearty feed and a decent rest wouldn't fix. While they ate, DIGBY and I set up a pair of spacer's swags; compact survival shelters that we'd brought along with this particular situation in mind. They're a marvellous piece of kit, although most of their gee-whiz features won't be required here. No excessive levels of heat, cold, atmospheric toxins or radioactivity worth mentioning hereabouts, although a comfortable gel-foam mattress and a 'smart' sleeping bag would be a welcome sight for weary eyes anywhere.
One thing is absolutely certain. These display cases are sealed tighter than a fish's arse. The objects they contain might as well be embedded in a zirconium-lattice resin. For a start, you can forget about using a laser cutter. I've already tried it on the empty case, and the beam passed straight through that clear material without the slightest impediment. Purely for analytical purposes, you understand. I was hoping to obtain some specimens to test the physical properties of this material, but that plan has gone straight down the drain. A diamond drill doesn't even scratch the transparent casing. Shattered three bits without leaving a mark. Curiously, our hand-scanners are able to read the internal structure of every item and provide a basic analysis of its overall function, although certain critical design aspects have been deliberately obscured, literally 'pixelating' our data displays to conceal the functions of those components. Can't even guess how the Precursors achieved that.
From what we've seen so far, maybe it's all for the best. The first device that I examined is a portable radioactive source, specifically designed to disintegrate all forms of organic matter. The sort of thing you might use to completely decontaminate an enclosed space, with an eye to using it later. Once activated, that small, innocent-looking cube emits an intense burst of neutron radiation, then shuts down automatically. Its effects are apparently instantaneous, non-persistent and extremely localised. Since the device doesn't contain any known isotopic material, it probably generates that surge of radioactivity in much the same manner as an old x-ray tube. Think of this gizmo as the ultimate in pest control technology. Horrific though it may be, this device is relatively benign when it's compared with nearly everything else in here.
Take the thermostellar bomb, for instance. Fortunately, this one turned out to be a dud.
However, it's still very much alive and raring to go. I discovered this fact as I neared its display case. Like the radiation device, this small, rounded cuboid looked harmless enough, at least until it sprang into life on my approach. Gave me one hell of a spook. Turns out there's a minor but critical flaw in its detonation mechanism. Assuming that I could open its display case, I know better than to start tinkering with an actual doomsday device. Oh yes, indeed.
When this fun-sized package of boom detonates, most of the Alpha Hydrae solar system will cease to exist. After completing a hasty (but thorough) examination of this alarmingly twitchy device, a profound calm descended upon me. Apart from not machining that fortuitous sticking-point smooth, the demented genius who designed this dingus also forgot to endow it with the power of speech. I'm extremely grateful for that one small mercy. I'm no expert, but there's something utterly wrong about a sentient thermostellar bomb.
Naturally, any talk of phenomenology is verboten. Keep it light. Chat about the weather instead.
Heh, heh. A talking thermostellar bomb. That'd make for a fun parody. Sort of like that DS9 episode where they were trying to re-purpose an intelligent bomb, to attack its previous users, succeeded, then later after joining the Federation, had to try to shut it down, but then it actually detected it... Eh. Just looked it up, it's Voyager: Dreadnought, not a DS9 episode.
No i think its the wrong link. Think way more back into classic SF films. I call for DARK STAR and a good long talk with a bomb about going off or not... LET THERE BE LIGHT... Kabooom..
No i think its the wrong link. Think way more back into classic SF films. I call for DARK STAR and a good long talk with a bomb about going off or not... LET THERE BE LIGHT... Kabooom..
"I want that one." Héloise demanded playfully, pointing at the alien assault rifle.
"You probably wouldn't, Dear Heart. As far as I can tell, it's an intrinsic field disruptor."
"Let me guess... That's a bad thing, right?" Héloise smirked. "That's one horosho fancy blazer, mate."
"Aye, but yon blazer's a right wicked tool. You aim that beast at someone, and they're gone. Boom. A bonny wee mushroom cloud marks their passing. It disrupts the forces that hold matter together. Not much chance of scoring a minor flesh wound with this one. Strictly for outdoor use only."
"Oh. I see." Héloise conceded at last. "Isn't there anything useful in here?"
I sighed wearily, an open admission of defeat. "No. That ancient Mongol sword is probably the only weapon in here that isn't entirely user-hostile. Look, that 'empty' case over yonder contains a swarm of killer nanites. Unbelievably tiny robotic assassins, controlled by only four core commands: Consume. Replicate. Evolve. Conquer. Someone thought it was a good idea to turn them loose. Unless they were equipped with some sort of friend or foe recognition system, they would mindlessly consume everything in their path. I'm hoping that the Precursors were intelligent enough to realise that. I'll bet those nanites evolved beyond the reach of Precursor control. Just a guess."
Héloise frowned. "I'm not buying that idea, dear Captain. There's no evidence that Precursors were fighting the Kharaa on this planet. Where are the signs of war? Where are your tiny killer robots?"
"You've got me there, Lass." I admitted. "There would be traces left, surely. I cannae account for it."
No further knowledge can be gained by endlessly poring over these exhibits, although the building itself still has significant discoveries to offer. In a way, I feel immensely relieved. Those horrific weapons won't be finding their way into human hands after all, leastways anytime in the immediate future. There's always a possibility that someone will discover their operating principles eventually, but they're well out of humanity's reach for the next couple of millennia or so. That's good enough to soothe my conscience.
After packing up our research equipment, we split into pairs and began exploring the Lava Castle's side chambers. Héloise and I discovered a sophisticated water-processing plant, obviously intended to supply filtered, cooled and oxygenated seawater to the Sea Emperor containment facility below. A huge transparent inlet conduit spiralled around a central support column. I estimated the system's flow rate at roughly two megalitres per minute, a figure derived by timing the speed of Peepers as they whooshed through the pipework. Oddly enough, Peepers are also present in the discharge pipe, apparently no worse for their wild ride.
On closer examination, I discovered that the Peepers in the discharge pipe have been coated in Enzyme 42 or its natural analogue, and that this elaborate filtration system now serves to distribute a vaccine against the Kharaa pathogen. The Peeper is an ideal delivery system, since it's the preferred prey of most of Manannán's predatory species, man included. I'm fairly certain that the Precursors originally had this in mind, even though they were ultimately unable to procure the enzyme from its natural source, the Sea Emperor Leviathan.
Impressive though that treatment plant is, there wasn't much else of interest to be found in there. We chose another doorway entirely at random, walking into a sizeable room full of display cases. Each stasis case held an egg from every sea creature found on Manannán, including one Leviathan-class specimen that I have never seen before. Considering that this pearly, almost opalescent egg case is about the same size as a Sea Emperor's, that's a reasonable cause for concern. We ambled through the egg display, and then headed back to the atrium. As we neared the next doorway, JUNO and DIGBY emerged from the corridor, their expressions grimmer than winter on Pluto.
"I won't." I said flatly. "It's their vivisection lab, right? Knew it had to be somewhere in here."
JUNO nodded silently, confirming my suspicion. On one hand, I damned the Precursors for their monumental arrogance, although this seems like a particularly empty gesture. In truth, the Precursors had their backs against the wall, clutching desperately at any technology that would aid them in their struggle against the Kharaa. They were a race fully prepared to destroy their solar system or deploy horrific hand weapons to burn out that deadly infection. Tearing unborn Sea Emperors from their cocoons must have seemed a small moral price to pay at the time. Ironically, the Precursors were on the right track. Emperor Leviathans produce Enzyme 42 naturally, although this process requires a specific set of conditions to be met. In their frantic haste to find an effective solution, the Precursors failed to discover this crucial piece of information.
I can't condone the atrocities committed in here. I can't condemn the Precursors for their actions, either. My hands are also covered in blood. People have died as a direct result of me 'doing what was necessary' at the time. Morality must yield in times of dire necessity, yet remain resolute when the final accounting is due. I must live with the consequences of my actions, rather than seek absolution from any poor choices I have made in the past. No. I am unfit to judge the Precursors.
"All portals have been activated, Sir. " IANTO reported. "Beacons launched to identify exit points."
"Good man. Well, I conjure there's nae more to be gained by sifting through this dour auld pile." I sighed wearily. "Their force-shield technology alone has made this trip worthwhile, and the ion crystals are a wee bonus for our trouble. That's good enough for me. We'll call it a day, then. Mount up."
We retraced our path back to the containment facility. I had a notion that the portal in there led to open water, so it seemed like our most logical departure point. Frankly, any place other than the Lava River would be preferable. Not entirely certain we could weasel our way through that one again and remain unscathed. That would be tempting Fate.
