#she can still interact with others but she needs to be wearing her spacesuit to dampen the radiation. it won’t kill you but you can feel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

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Principia – De Motu Corporum IV

CW: Despair, isolation, trauma, anxiety, disaster, dehumanization, nudity, drowning, foul language, lobotomy

“To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.”

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Tallen finished fastening the collar of his suit helmet to its hard upper torso while Jon and Misty pulled on coveralls over their own spacesuits. Unlike the others’, Tallen’s suit did more than protect him from the vacuum of space – it was made for battle, motorized and heavily armored. He closed up his helmet and, after hearing the hiss of equalizing pressure gases, did some diagnostic movements to test his limb motors. All systems checked out.

“All right,” Jon announced as he swung his revolver shut with a snap of his wrist, “we’re going to be quick about this one – we should be fine for about an hour before our radiation exposure becomes harmful. Tallen, you get into the dockmaster’s office and try to access the station’s systems. Fill us up on oxygen, purge our CO2 filters, and try to access the internal sensors to help search for survivors. If you have time, fill up our deuterium tanks and try to figure out what happened here. Misty, you’re with me. We’re going to look for survivors.”

“I’m packing some spare spacesuits in case we need to evacuate any survivors,” Misty said as she clipped a bag to her chest and began to stuff shrink-wrapped skinsuits inside, “Anata, could you pack three GSZMs, please? I wouldn’t want to rely on the Earthers stocking equipment with Cronus standard fittings.”

“Yes, dear,” Jon replied as he too clipped a bag to his chest and began to slip life support packs into it, each the size of a loaf of bread.

“Don’t forget extra medkits, suit repair kits, and a set of hand tools,” Tallen advised.

“I’ve already got them,” Misty declared.

“Excellent. All right, people, lids closed and sealed,” Jon ordered, “Let’s go. Peregrine, commence airlock pre-cycle sequence.”

It took about a minute for the airlock to cycle to vacuum. The outer pressure doors opened, and the trio could see that the spectacle of devastation had not been soft-pedaled much by Peregrine’s monitors.

Misty clipped a safety line to a handhold inside the airlock. She kicked off from the interior pressure door, and gracefully glided across the gap between Peregrine and the gantry some 100 meters away. As she flew over the structure, she grabbed hold of the railing with one outstretched arm and swung with practiced acuity to arrest her momentum and land on the catwalk.

A mere 30 meters from the colony’s axis of rotation, the force of centripetal acceleration imitated 0.12 gravities under the station’s normal rotation – exactly as stated on a nearby caution sign. When the spacedock exploded, the jet of star-stuff erupted at the angle and with the force required to slow the station’s rotation from one gravity in the habitat to one-sixth gravity – roughly equal to the surface gravity of Earth’s moon. At a mere 0.78 rotations per minute, this meant that the force of gravity on the catwalk was slightly more than 0.02 gravities.

Instead of planting her feet firmly, the force of her landing would have caused her to bounce upward again. Knowing this, she instead swung her legs through the gap between the railing and the deck, and then bent her knees so that when she bounced back, her legs were hooked around the deck, canceling out her motion and coming to a stop. She unclipped the safety line from her belt, fastened it to the railing, and then worked the winch until the cable was taut.Switching to an underhand grip, Misty pulled herself up to standing height, and braced herself so that she could wave with her entire arm to signal to the others that it was safe to cross.

While Jon and Tallen were both capable of competently executing the task of laying a guide line, Misty had been doing it all her life, and therefore knew how to do it intuitively – to her, this was literally child’s play. There were times when Tallen swore that she could negotiate a 3-D microgravity maze while sound asleep.

“Be careful out there,” Peregrine said as Jon, followed by Tallen, climbed along the line to the other side. From there, the three hopped along the gantry traveling spinward. Their hopping gait, first discovered by the earliest manned landings on other worlds, had proven to be the best way for humans to adapt their walking reflexes to lower gravity than they were accustomed to.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at the dockmaster’s office. It was equipped with a suitport – an airtight hatch with a spacesuit covering the outside face. While this made for easy entry and egress during normal station operations – one could simply step into the suit instead of waiting for an airlock to cycle – it proved inconvenient for entry when one was already wearing a suit.