The containment facility's portal delivered us to a submerged platform directly beneath the Precursor gun platform. As we awaited the arrival of Ulysses and Taranis, a school of Bone Sharks cruised warily around us the whole time, only scattering in panic as soon as our transports arrived. Just as well. I've no stomach for butchering native life forms, even in our defence. Just once, I'd like to set foot someplace that isn't constantly trying to kill us.
Héloise stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly to herself. Her fine features were composed, serene and untroubled by the events of the past two days. I gazed fondly at her, taking quiet delight in the way that the light upper sheet had fallen over her sleeping form, like a fine gown on a Grecian statue. Even without using my visual enhancements, I've noticed that the gentle curve of her belly has become more prominent recently. Her pregnancy has just entered its second trimester, and that spells a definite end to further excursions where even fools would fear to tread. At least for now.
This isn't chauvinism on my part; not even a clumsy display of chivalry. Her life is tied to the new life she carries inside her. Our unborn daughter. I will not place either of them in such jeopardy again. If I learned anything from exploring the Lava Castle, it would have to be that there are no clever answers to the riddle of Life. For better or for worse, Life exists solely for its own purposes. To live.
The PDA belonged to one Vasily Markovich Borodin. He was the survey team's chief geologist. According to his log entries, Alterra had landed a ten-person advance survey team on Manannán in 2169, seven and a half years prior to the Aurora mission.
Yet adding up the Magellan surveyors, we get:
Vasily Borodin - Geologist
Ute Haber - Oceanographer
Keith Talbot - Exobiologist
Zheng Qiang - Chemical Engineer
Didier Joubert - Geneticist
Nyala Obeke - Botanist
Lucia Silvestri - Biochemist
Marcus Sokol - Research Assistant
Rhys Powell - Research Assistant
At the time, Baat and Paal hadn't been introduced, so what gives? Were there ten team members or nine? If ten, then who was the tenth team member?
Once again, sorry if this is sidetracking the story. That's why I put it under a spoiler header. If you don't feel like answering, that's totally cool, but if you're fine with answering then that's also cool.
The PDA belonged to one Vasily Markovich Borodin. He was the survey team's chief geologist. According to his log entries, Alterra had landed a ten-person advance survey team on Manannán in 2169, seven and a half years prior to the Aurora mission.
Maintenance Technician. His PDA was never recovered.
I gasped in disbelief. "You're joking... I need a flight rating before I can take command of Borealis?"
"I'm afraid so, Sir." JUNO grinned. "However, it's something of a minor formality in your case."
JUNO is absolutely right, of course. The Interstellar Trade Commission takes a very dim view of amateurs flying capital-class starships through populated space, no matter how talented and dashingly charismatic said amateur might be. Before I can legally set foot on the bridge of Borealis in any command capacity, I must formally qualify as a ship's master. Acquiring the requisite knowledge base is the easy part. Two hours worth of intensive data transfer from JUNO, and I'm sorted.
There's a wee catch. Even though JUNO is the only one of us technically qualified to pilot a starship, her flight rating was automatically cancelled when Aurora crashed. There's bound to be an official board of inquiry when we finally return to Terra, and the presiding silks would have a field day with that seemingly harmless snippet of information. There's far too much at stake to bodge our way through this crucial step. Prison terms all round, total forfeiture of the ship and its cargo... And that's just for starters.
No, we do this one by the square and completely on the level.
I doubt if this has ever been attempted before. There's certainly no record of anyone sitting for a master's rating 175 light-years away from the ITC, so this should be an interesting exercise, to say the least. Captain Halvorsen has agreed to set things up with the ITC, acting as my examiner and professional referee in this matter.
This takes 'distance learning' to a whole new level.
It's one thing to skip merrily through The Black in a sprightly Hermes-class shuttle, and it's something else again to make the same trip in an Antares-class starship. They're a lumbering beast in any kind of atmosphere. However, I think that I may have found a solution. JUNO will take command of the shuttle's flight characteristics during this exercise, altering the ship's operating parameters to mimic the control responses of a considerably larger vessel. According to Captain Halvorsen, this should satisfy all official examination requirements, particularly in light of our current circumstances.
Héloise gave me a rough time over leaving her out of this pleasure cruise. At least she was, until I explained precisely what we'd be doing once the ship broke atmo. Two Hohmann transfer orbits on the way out, and two on the way back. This involves taking orbital slingshots around our closest celestial companions, Damocles and Phryne. Our Hermes isn't particularly fast at 0.5 light speed, so the trip out to Carl Sagan could take the best part of a week, even under a full burn. Those transfer orbits are necessary to put a little steam in our stride, and I tactfully suggested that her stomach probably wouldn't thank her for the experience. Our wee Spacer-in-waiting most certainly won't.
What I failed to mention is that I plan to land on Damocles directly after this certification flight.
I have spent decades gazing up at Manannán's largest moon, wondering what secrets it might hold. Optical telescopes only tell you so much about a planet, and even a close-up view of Damocles gives absolutely nothing away. Just a pitted, dun-coloured ball looming overhead. Featureless, lifeless and utterly barren, even to my augmented eyes. Even Mars has some measure of visual appeal, albeit only a meagre handful of cosmic pranks played by aeons of geological activity. Olympus Mons, Valles Marineris and the enigmatic Face of Cydonia. Damocles has absolutely nothing at all. Uncanny, to say the very least. There must be some logical explanation for such apparent sterility.
If you think I'm going to walk away from a grand mystery like that, you'd best think again.
The past three weeks have been particularly hectic. Aside from the day-to-day business of sticking the remaining bits of Borealis together, I have been diligently racking up some serious flight hours in our deep-space shuttle, Cutty Sark. There's not that much difference between flying and piloting a submersible, save that things tend to happen a damn sight faster and there's a disturbing tendency for gravity to get involved. JUNO has been acting as my instructor, since there's far more to this flying business than a head full of theoretical knowledge can deliver.
According to JUNO, I need to develop an innate feel for flight dynamics in order to be a truly effective pilot. Although 'becoming one with the machine' isn't an entirely foreign concept around here, I won't be allowed to cyberlink with any of Cutty Sark's systems during the certification flight. In recognition of my official status as a trans-human, the ITC have stipulated that the flight must be executed without accessing any 'unusual' cybernetic enhancements. Raw skill turns the trick, apparently. I don't know what tortured logic prevailed at the ITC during the application review process, although I'm extremely grateful that Captain Halvorsen was able to plead my case. Looks like I owe him another solid... Or a particularly splendid volatile liquid. Done deal.
"Cutty Sark to Carl Sagan Actual. Pre-flight checks are complete. All ship's systems are nominal."
"Telemetry received, Cutty Sark" Halvorsen replied. "Your flight corridor is clear of traffic. Proceed."
"Thank you, Captain Halvorsen. ETA for RV with Carl Sagan is eight point five hours. Selkirk out."
"Godspeed and a smooth flight to you, Cutty Sark. Halvorsen out."
Simulating 1.25 million tonnes of starship lifting off is relatively easy. Cutty Sark's launch thrusters have been throttled back to a mere 15 per cent, adding a suitably ponderous feel to our vertical ascent. Upon reaching an altitude of 500 metres, Cutty Sark swung around to the correct launch heading and tilted her bow majestically skyward. Atmospheric reaction drives ignited with a roar, accelerating the shuttle past Mach 1. The scramjets kicked in at Mach 2.5, catapulting her into a Mach 20 low orbital trajectory around Manannán.
"You're in the pipe five by five, Captain." JUNO announced. "We have a go for LOI burn in 720 seconds. All flight control and ship support systems are currently operating within nominal limits."
"That sounds a wee bit ominous, Lass... You're not about to drop the hammer on me, are ye?"
JUNO shrugged noncommittally. "It depends, Sir."
From Day One of my training, JUNO has been a stickler for practicing recovery from 'transient flight events'. Dead-stick landings, nav-comp errors, main drive failures, random malfunctions in RCS thrusters and so forth. Truly scary stuff, but absolutely essential skills to master. Naturally, I expect any one of these nightmare scenarios to unfold sometime during this flight. Something tells me I should have spent more time buttering up JUNO before climbing into the pilot's seat.
Cutty Sark hurtled around the night side of Manannán, accelerating to escape velocity. Only a thin sliver of Damocles is visible at this point, the countdown timer numerals are flicking off with a steady certainty. Fifteen seconds to lunar orbit insertion burn. Fourteen. Thirteen.
The nav-comp HUD suddenly flickers and dies.
"Thanks." I muttered sourly. "Switching to Bus B, secondary display. Ten seconds and counting."
JUNO nods indulgently, her lips curving into a faint smile. You may plead for mercy now, Dear Captain.
Five hundred kilometres above Damocles, Cutty Sark rotated ninety degrees, presenting her armoured belly to the monotonous landscape below. Our current velocity is 6.7 km/s, a shade below that required to maintain a standard low Earth orbit. In a few minutes, this situation will change dramatically. Meanwhile, JUNO and I have been scanning the moon's surface. To be perfectly candid, there's precious little to get excited about down there. No significant geographic features, no signs of water, no vegetation and an atmosphere that is best described as sub-optimal.
Damocles has a mean radius of 2,688 km, making it somewhat larger than Luna, although slightly smaller than Mars. Its orbital radius of 190,000 km brings it closer to Manannán than Terra's moon, although such proximity does not appreciably increase its tidal influence on the planet. As I conjure it, this might have something to do with its current physical composition. Our sensor readings indicate that Damocles has roughly the same structural integrity as a Malteser with the chocolate licked off.
In slightly more scientific terms, its surface density appears to match that of pumice stone. Great news for chiropodists, but for the rest of us, not so much. It's a downright unsettling discovery, in point of fact. There's a surface recon probe prepped and ready for launch. I'm aiming to get some sensible answers before touching down on that miserable rock.
"Orbital transfer window in ten seconds, JUNO. New heading is laid in. Throttling up for 25-g burn."
"Roger that, Sir. All systems are go." JUNO replied. "You are clear to execute a programmed burn."
Cutty Sark surged forward, the low mutter of her fusion drive rising to a subdued roar. As the shuttle shot out of orbit, the final sliver of Damocles disappeared from the forward viewport.
"New heading is confirmed. Commencing lateral RCS orientation burn."
JUNO raised a quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing. Technically, this manoeuvre isn't even necessary. We could travel between Damocles and Phryne tilted at 90 degrees without any difficulty at all. There's no real 'up' or 'down' in space, unless one's attitude needs to be relative to a specific point. Even so, I'm aware that we are flying on our side, and I simply wish to correct it. For purely aesthetic reasons, if you must know.
As it turned out, this was not such a good idea.
The starboard lateral RCS thruster fired normally, rotating Cutty Sark back into a 'normal' attitude.
"Warning. Starboard lateral RCS unit has malfunctioned. Detecting a pressure surge transient in primary propellant control system. Warning. Take corrective action immediately. Warning."
The shuttle began to rotate. Slowly at first, steadily increasing in speed as the 'jammed' valve continues to simulate an uncontrolled full-flow condition. I shot JUNO a particularly pained look.
"Now, Lass? Ye're absolutely certain ye could'na picked a better moment?" I growled, calling up schematics for the Reaction Control System on my HUD.
The whirling star field outside looks like we're about to dive down the gullet of a black hole, making it almost impossible to interpret the system's layout against that dizzying backdrop. I sighed in resignation, activating the viewport glare filters to remove this distraction. We're now flying without any visual frame of reference at all. Oh goody.
JUNO smiled pleasantly, as if entirely comfortable with the knowledge that we're flying blind and barrel-rolling through space under 110 per cent thrust. On the plus side, we appear to be nicely lined up on Phryne for orbital insertion. Unfortunately, I have only 1.5 hours to sort this whole bloody mess out.
I'm beginning to suspect that JUNO is enjoying this experience rather more than she should.
"Starboard lateral RCS propellant inlet valve is now secured. Initiating portside lateral RCS burn."
I deactivated the glare screen on the forward viewport, and began searching for a reference point in the whirl of stars. A brilliant blue-white streak catches my eye. Perfect. A massive Wolf-Rayet star, burning brightly among its lesser stellar companions. My internal HUD tells me it's WR 134, located in the constellation of Cygnus. That will do nicely. By concentrating on the core of that dazzling streak, I'm able to use it as a timing mark to synchronise the firing of the portside RCS thruster. Each time that star hits a certain point in its rotation, I trigger the thruster. Just one quick blip, no more.
There's a definite element of risk to this exercise. Cutty Sark is rotating at 0.5 revolutions per second. If I lean too heavily on that thruster, there's a distinct chance that the shuttle will begin to precess in flight, with its nose and tail wobbling about the ship's centre of mass in an increasingly unstable hourglass pattern. That's not a good look for any prospective captain's qualification flight.
So far, so good. Our rotation has decreased to a slow roll. WR 134 is a discrete blue-white dot now, making it increasingly easy to correctly time each RCS firing. JUNO is watching my antics with a carefully restrained expression. Maskirovka. Not a devious smirk to be seen, although I'm absolutely certain she's planning something interesting for the next leg of this flight.
"Unplanned rotation corrected in six minutes, twenty-five point seven eight seconds." JUNO announced briskly. "Your response time is within acceptable indices for this type of manoeuvre, Sir."
"One does one's modest best, Lass." I grinned. "So, what's next on the menu? An Alfa Echo Three-Five unit malfunction, or the trusty old Kobayashi Maru scenario?"
"Don't tempt me, Sir." JUNO chuckled. "Frankly, I'm rather partial to using both options."
Cutty Sark accelerated around Manannán's second moon, Phryne and coasted toward the next waypoint. Instead of belabouring me with yet another faux-catastrophe, JUNO kept me occupied with a seemingly endless series of routine flight management drills. To break the monotony somewhat, I kept a weather eye on the nav-comp. Carl Sagan should be within visual range in a little under an hour, although the Phase Gate is probably the first thing we'll see. Although the Gate's five kilometres in diameter, there's absolutely no chance of spotting either of them while we're still this far out.
Shiny. JUNO has just informed me that Cutty Sark's deceleration thrusters are inoperative.
In this case, Cutty Sark has to execute a 180-degree rotation. At 0.75 light-speed. Sounds like fun.
Unfortunately, flying bass-ackwards at 75 per cent of light-speed is not fun. Suffice it to say, what I need to do has to be done with an unseemly haste. Mass and velocity are no longer our friends. Cutty Sark's deflector shielding has been reconfigured to provide maximum coverage astern, since any impact to the shuttle's main drive nacelles would add a highly unwelcome level of realism to this particular flight of fantasy. This braking manoeuvre is as old-school as it gets, dating back to the hoary old days of sub-light reaction drives and unmanned probes pottering around in our own solar system. Still, it's the only viable option that will safely slow us down before we reach Carl Sagan's territory. The bow RCS thrusters might decelerate us... Eventually. In reality, it would be like trying to stop a bowling ball by blowing through a drinking straw. The way I conjure it, the folks aboard Carl Sagan might catch a fleeting glimpse of my anguished face as we screech past.
Maybe.
"Co-pilot, please verify current status of all RCS thrust modules."
"Starboard lateral RCS module is offline and remains in a no-go condition. All other manoeuvring thrusters are fully operational and available for use, Sir." JUNO replied calmly.
Just as well that I bothered to check. I wouldn't put it past JUNO to simulate a full cascade failure at this point. She's doing her job rather too well, and I have to stay on top of the situation as it evolves.
"Firing portside lateral stern thrusters in five... Mark."
Rather than rotate Cutty Sark end over end, I conjured the most efficient method would be to swing its stern around in a horizontal plane relative to our flight path. Make the shuttle's mass and current velocity work for us, rather than attempting to cancel out a potentially unstable end over end flip. Either way will work, although the more brutal caber-toss approach uses roughly 25 per cent more thruster reaction mass to execute. You can blame physics for that one. I'm guessing that decisions of this type are one of the factors taken into account in JUNO's final evaluation.
Now comes the easy part. Deceleration.
No fingers flashing over consoles at inhuman speed here. Apart from the fact that I'm legally obliged to make this check flight entirely as a human, real and actual, this manoeuvre does require a certain degree of delicacy. At this point, slamming on the brakes will not look good on my final grade. Most deep space vehicles require a fairly generous stopping distance anyway. Remember, Cutty Sark's handling characteristics have been altered dramatically, exactly duplicating those of an Antares-class starship. I can almost feel her artificially-increased mass all around me. An uncanny sensation.
"Main drives are online. Trajectory is nominal. Deceleration will commence in ten seconds."