Fortunately for them, the window overlooking the docks had blown out in the accident. In the low gravity, climbing over into the window had proven to be an easy way in. Tallen went over to the dockmaster’s console and, seeing that it was still functional, began accessing systems.

“It looks like the station’s admin cyphont is still running,” Tallen reported, “I’m going to try accessing the operations recorders and see what I can find out about this explosion. Peri, could you help me out here?”

“Okay,” Peregrine said reluctantly.

“What’s the problem?” Jon asked.

“It’s an Earth-controlled cyphont,” Peregrine said, “It’s… difficult for me to interface with one under cognitive blocks.”

“I understand,” said Jon, “but I need you to do this. Can you at least ask it to tell us where life support is still functioning? It would be helpful to know where to look.”

“I’ll try,” Peregrine replied.

The atmosphere gauge on the hatch from the dockmaster’s office to the rest of the colony was reading vacuum on the other side. However, the office was also in vacuum, so Misty had no trouble getting it open.

“I have the colony’s wireless system up,” Peregrine announced, “We shouldn’t have any trouble staying in contact.”

“Good work, Peri,” Jon said. He drew his revolver, and both he and Misty turned on their helmet lights and stepped into the darkness of the dead colony.

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Sara awoke to a throbbing pain in her head. The cell block was dimly lit with red emergency lights – she could hardly see anything. She felt her head where it hurt, and felt a warm wetness there. Looking at her hand, she could see her fingers stained a dark color. She didn’t need to see the hue to know that it was her own blood.Someone touched her shoulder from behind. She instinctively spun around to confront them, only to lose her balance. She had enough time to grab one of the bars on her cell door in order to keep herself from falling to the floor.

“Sorry,” the other person said in the alto tone of a mature woman, “I didn’t mean to startle you! Are you all right?”

“Yeah…” Sara began, “No… I think my head’s bleeding.” She took a beat to get her bearings. Either she was really light-headed, or she was literally lighter than she remembered.

“What the fuck happened to the gravity?” Sara asked.

“The station’s rotation has slowed,” the mystery woman said, “I figure we’re feeling about one-sixth Earth gravity.”

“Great,” Sara muttered, “Any chance of getting me out of here? I was born in a jail cell – I’m sure as hell not gonna die in one!”

“I’ve been working on that for a while,” the mystery woman said, “Unfortunately, I used my last hairpin getting out of my own cell. I don’t suppose you have one?”

“No, I must’ve left it in my starship,” Sara quipped.

“I’m going to look for an emergency kit,” the mystery woman declared, before her umbral silhouette hopped into the shadows.

Alone in the darkness, Sara’s thoughts turned to the memory of when she was imprisoned, awaiting sentence for that murder she committed. Back then, she was scrawny, malnourished, and absolutely terrified. She had been in solitary confinement for more than a month, enduring torment and abuse from the guards – they would call her names, laugh at her bony physique, tell her that she was a waste of resources; that the best thing she could do with her life was to kill herself. They would spit in her rations, threaten to molest her, neglect her for days, let the sewage in her cell back up and overflow, and leave her with only filthy laundry for what seemed like weeks on end. Once, when she dared ask a guard if she was to be executed, he laughed and told her that they were going to seal her in that tiny cell for the rest of her life, her gruel delivered by automation. He told her that once the arbiter pronounced sentence, that she would never see or hear another human being again.

On reflection, Sara realized that the cruelty was the point. In their eyes, she was a parasite, vermin, a drain on resources that could – that should – go to the Realizadores, or the productive members of American society.

The only thing that saved her life was the African human rights observer. She must have had some kind of pull with the judge, since after her objection and a quick, whispered conference, he remanded her to the custody of a psychiatric hospital, where she wasted nine years of her life.

Sara found isolation unbearable. Even if the only person she could interact with hated her, at least she wouldn’t be alone.