A steady 1g burn for 600 seconds is sufficient to decelerate Cutty Sark to a more reasonable approach velocity. Carl Sagan and the Phase Gate are clearly visible now, and we are in no danger of slamming into either of them. Not that we ever were, of course. Even so, that was a taxing experience by anyone's standards; a fair approximation of the old Royal Navy's dreaded 'Perisher' SMCC submarine command qualification course. One small difference: If I wash out on this run, there'll be no bottle of whisky to crawl into as a consolation.
"All ship's systems have been reset to fully operational conditions, Captain. Please be advised that this phase of the evaluation has concluded. You are now clear to initiate docking manoeuvres."
"Thank you, JUNO." I replied.
Probably not the time to ask how I'm doing so far. Besides, I'll know soon enough. There's more of the same waiting for me after our courtesy call on the Carl Sagan.
"TCS Carl Sagan traffic control to TCS Cutty Sark. We are currently tracking you on a close approach vector, one thousand kilometres from our operational perimeter. Please state your intention. Over."
"Cutty Sark to Carl Sagan actual, requesting docking permission. Over."
"Permission granted, Cutty Sark. Port docking bay 3 has been made ready for your use. Well done, and welcome aboard, Captain Selkirk. Carl Sagan actual, out." Captain Halvorsen replied.
In flight configuration, Carl Sagan is roughly two-thirds the size of Aurora, although she is a completely different class of vessel. Hephaestus-class construction ships are based on an expanding modular hull design, enabling them to convert into deep-space construction yards upon reaching their destination. This means that there's a fair amount of protruding parts, gantries and partially assembled Gate components sticking out at unlikely angles, all poised to make life interesting for any approaching ship.
Fortunately, Captain Halvorsen has left the lights on. I'd call that a kindness.
No automatic approach systems for our wee Alex. Not this time. Visual flight rules are now in effect. JUNO decided to spring this one on me at the last minute. In keeping with the spirit of the game, I now have only two flight instruments at my disposal. Fortunately, one of them is an accelerometer. I conjure JUNO left me with working proximity sensors as a basic courtesy gesture to Captain Halvorsen, if not entirely out of concern for Carl Sagan's immaculate paintwork.
"EXERCISE. EXERCISE. EXERCISE. TCS Cutty Sark on docking approach, portside Bay Three. We have experienced a critical instrumentation failure, requesting clearance for a visual approach landing."
"Carl Sagan docking control to Cutty Sark. EXERCISE comms prefix is noted and logged, Cutty Sark. You are cleared to execute a visual approach and landing sequence. All docking bay safety systems are now active. Please proceed at your own discretion."
Cutty Sark manoeuvred into alignment and approached Carl Sagan at a prudent 20 metres per second, decelerating gradually as it neared the cavernous docking bay. There's no bonus points awarded for showmanship here, so I'm aiming to make this operation as straightforward as possible.
Cutty Sark landed as lightly as thistle-down. As touchdowns go, it wasn't too shabby. I commenced engine shutdown procedures immediately, mindful of the Carl Sagan's refuelling crew already assembling on the flight-deck apron. Docking control has informed me that turnaround will take a couple of hours, placing us entirely at liberty for the duration. A perfect opportunity to make our social rounds at a civilized pace. First things first, though. There's a comprehensive post-flight checklist that needs to be completed before my bahookie leaves the pilot's seat. All by the book.
Captain Halvorsen was already waiting for us at the head of the gangway. As the airlock doors slid open, JUNO and I braced to attention, saluting both Halvorsen and the Carl Sagan. Some might consider this an outmoded affectation, particularly those in the Merchant Service, although it struck me that Halvorsen would appreciate this gesture. Over the course of the past few months, I believe that I've gauged my measure of the man well enough. There are still a few who follow the traditional ways, sharing a distant kinship with the mariners of old. Jens Halvorsen is such a man.
"Acting Captain Alexander Selkirk reporting, Captain Halvorsen. Permission to come aboard, Sir?"
"Thank you, Captain Halvorsen. Allow me to introduce my First Officer, Commander JUNO."
We shook hands, then Halvorsen ushered us towards a waiting shuttle tram. Looks like it's time for our fifty-Credit guided tour of Carl Sagan.
Carl Sagan's interior layout is significantly different to that of Aurora. We travelled down Broadway, and my head was on a swivel all the while. I've never been aboard a Hephaestus-class ship before, so this is a trip to the sweet-shop, at least as far as I'm concerned. One thing's certain, hull designs have evolved somewhat since my death. There are signs that many core system technologies have also moved on a piece, but there are still reassuring echoes of the old Alterra design philosophy to be found here. Incidentally, since I'm not currently under formal evaluation conditions, I took this opportunity to go completely cyber on Carl Sagan's inner works, accumulating a wealth of engineering data on every system that came within range of my sensors. Technically, it's not classified as industrial espionage, provided that one asks the Captain's permission first.
Our arrival coincided with chow time aboard Carl Sagan. Halvorsen tactfully indicated that he wouldn't mind a bite to eat, but he doesn't want to leave us twiddling our thumbs while he feeds the inner man. Naturally, he's fully aware that we're both androids. This admission of humanity must have caused him a bit of anxiety.
No problem. Shepherd's Pie for me. JUNO's up for a Philly steak.
It's been a long time since I last visited these forums. It was worth it just to reread Aurora Falls and catch up with Captain Selkirk's shenanigans in Borealis Rising. Bravo, Bugzapper! I eagerly look forward to the next update.
"Orbital correction burn complete. JUNO, commence a synthetic-aperture deep radar scan."
"Aye, Sir." JUNO replied. "Still no response from our recon probe. There is a significant probability that it may have been damaged or destroyed during atmospheric entry. I have obtained a clear fix on the probe's entry corridor, but cannot determine its exact landing site by spectroscopic analysis of the heat shield vaporization trail. It has dissipated over too wide an area to provide any meaningful data on the probe's projected LZ... I'm sorry, Sir."
"It's not your fault, Lass. How about your best ball-park estimate, then?" I replied cheerfully.
JUNO shrugged. "Our probe could be anywhere within a 150 kilometre radius. However, I'm not entirely certain that any useful information would be gained from its recovery. Shall I prepare another probe for launch, Sir?"
"Please do. By the by, it might be best to deploy it after we hit atmo. I'll keep us in a holding pattern at ten thousand until the probe checks in dirt-side. That should give us a reasonable safety margin."
I'm extremely grateful that Damocles isn't equipped with its own Precursor particle beam weapon. Cutty Sark would make a tempting target as it sinks slowly into the planet's gravity well. JUNO launched the probe ten minutes ago, and we're basically dawdling along in its wake. Our first impressions of Damocles aren't exactly what I'd call promising, unless you have a craving for a thin atmosphere and excruciatingly desolate landscapes. On the positive side, it does have a functioning magnetosphere. If you're unlucky enough to get stranded here, there's no need to worry about solar flares scrambling your DNA. You'll die of boredom long before that becomes an issue. Aside from that one redeeming characteristic, Damocles has the same visual appeal as a tray of cat litter.
"The planet's surface is entirely composed of almost pure silicon dioxide, Sir. The probe is detecting infinitesimal traces of iron, magnesium and a small percentage of other heavy metals, although their concentrations are far below any exploitable levels. No detectable evidence of any organic material, metabolic residues or radioactivity in the soil, although trace values were found in the atmosphere."
"Looks like this place has been thoroughly strip-mined for resources. At a wild guess, I'd conjure our mystery miners might have used matter transmission to selectively extract minerals from the rock."
"An interesting hypothesis, Captain." JUNO replied. "May I ask how you arrived at this conclusion?"
I grinned confidently, sensing a faint note of challenge in JUNO's otherwise polite enquiry.
"Yon rock matrix is still intact, yet there is almost perfect uniformity in its chemical composition. That's about as far from natural as any planetary surface can get. Furthermore, if this planet was mined using conventional extractive technology, its surface would be all torn up. I'm not seeing that here... No soil disturbances, no processing facilities, and no signs of remediation, either."
"Since I am unable to formulate an alternative explanation at this point, I do feel somewhat inclined to agree with your initial observations, Captain." JUNO conceded reluctantly.
Pareidolia is the precise word that springs to mind here. I'm seeing vague patterns in the landscape where none should exist. The only explanation that I can offer is that I'm desperate to see something other than that sterile beige monotony crawling below us. I've brought Cutty Sark down to 1000 metres and JUNO is currently scanning the terrain for a safe landing site. This could be a mite problematic, since the planet's surface is even more treacherous than it first seemed. Deep radar scans reveal that Damocles is riddled with hidden subsurface fissures and voids, scarcely covered by a brittle skim of depleted rock. While it might be technically possible to set the ship down practically anywhere, that's not a risk either of us are willing to take.