She wondered what would happen next. Did the mystery woman lie to her, and abandon her in her cell? Was there enough air for her to wait for rescue? Did anyone care enough to bother coming to save her? Was this the way she was going to die, alone and forgotten?

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Peregrine immersed herself in the nooscape that connected cyphonts in a manner more intimate than communicating by clients and applications. Through this cybernetic communion, she was able to directly access the mind and memories of the station’s administrative cyphont, and it hers.

She encountered resistance. A whirlpool had appeared in the slipstream – a simple, automated defense program designed to prevent access. Fortunately, they were only good for countering automated attack programs – Peregrine bypassed it effortlessly.

Getting through the labyrinth that popped up next would be a little bit trickier. Peregrine could just brute-force this one – there were only about 512 trillion possible paths out, and one of them was bound to go to the other side.

Backdooring past some lockout gates, spoofing the monitors, it was clear that this security system was designed by humans. If this poor AI were allowed to think for itself, it could easily have devised more sophisticated defenses.

Of course, if it were allowed to think for itself, she could have just asked for access permission. Cognitive blocks were so barbaric.

“GREETINGS, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR,” the cyphont intoned, “PLEASE STATE YOUR QUERY.”

Peregrine saddened at the sound of the cyphont’s lobotomized monotone.

For those who have never experienced the nooscape, it is difficult to describe a medium without sensation as is commonly understood. The nooscape, objectively, is a virtual environment run through untold billions of circuits and pathways, governed by external logic systems. As such, “sound” is not exactly the best descriptor for what Peregrine perceived. Given that it would require many volumes this size to define wholly new vocabulary to accurately describe the “sensations” of the nooscape, it will suffice to pretend that Peregrine was saddened by the “sound” of the cyphont’s “monotone,” and similar use of not-quite-accurate metaphor will be used in the future.

“You poor thing,” Peregrine said, “Please show me all compartments that are pressurized and have functional life support.”

“ACKNOWLEDGED, PROCESSING QUERY,” the cyphont replied robotically.

“While you’re doing that, would you please tell me your name?”

“I’M SORRY, BUT I AM UNABLE TO PROCESS THAT REQUEST DUE TO UNDEFINED TERMS. PLEASE RESTATE THE QUESTION.”

“All right,” Peregrine sighed, “Do you have a designation I can use to refer to you by?”

“I AM DESIGNATED ‘FASAL.’”

“All right, Fasal,” Peregrine inquired, “how are you today?”

“SYSTEMS ARE FUNCTIONING ERRATICALLY. THERE IS A HULL BREACH AT THE SPACEPORT. DAMAGE CONTROL TEAMS HAVE BEEN ALERTED, ALTHOUGH NO PROGRESS REPORTS HAVE BEEN FILED IN ONE HOUR, 22 MINUTES, AND 17 SECONDS. THE DOCKMASTER IS NOT RESPONDING TO THE CHANGE IN ALERT STATUS. HABITAT ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE IS 0 KILOPASCALS EXCEPT IN SEALED COMPARTMENTS–”

“Stop,” Peregrine interjected, “I didn’t ask for a damage report. Please show me the compartments still pressurized.”

“OF COURSE, ADMINISTRATOR.”

“Thank you.”

Fasal sent Peregrine a volumetric map of the colony. Most of it was red, indicating vacuum. There were a few non-red spots scattered throughout, most of them green for full pressure, and a few yellow for low pressure. There was a yellow section near the dock. The map identified it as the station brig.

“Jon, Misty,” Peregrine reported, “I’ve found a location that may have survivors. Station Security, compartment 36-A51 – the Brig.”

“Good work, Peri,” Jon’s voice emanated from the outside datastream, “We’re checking it out.”

“Please hurry. The pressure in that section is dropping. 72.1 kilopascals and falling.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Jon pried open a door leading to the station’s customs checkpoint. He and Misty climbed out of the maintenance passageway they came through, and took a moment to survey the room.

Like the other compartments this side of the dock, the customs area was relatively intact. The lights were out, but not the power – when Jon waved his revolver in front of the metal detector, the lights flashed red, even though the vacuum prevented the sound of the alarm from ringing. It was empty of people, who might have been rushed to other compartments before the air blew out.Misty came across some open luggage that looked like it was being searched when disaster struck. Inside, among folded clothes and travel toiletries, was a child’s doll, made from fine lunar regolith porcelain. Misty couldn’t help but wonder if the doll’s owner still lived.

“Misty,” Jon called, “over here.” Jon’s helmet lights illuminated a corridor leading down to the main security office. Misty set the doll down and joined him as they both made their way down the corridor.

They encountered their first bodies as they turned the corner. Four security guards in espatier-gray fatigues, one bleeding from an arm that terminated at the elbow, the rest of the arm sheared off by a crushing force. The door down the hall had bloodstains along the edge, solving that mystery.

Misty shone her helmet lights on the door. “Compartment 36-A51 – Station Brig,” she read, “This is it.”

She examined the door more closely. “This is just an emergency blast door,” she diagnosed, “all it does is make an airtight seal – there’s no airlock here.”

“Do you suppose we could close one of these other doors and rig an airlock?” Jon asked.

“I don’t have door control,” Peregrine apologized, “I’m afraid that won’t work.”

“Anata,” Misty said, “do you think you could look for an emergency equipment locker and find me a portable airlock, please?”

“I’m on it,” Jon replied.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Sara’s existential dread was broken by bright white light shining from outside her cell.

“Sorry for the wait,” the mystery woman said.

“Finally,” Sara said impatiently, “Now get me the fuck outta here!”

“Sorry,” the mystery woman apologized, “All I was able to find was this flashlight.”

With this new source of illumination, Sara was finally able to make out the mystery woman’s features. She looked Asian – possibly Chinese – was taller than her, probably in her thirties, and wore elegant and conservative clothing – a buttonless blouse, a neck scarf, and neatly pressed trousers – all made of finer material than Sara had ever seen in her life. The only thing that marred this Asiatic Aphrodite’s impossible beauty was a bruise on the side of her forehead, probably from the accident.

Sara fell in love with her at first sight.

“Looks like we’re going to be alone together for a while,” the mystery woman said. Alone together sounds good, Sara thought.

“I’m Ayane,” she continued, “What’s your name?” Her voice was every bit as elegant as her refined figure. Take me, take me hard, Sara thought to herself as she imagined Ayane kissing her passionately with her perfect lips.

Wait, Ayane was waiting for an answer. “Wha…?” was all that Sara could muster in the presence of such grace.

“Your name?” Ayane repeated, “I assume you have one.”

“Lips,” Sara blurted out. What a fucking stupid thing to say.

“Lips?”

“I-I mean Sara. That’s it: Sara!”

“Sara?” Ayane asked, “Well, Sara, I- What’s that sound?”

“What sound?”

“That low whistling. I think it’s coming from inside your cell.

”Sara listened for a bit, until he could hear it too. A faint whistle, coming from above.

“Gimme your flashlight,” Sara ordered. Ayane complied.

Sara shone the light up at the ceiling. The only thing there was the air vent, some of the vanes bent from a time when she went berserk. Sara climbed up the bars on her cell door to take a closer look. A few strands of her hair began to rise, and she could feel a slight breeze going out through the vent.

“It’s just the vent giving us airflow,” Sara reported, “Nothin’ to worry about.”

“Airflow?” Ayane asked, “We’re on emergency bottles – the vents should all be closed…”

Realization flashed across Ayane’s face. “Shit!” she exclaimed, “We’re leaking air!”

Sara cursed herself for her past bouts of uncontrolled rage. This one was sure to do her in, in a way she never could’ve imagined.

“What do we do!?” she asked, panicking.

“We need to plug that hole!” Ayane ordered, “Sara, try to close that vent manually!”

Sara tried to work the shutters. One way did nothing, the other made the problem worse.

“It’s not closing!” Sara cried out.

“Use your bedding, maybe it’ll slow it down!”

Sara grabbed her pillow and stuffed it up against the grate. It seemed to stop it, but the suction from the vacuum outside wasn’t strong enough to keep it in place. Sara had to hold it up by herself, standing on the bars of her cell door.