I, like many others, created an account just to support this. You are doing a wonderful job, and I look foreward to the next ones. Hurry up, and make more!
Please use the PDA and the Lost River a bit more in the story! (Ignore this if you don’t want to, don’t bother commenting back)
Already have, mate. Unfortunately, Selkirk's mission in the Lost River biome didn't encounter a Ghost Leviathan, mainly because the creature hadn't been implemented in the game at that point. Made a passing reference to Casper the Unfriendly Ghost a bit more recently though. Back in the Sea Emperor's prison complex, actually. PDAs are still being used by the Torgaljin colonists, as Selkirk's android crew don't really have much use for them. Not nearly enough onboard storage capacity.
Please use the PDA and the Lost River a bit more in the story! (Ignore this if you don’t want to, don’t bother commenting back)
Already have, mate. Unfortunately, Selkirk's mission in the Lost River biome didn't encounter a Ghost Leviathan, mainly because the creature hadn't been implemented in the game at that point. Made a passing reference to Casper the Unfriendly Ghost a bit more recently though. Back in the Sea Emperor's prison complex, actually. PDAs are still being used by the Torgaljin colonists, as Selkirk's android crew don't really have much use for them. Not nearly enough onboard storage capacity.
Comments
We dismounted, then began unloading equipment crates and supplies from our ExoSuit cargo pods. As an aside, Héloise and Enzo have been on the bounce for nearly sixteen hours now, and they're definitely starting to look a bit blurry around the edges. Nothing that a hearty feed and a decent rest wouldn't fix. While they ate, DIGBY and I set up a pair of spacer's swags; compact survival shelters that we'd brought along with this particular situation in mind. They're a marvellous piece of kit, although most of their gee-whiz features won't be required here. No excessive levels of heat, cold, atmospheric toxins or radioactivity worth mentioning hereabouts, although a comfortable gel-foam mattress and a 'smart' sleeping bag would be a welcome sight for weary eyes anywhere.
One thing is absolutely certain. These display cases are sealed tighter than a fish's arse. The objects they contain might as well be embedded in a zirconium-lattice resin. For a start, you can forget about using a laser cutter. I've already tried it on the empty case, and the beam passed straight through that clear material without the slightest impediment. Purely for analytical purposes, you understand. I was hoping to obtain some specimens to test the physical properties of this material, but that plan has gone straight down the drain. A diamond drill doesn't even scratch the transparent casing. Shattered three bits without leaving a mark. Curiously, our hand-scanners are able to read the internal structure of every item and provide a basic analysis of its overall function, although certain critical design aspects have been deliberately obscured, literally 'pixelating' our data displays to conceal the functions of those components. Can't even guess how the Precursors achieved that.
From what we've seen so far, maybe it's all for the best. The first device that I examined is a portable radioactive source, specifically designed to disintegrate all forms of organic matter. The sort of thing you might use to completely decontaminate an enclosed space, with an eye to using it later. Once activated, that small, innocent-looking cube emits an intense burst of neutron radiation, then shuts down automatically. Its effects are apparently instantaneous, non-persistent and extremely localised. Since the device doesn't contain any known isotopic material, it probably generates that surge of radioactivity in much the same manner as an old x-ray tube. Think of this gizmo as the ultimate in pest control technology. Horrific though it may be, this device is relatively benign when it's compared with nearly everything else in here.
Take the thermostellar bomb, for instance. Fortunately, this one turned out to be a dud.
However, it's still very much alive and raring to go. I discovered this fact as I neared its display case. Like the radiation device, this small, rounded cuboid looked harmless enough, at least until it sprang into life on my approach. Gave me one hell of a spook. Turns out there's a minor but critical flaw in its detonation mechanism. Assuming that I could open its display case, I know better than to start tinkering with an actual doomsday device. Oh yes, indeed.
When this fun-sized package of boom detonates, most of the Alpha Hydrae solar system will cease to exist. After completing a hasty (but thorough) examination of this alarmingly twitchy device, a profound calm descended upon me. Apart from not machining that fortuitous sticking-point smooth, the demented genius who designed this dingus also forgot to endow it with the power of speech. I'm extremely grateful for that one small mercy. I'm no expert, but there's something utterly wrong about a sentient thermostellar bomb.
Naturally, any talk of phenomenology is verboten. Keep it light. Chat about the weather instead.
Nailed it. Good catch.
"You probably wouldn't, Dear Heart. As far as I can tell, it's an intrinsic field disruptor."
"Let me guess... That's a bad thing, right?" Héloise smirked. "That's one horosho fancy blazer, mate."
"Aye, but yon blazer's a right wicked tool. You aim that beast at someone, and they're gone. Boom. A bonny wee mushroom cloud marks their passing. It disrupts the forces that hold matter together. Not much chance of scoring a minor flesh wound with this one. Strictly for outdoor use only."
"Oh. I see." Héloise conceded at last. "Isn't there anything useful in here?"
I sighed wearily, an open admission of defeat. "No. That ancient Mongol sword is probably the only weapon in here that isn't entirely user-hostile. Look, that 'empty' case over yonder contains a swarm of killer nanites. Unbelievably tiny robotic assassins, controlled by only four core commands: Consume. Replicate. Evolve. Conquer. Someone thought it was a good idea to turn them loose. Unless they were equipped with some sort of friend or foe recognition system, they would mindlessly consume everything in their path. I'm hoping that the Precursors were intelligent enough to realise that. I'll bet those nanites evolved beyond the reach of Precursor control. Just a guess."
Héloise frowned. "I'm not buying that idea, dear Captain. There's no evidence that Precursors were fighting the Kharaa on this planet. Where are the signs of war? Where are your tiny killer robots?"
"You've got me there, Lass." I admitted. "There would be traces left, surely. I cannae account for it."
No further knowledge can be gained by endlessly poring over these exhibits, although the building itself still has significant discoveries to offer. In a way, I feel immensely relieved. Those horrific weapons won't be finding their way into human hands after all, leastways anytime in the immediate future. There's always a possibility that someone will discover their operating principles eventually, but they're well out of humanity's reach for the next couple of millennia or so. That's good enough to soothe my conscience.
After packing up our research equipment, we split into pairs and began exploring the Lava Castle's side chambers. Héloise and I discovered a sophisticated water-processing plant, obviously intended to supply filtered, cooled and oxygenated seawater to the Sea Emperor containment facility below. A huge transparent inlet conduit spiralled around a central support column. I estimated the system's flow rate at roughly two megalitres per minute, a figure derived by timing the speed of Peepers as they whooshed through the pipework. Oddly enough, Peepers are also present in the discharge pipe, apparently no worse for their wild ride.
On closer examination, I discovered that the Peepers in the discharge pipe have been coated in Enzyme 42 or its natural analogue, and that this elaborate filtration system now serves to distribute a vaccine against the Kharaa pathogen. The Peeper is an ideal delivery system, since it's the preferred prey of most of Manannán's predatory species, man included. I'm fairly certain that the Precursors originally had this in mind, even though they were ultimately unable to procure the enzyme from its natural source, the Sea Emperor Leviathan.
Impressive though that treatment plant is, there wasn't much else of interest to be found in there. We chose another doorway entirely at random, walking into a sizeable room full of display cases. Each stasis case held an egg from every sea creature found on Manannán, including one Leviathan-class specimen that I have never seen before. Considering that this pearly, almost opalescent egg case is about the same size as a Sea Emperor's, that's a reasonable cause for concern. We ambled through the egg display, and then headed back to the atrium. As we neared the next doorway, JUNO and DIGBY emerged from the corridor, their expressions grimmer than winter on Pluto.
"I won't." I said flatly. "It's their vivisection lab, right? Knew it had to be somewhere in here."
JUNO nodded silently, confirming my suspicion. On one hand, I damned the Precursors for their monumental arrogance, although this seems like a particularly empty gesture. In truth, the Precursors had their backs against the wall, clutching desperately at any technology that would aid them in their struggle against the Kharaa. They were a race fully prepared to destroy their solar system or deploy horrific hand weapons to burn out that deadly infection. Tearing unborn Sea Emperors from their cocoons must have seemed a small moral price to pay at the time. Ironically, the Precursors were on the right track. Emperor Leviathans produce Enzyme 42 naturally, although this process requires a specific set of conditions to be met. In their frantic haste to find an effective solution, the Precursors failed to discover this crucial piece of information.
I can't condone the atrocities committed in here. I can't condemn the Precursors for their actions, either. My hands are also covered in blood. People have died as a direct result of me 'doing what was necessary' at the time. Morality must yield in times of dire necessity, yet remain resolute when the final accounting is due. I must live with the consequences of my actions, rather than seek absolution from any poor choices I have made in the past. No. I am unfit to judge the Precursors.
"All portals have been activated, Sir. " IANTO reported. "Beacons launched to identify exit points."
"Good man. Well, I conjure there's nae more to be gained by sifting through this dour auld pile." I sighed wearily. "Their force-shield technology alone has made this trip worthwhile, and the ion crystals are a wee bonus for our trouble. That's good enough for me. We'll call it a day, then. Mount up."
We retraced our path back to the containment facility. I had a notion that the portal in there led to open water, so it seemed like our most logical departure point. Frankly, any place other than the Lava River would be preferable. Not entirely certain we could weasel our way through that one again and remain unscathed. That would be tempting Fate.
The containment facility's portal delivered us to a submerged platform directly beneath the Precursor gun platform. As we awaited the arrival of Ulysses and Taranis, a school of Bone Sharks cruised warily around us the whole time, only scattering in panic as soon as our transports arrived. Just as well. I've no stomach for butchering native life forms, even in our defence. Just once, I'd like to set foot someplace that isn't constantly trying to kill us.
Héloise stirred in her sleep, murmuring softly to herself. Her fine features were composed, serene and untroubled by the events of the past two days. I gazed fondly at her, taking quiet delight in the way that the light upper sheet had fallen over her sleeping form, like a fine gown on a Grecian statue. Even without using my visual enhancements, I've noticed that the gentle curve of her belly has become more prominent recently. Her pregnancy has just entered its second trimester, and that spells a definite end to further excursions where even fools would fear to tread. At least for now.
This isn't chauvinism on my part; not even a clumsy display of chivalry. Her life is tied to the new life she carries inside her. Our unborn daughter. I will not place either of them in such jeopardy again. If I learned anything from exploring the Lava Castle, it would have to be that there are no clever answers to the riddle of Life. For better or for worse, Life exists solely for its own purposes. To live.
In Aurora Falls, Selkirk clearly notes: Yet adding up the Magellan surveyors, we get:
- Vasily Borodin - Geologist
- Ute Haber - Oceanographer
- Keith Talbot - Exobiologist
- Zheng Qiang - Chemical Engineer
- Didier Joubert - Geneticist
- Nyala Obeke - Botanist
- Lucia Silvestri - Biochemist
- Marcus Sokol - Research Assistant
- Rhys Powell - Research Assistant
At the time, Baat and Paal hadn't been introduced, so what gives? Were there ten team members or nine? If ten, then who was the tenth team member?Once again, sorry if this is sidetracking the story. That's why I put it under a spoiler header. If you don't feel like answering, that's totally cool, but if you're fine with answering then that's also cool.
"I'm afraid so, Sir." JUNO grinned. "However, it's something of a minor formality in your case."
JUNO is absolutely right, of course. The Interstellar Trade Commission takes a very dim view of amateurs flying capital-class starships through populated space, no matter how talented and dashingly charismatic said amateur might be. Before I can legally set foot on the bridge of Borealis in any command capacity, I must formally qualify as a ship's master. Acquiring the requisite knowledge base is the easy part. Two hours worth of intensive data transfer from JUNO, and I'm sorted.
There's a wee catch. Even though JUNO is the only one of us technically qualified to pilot a starship, her flight rating was automatically cancelled when Aurora crashed. There's bound to be an official board of inquiry when we finally return to Terra, and the presiding silks would have a field day with that seemingly harmless snippet of information. There's far too much at stake to bodge our way through this crucial step. Prison terms all round, total forfeiture of the ship and its cargo... And that's just for starters.
No, we do this one by the square and completely on the level.
I doubt if this has ever been attempted before. There's certainly no record of anyone sitting for a master's rating 175 light-years away from the ITC, so this should be an interesting exercise, to say the least. Captain Halvorsen has agreed to set things up with the ITC, acting as my examiner and professional referee in this matter.
This takes 'distance learning' to a whole new level.
It's one thing to skip merrily through The Black in a sprightly Hermes-class shuttle, and it's something else again to make the same trip in an Antares-class starship. They're a lumbering beast in any kind of atmosphere. However, I think that I may have found a solution. JUNO will take command of the shuttle's flight characteristics during this exercise, altering the ship's operating parameters to mimic the control responses of a considerably larger vessel. According to Captain Halvorsen, this should satisfy all official examination requirements, particularly in light of our current circumstances.
Héloise gave me a rough time over leaving her out of this pleasure cruise. At least she was, until I explained precisely what we'd be doing once the ship broke atmo. Two Hohmann transfer orbits on the way out, and two on the way back. This involves taking orbital slingshots around our closest celestial companions, Damocles and Phryne. Our Hermes isn't particularly fast at 0.5 light speed, so the trip out to Carl Sagan could take the best part of a week, even under a full burn. Those transfer orbits are necessary to put a little steam in our stride, and I tactfully suggested that her stomach probably wouldn't thank her for the experience. Our wee Spacer-in-waiting most certainly won't.
What I failed to mention is that I plan to land on Damocles directly after this certification flight.
I have spent decades gazing up at Manannán's largest moon, wondering what secrets it might hold. Optical telescopes only tell you so much about a planet, and even a close-up view of Damocles gives absolutely nothing away. Just a pitted, dun-coloured ball looming overhead. Featureless, lifeless and utterly barren, even to my augmented eyes. Even Mars has some measure of visual appeal, albeit only a meagre handful of cosmic pranks played by aeons of geological activity. Olympus Mons, Valles Marineris and the enigmatic Face of Cydonia. Damocles has absolutely nothing at all. Uncanny, to say the very least. There must be some logical explanation for such apparent sterility.
If you think I'm going to walk away from a grand mystery like that, you'd best think again.
The past three weeks have been particularly hectic. Aside from the day-to-day business of sticking the remaining bits of Borealis together, I have been diligently racking up some serious flight hours in our deep-space shuttle, Cutty Sark. There's not that much difference between flying and piloting a submersible, save that things tend to happen a damn sight faster and there's a disturbing tendency for gravity to get involved. JUNO has been acting as my instructor, since there's far more to this flying business than a head full of theoretical knowledge can deliver.
According to JUNO, I need to develop an innate feel for flight dynamics in order to be a truly effective pilot. Although 'becoming one with the machine' isn't an entirely foreign concept around here, I won't be allowed to cyberlink with any of Cutty Sark's systems during the certification flight. In recognition of my official status as a trans-human, the ITC have stipulated that the flight must be executed without accessing any 'unusual' cybernetic enhancements. Raw skill turns the trick, apparently. I don't know what tortured logic prevailed at the ITC during the application review process, although I'm extremely grateful that Captain Halvorsen was able to plead my case. Looks like I owe him another solid... Or a particularly splendid volatile liquid. Done deal.
"Cutty Sark to Carl Sagan Actual. Pre-flight checks are complete. All ship's systems are nominal."
"Telemetry received, Cutty Sark" Halvorsen replied. "Your flight corridor is clear of traffic. Proceed."
"Thank you, Captain Halvorsen. ETA for RV with Carl Sagan is eight point five hours. Selkirk out."
"Godspeed and a smooth flight to you, Cutty Sark. Halvorsen out."
Simulating 1.25 million tonnes of starship lifting off is relatively easy. Cutty Sark's launch thrusters have been throttled back to a mere 15 per cent, adding a suitably ponderous feel to our vertical ascent. Upon reaching an altitude of 500 metres, Cutty Sark swung around to the correct launch heading and tilted her bow majestically skyward. Atmospheric reaction drives ignited with a roar, accelerating the shuttle past Mach 1. The scramjets kicked in at Mach 2.5, catapulting her into a Mach 20 low orbital trajectory around Manannán.
"You're in the pipe five by five, Captain." JUNO announced. "We have a go for LOI burn in 720 seconds. All flight control and ship support systems are currently operating within nominal limits."
"That sounds a wee bit ominous, Lass... You're not about to drop the hammer on me, are ye?"
JUNO shrugged noncommittally. "It depends, Sir."
From Day One of my training, JUNO has been a stickler for practicing recovery from 'transient flight events'. Dead-stick landings, nav-comp errors, main drive failures, random malfunctions in RCS thrusters and so forth. Truly scary stuff, but absolutely essential skills to master. Naturally, I expect any one of these nightmare scenarios to unfold sometime during this flight. Something tells me I should have spent more time buttering up JUNO before climbing into the pilot's seat.
Cutty Sark hurtled around the night side of Manannán, accelerating to escape velocity. Only a thin sliver of Damocles is visible at this point, the countdown timer numerals are flicking off with a steady certainty. Fifteen seconds to lunar orbit insertion burn. Fourteen. Thirteen.
The nav-comp HUD suddenly flickers and dies.
"Thanks." I muttered sourly. "Switching to Bus B, secondary display. Ten seconds and counting."
JUNO nods indulgently, her lips curving into a faint smile. You may plead for mercy now, Dear Captain.
This is going to be an interesting flight.
Damocles has a mean radius of 2,688 km, making it somewhat larger than Luna, although slightly smaller than Mars. Its orbital radius of 190,000 km brings it closer to Manannán than Terra's moon, although such proximity does not appreciably increase its tidal influence on the planet. As I conjure it, this might have something to do with its current physical composition. Our sensor readings indicate that Damocles has roughly the same structural integrity as a Malteser with the chocolate licked off.
In slightly more scientific terms, its surface density appears to match that of pumice stone. Great news for chiropodists, but for the rest of us, not so much. It's a downright unsettling discovery, in point of fact. There's a surface recon probe prepped and ready for launch. I'm aiming to get some sensible answers before touching down on that miserable rock.
"Orbital transfer window in ten seconds, JUNO. New heading is laid in. Throttling up for 25-g burn."
"Roger that, Sir. All systems are go." JUNO replied. "You are clear to execute a programmed burn."
Cutty Sark surged forward, the low mutter of her fusion drive rising to a subdued roar. As the shuttle shot out of orbit, the final sliver of Damocles disappeared from the forward viewport.
"New heading is confirmed. Commencing lateral RCS orientation burn."
JUNO raised a quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing. Technically, this manoeuvre isn't even necessary. We could travel between Damocles and Phryne tilted at 90 degrees without any difficulty at all. There's no real 'up' or 'down' in space, unless one's attitude needs to be relative to a specific point. Even so, I'm aware that we are flying on our side, and I simply wish to correct it. For purely aesthetic reasons, if you must know.
As it turned out, this was not such a good idea.
The starboard lateral RCS thruster fired normally, rotating Cutty Sark back into a 'normal' attitude.
"Warning. Starboard lateral RCS unit has malfunctioned. Detecting a pressure surge transient in primary propellant control system. Warning. Take corrective action immediately. Warning."
The shuttle began to rotate. Slowly at first, steadily increasing in speed as the 'jammed' valve continues to simulate an uncontrolled full-flow condition. I shot JUNO a particularly pained look.
"Now, Lass? Ye're absolutely certain ye could'na picked a better moment?" I growled, calling up schematics for the Reaction Control System on my HUD.
The whirling star field outside looks like we're about to dive down the gullet of a black hole, making it almost impossible to interpret the system's layout against that dizzying backdrop. I sighed in resignation, activating the viewport glare filters to remove this distraction. We're now flying without any visual frame of reference at all.
Oh goody.
JUNO smiled pleasantly, as if entirely comfortable with the knowledge that we're flying blind and barrel-rolling through space under 110 per cent thrust. On the plus side, we appear to be nicely lined up on Phryne for orbital insertion. Unfortunately, I have only 1.5 hours to sort this whole bloody mess out.
I'm beginning to suspect that JUNO is enjoying this experience rather more than she should.
I deactivated the glare screen on the forward viewport, and began searching for a reference point in the whirl of stars. A brilliant blue-white streak catches my eye. Perfect. A massive Wolf-Rayet star, burning brightly among its lesser stellar companions. My internal HUD tells me it's WR 134, located in the constellation of Cygnus. That will do nicely. By concentrating on the core of that dazzling streak, I'm able to use it as a timing mark to synchronise the firing of the portside RCS thruster. Each time that star hits a certain point in its rotation, I trigger the thruster. Just one quick blip, no more.
There's a definite element of risk to this exercise. Cutty Sark is rotating at 0.5 revolutions per second. If I lean too heavily on that thruster, there's a distinct chance that the shuttle will begin to precess in flight, with its nose and tail wobbling about the ship's centre of mass in an increasingly unstable hourglass pattern. That's not a good look for any prospective captain's qualification flight.
So far, so good. Our rotation has decreased to a slow roll. WR 134 is a discrete blue-white dot now, making it increasingly easy to correctly time each RCS firing. JUNO is watching my antics with a carefully restrained expression. Maskirovka. Not a devious smirk to be seen, although I'm absolutely certain she's planning something interesting for the next leg of this flight.
"Unplanned rotation corrected in six minutes, twenty-five point seven eight seconds." JUNO announced briskly. "Your response time is within acceptable indices for this type of manoeuvre, Sir."
"One does one's modest best, Lass." I grinned. "So, what's next on the menu? An Alfa Echo Three-Five unit malfunction, or the trusty old Kobayashi Maru scenario?"
"Don't tempt me, Sir." JUNO chuckled. "Frankly, I'm rather partial to using both options."
Cutty Sark accelerated around Manannán's second moon, Phryne and coasted toward the next waypoint. Instead of belabouring me with yet another faux-catastrophe, JUNO kept me occupied with a seemingly endless series of routine flight management drills. To break the monotony somewhat, I kept a weather eye on the nav-comp. Carl Sagan should be within visual range in a little under an hour, although the Phase Gate is probably the first thing we'll see. Although the Gate's five kilometres in diameter, there's absolutely no chance of spotting either of them while we're still this far out.
Shiny. JUNO has just informed me that Cutty Sark's deceleration thrusters are inoperative.
In this case, Cutty Sark has to execute a 180-degree rotation. At 0.75 light-speed. Sounds like fun.
Unfortunately, flying bass-ackwards at 75 per cent of light-speed is not fun. Suffice it to say, what I need to do has to be done with an unseemly haste. Mass and velocity are no longer our friends. Cutty Sark's deflector shielding has been reconfigured to provide maximum coverage astern, since any impact to the shuttle's main drive nacelles would add a highly unwelcome level of realism to this particular flight of fantasy. This braking manoeuvre is as old-school as it gets, dating back to the hoary old days of sub-light reaction drives and unmanned probes pottering around in our own solar system. Still, it's the only viable option that will safely slow us down before we reach Carl Sagan's territory. The bow RCS thrusters might decelerate us... Eventually. In reality, it would be like trying to stop a bowling ball by blowing through a drinking straw. The way I conjure it, the folks aboard Carl Sagan might catch a fleeting glimpse of my anguished face as we screech past.
Maybe.
"Starboard lateral RCS module is offline and remains in a no-go condition. All other manoeuvring thrusters are fully operational and available for use, Sir." JUNO replied calmly.
Just as well that I bothered to check. I wouldn't put it past JUNO to simulate a full cascade failure at this point. She's doing her job rather too well, and I have to stay on top of the situation as it evolves.
"Firing portside lateral stern thrusters in five... Mark."
Rather than rotate Cutty Sark end over end, I conjured the most efficient method would be to swing its stern around in a horizontal plane relative to our flight path. Make the shuttle's mass and current velocity work for us, rather than attempting to cancel out a potentially unstable end over end flip. Either way will work, although the more brutal caber-toss approach uses roughly 25 per cent more thruster reaction mass to execute. You can blame physics for that one. I'm guessing that decisions of this type are one of the factors taken into account in JUNO's final evaluation.
Now comes the easy part. Deceleration.
No fingers flashing over consoles at inhuman speed here. Apart from the fact that I'm legally obliged to make this check flight entirely as a human, real and actual, this manoeuvre does require a certain degree of delicacy. At this point, slamming on the brakes will not look good on my final grade. Most deep space vehicles require a fairly generous stopping distance anyway. Remember, Cutty Sark's handling characteristics have been altered dramatically, exactly duplicating those of an Antares-class starship. I can almost feel her artificially-increased mass all around me. An uncanny sensation.
"Main drives are online. Trajectory is nominal. Deceleration will commence in ten seconds."
A steady 1g burn for 600 seconds is sufficient to decelerate Cutty Sark to a more reasonable approach velocity. Carl Sagan and the Phase Gate are clearly visible now, and we are in no danger of slamming into either of them. Not that we ever were, of course. Even so, that was a taxing experience by anyone's standards; a fair approximation of the old Royal Navy's dreaded 'Perisher' SMCC submarine command qualification course. One small difference: If I wash out on this run, there'll be no bottle of whisky to crawl into as a consolation.
"All ship's systems have been reset to fully operational conditions, Captain. Please be advised that this phase of the evaluation has concluded. You are now clear to initiate docking manoeuvres."
"Thank you, JUNO." I replied.
Probably not the time to ask how I'm doing so far. Besides, I'll know soon enough. There's more of the same waiting for me after our courtesy call on the Carl Sagan.
"TCS Carl Sagan traffic control to TCS Cutty Sark. We are currently tracking you on a close approach vector, one thousand kilometres from our operational perimeter. Please state your intention. Over."
"Cutty Sark to Carl Sagan actual, requesting docking permission. Over."
"Permission granted, Cutty Sark. Port docking bay 3 has been made ready for your use. Well done, and welcome aboard, Captain Selkirk. Carl Sagan actual, out." Captain Halvorsen replied.
In flight configuration, Carl Sagan is roughly two-thirds the size of Aurora, although she is a completely different class of vessel. Hephaestus-class construction ships are based on an expanding modular hull design, enabling them to convert into deep-space construction yards upon reaching their destination. This means that there's a fair amount of protruding parts, gantries and partially assembled Gate components sticking out at unlikely angles, all poised to make life interesting for any approaching ship.
Fortunately, Captain Halvorsen has left the lights on. I'd call that a kindness.
"EXERCISE. EXERCISE. EXERCISE. TCS Cutty Sark on docking approach, portside Bay Three. We have experienced a critical instrumentation failure, requesting clearance for a visual approach landing."
"Carl Sagan docking control to Cutty Sark. EXERCISE comms prefix is noted and logged, Cutty Sark. You are cleared to execute a visual approach and landing sequence. All docking bay safety systems are now active. Please proceed at your own discretion."
Cutty Sark manoeuvred into alignment and approached Carl Sagan at a prudent 20 metres per second, decelerating gradually as it neared the cavernous docking bay. There's no bonus points awarded for showmanship here, so I'm aiming to make this operation as straightforward as possible.
Cutty Sark landed as lightly as thistle-down. As touchdowns go, it wasn't too shabby. I commenced engine shutdown procedures immediately, mindful of the Carl Sagan's refuelling crew already assembling on the flight-deck apron. Docking control has informed me that turnaround will take a couple of hours, placing us entirely at liberty for the duration. A perfect opportunity to make our social rounds at a civilized pace. First things first, though. There's a comprehensive post-flight checklist that needs to be completed before my bahookie leaves the pilot's seat. All by the book.
Captain Halvorsen was already waiting for us at the head of the gangway. As the airlock doors slid open, JUNO and I braced to attention, saluting both Halvorsen and the Carl Sagan. Some might consider this an outmoded affectation, particularly those in the Merchant Service, although it struck me that Halvorsen would appreciate this gesture. Over the course of the past few months, I believe that I've gauged my measure of the man well enough. There are still a few who follow the traditional ways, sharing a distant kinship with the mariners of old. Jens Halvorsen is such a man.
"Acting Captain Alexander Selkirk reporting, Captain Halvorsen. Permission to come aboard, Sir?"
"Granted, Captain Selkirk." Halvorsen smiled warmly, returning our salute. "Welcome aboard."
"Thank you, Captain Halvorsen. Allow me to introduce my First Officer, Commander JUNO."
We shook hands, then Halvorsen ushered us towards a waiting shuttle tram. Looks like it's time for our fifty-Credit guided tour of Carl Sagan.
Carl Sagan's interior layout is significantly different to that of Aurora. We travelled down Broadway, and my head was on a swivel all the while. I've never been aboard a Hephaestus-class ship before, so this is a trip to the sweet-shop, at least as far as I'm concerned. One thing's certain, hull designs have evolved somewhat since my death. There are signs that many core system technologies have also moved on a piece, but there are still reassuring echoes of the old Alterra design philosophy to be found here. Incidentally, since I'm not currently under formal evaluation conditions, I took this opportunity to go completely cyber on Carl Sagan's inner works, accumulating a wealth of engineering data on every system that came within range of my sensors. Technically, it's not classified as industrial espionage, provided that one asks the Captain's permission first.
Our arrival coincided with chow time aboard Carl Sagan. Halvorsen tactfully indicated that he wouldn't mind a bite to eat, but he doesn't want to leave us twiddling our thumbs while he feeds the inner man. Naturally, he's fully aware that we're both androids. This admission of humanity must have caused him a bit of anxiety.
No problem. Shepherd's Pie for me. JUNO's up for a Philly steak.
"Aye, Sir." JUNO replied. "Still no response from our recon probe. There is a significant probability that it may have been damaged or destroyed during atmospheric entry. I have obtained a clear fix on the probe's entry corridor, but cannot determine its exact landing site by spectroscopic analysis of the heat shield vaporization trail. It has dissipated over too wide an area to provide any meaningful data on the probe's projected LZ... I'm sorry, Sir."
"It's not your fault, Lass. How about your best ball-park estimate, then?" I replied cheerfully.
JUNO shrugged. "Our probe could be anywhere within a 150 kilometre radius. However, I'm not entirely certain that any useful information would be gained from its recovery. Shall I prepare another probe for launch, Sir?"
"Please do. By the by, it might be best to deploy it after we hit atmo. I'll keep us in a holding pattern at ten thousand until the probe checks in dirt-side. That should give us a reasonable safety margin."
I'm extremely grateful that Damocles isn't equipped with its own Precursor particle beam weapon. Cutty Sark would make a tempting target as it sinks slowly into the planet's gravity well. JUNO launched the probe ten minutes ago, and we're basically dawdling along in its wake. Our first impressions of Damocles aren't exactly what I'd call promising, unless you have a craving for a thin atmosphere and excruciatingly desolate landscapes. On the positive side, it does have a functioning magnetosphere. If you're unlucky enough to get stranded here, there's no need to worry about solar flares scrambling your DNA. You'll die of boredom long before that becomes an issue. Aside from that one redeeming characteristic, Damocles has the same visual appeal as a tray of cat litter.
"The planet's surface is entirely composed of almost pure silicon dioxide, Sir. The probe is detecting infinitesimal traces of iron, magnesium and a small percentage of other heavy metals, although their concentrations are far below any exploitable levels. No detectable evidence of any organic material, metabolic residues or radioactivity in the soil, although trace values were found in the atmosphere."
"Looks like this place has been thoroughly strip-mined for resources. At a wild guess, I'd conjure our mystery miners might have used matter transmission to selectively extract minerals from the rock."
"An interesting hypothesis, Captain." JUNO replied. "May I ask how you arrived at this conclusion?"
I grinned confidently, sensing a faint note of challenge in JUNO's otherwise polite enquiry.
"Yon rock matrix is still intact, yet there is almost perfect uniformity in its chemical composition. That's about as far from natural as any planetary surface can get. Furthermore, if this planet was mined using conventional extractive technology, its surface would be all torn up. I'm not seeing that here... No soil disturbances, no processing facilities, and no signs of remediation, either."
"Since I am unable to formulate an alternative explanation at this point, I do feel somewhat inclined to agree with your initial observations, Captain." JUNO conceded reluctantly.
Pareidolia is the precise word that springs to mind here. I'm seeing vague patterns in the landscape where none should exist. The only explanation that I can offer is that I'm desperate to see something other than that sterile beige monotony crawling below us. I've brought Cutty Sark down to 1000 metres and JUNO is currently scanning the terrain for a safe landing site. This could be a mite problematic, since the planet's surface is even more treacherous than it first seemed. Deep radar scans reveal that Damocles is riddled with hidden subsurface fissures and voids, scarcely covered by a brittle skim of depleted rock. While it might be technically possible to set the ship down practically anywhere, that's not a risk either of us are willing to take.
More firma, less terror.
Already have, mate. Unfortunately, Selkirk's mission in the Lost River biome didn't encounter a Ghost Leviathan, mainly because the creature hadn't been implemented in the game at that point. Made a passing reference to Casper the Unfriendly Ghost a bit more recently though. Back in the Sea Emperor's prison complex, actually. PDAs are still being used by the Torgaljin colonists, as Selkirk's android crew don't really have much use for them. Not nearly enough onboard storage capacity.
Ok, sorry to disrupt!
Calm down selkirks PDA's are heavily encrypted and take time to decode