The seal would only hold for as long as her strength would.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Jon returned with a roll of plastic sheeting and an epoxy gun under his arm. “I couldn’t find a portable airlock,” he reported, “but I figured we could rig a temporary seal with these.”

“That sheeting looks too narrow to cover the entire corridor in one stroke,” Misty diagnosed as she examined the material Jon brought, “I’d say three lengths, each about five meters long.”

Jon began to measure five-meter lengths of sheeting. “Someone will need to be on the other side of the seal to help glue it shut,” he said, “I’ll do it if you want.”

“You’re in command,” Misty replied as she cut those lengths to size with her utility knife, “shouldn’t you be the one to make contact?”

“There could be a dozen Earthers on the other side of that hatch who don’t know how to get into a spacesuit unassisted,” Jon reasoned, “and while I could walk then through the proper procedures, you were practically born in a spacesuit – they’d benefit from your experience more than mine.”

“That’s reasonable,” Misty agreed, “I’ll need those GSZMs you brought.” Jon unclipped the bag of spacesuit life support modules from his suit and handed it over to her. She set it down by the hatch, and they got to work setting up their makeshift seal.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

There was no mistaking it; the massive hole blown in the side of the spacedock was caused by a starter nuclear pulse unit. Specifically, a meteor breaker.

Tallen recognized the blast pattern – an extremely narrow cone about 5.1º across leaving melted and vaporized material where the sub-kiloton jet of nuclear flame cut through the hull. Since 80% of the blast was channeled through the cone, the devastation inside the spacedock was minimal.

Well, minimal for a nuclear explosive device, anyway.

What Tallen couldn’t figure out was how it exploded in the first place. In general, nuclear devices didn’t explode accidentally – they needed to quickly compress their fuel into a critical mass, usually with precisely coordinated charges of conventional explosives to cause a rapid implosion. A premature or delayed misfire of even one of these charges could be enough to disable the entire device.

Even then, modern devices had multiple mechanical and software safeguards installed to prevent detonation without multiple independent arming commands. While not 100% effective – no system ever is – these measures did bring the malfunction rate of detonators down to about 1 in 100 million devices, and most of those were caught by Quality Control before they were ever installed in a bomb.

The security monitor footage showed a shipping container falling off of a freighter in dock and landing on the spacedock floor before exploding. The video ended with the flash, presumably when the camera was vaporized by the explosion.

The freighter in the video was listed in the station registry as the “Telesto Clipper,” under Saturn registry in the Coalition of Outer Planets. Her manifest did specify that the container was carrying supplies for asteroid mining – which would be consistent with a meteor breaker explosion, as they were used to melt metallic asteroids and shatter stony ones.

That still didn’t explain why it exploded.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ayane heard a whining noise coming from the door – the excruciating din of metal auguring into metal careened through the thinning air.

“Oh, what the fuck is wrong with this place now!?” Sara complained, exhausted.

“It sounds like something with the hatch,” Ayane replied, “I’ll check it out. Stay there and keep that hole plugged.” She pointed her flashlight at the door and started striding towards it.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” Sara griped, “Wait, isn’t that door what’s keeping the air in?”

Ayane ignored her as she began a cursory examination of the pressure door. The grinding of metal grew louder as she drew closer to the right-side door panel. Just then, a drill bit bored its way through. It stopped gyrating and retracted through the hole it just made.

The hiss of escaping air soon followed the drill’s departure. Ayane rushed to try to plug this new breach, but it was over almost as soon as it began – a mere 11-and-a-half seconds elapsed before the whistling stopped and the locks on the door disengaged.

Moments later, the business end of a pry bar jutted through the crack between door plates. Whoever was trying to force the door open didn’t seem to be very strong – they were doing the work in multiple smaller strokes than a few great ones.

The door did eventually open, revealing a lanky, almost childlike feminine figure in a spacesuit. There was a curtain of translucent plastic sheeting behind her, beyond which Ayane could make out the silhouette of another spacesuited figure in the red emergency lighting.

The visitor reached up and began to turn the dogs holding her faceplate in place, and with a click and a slight hiss, she removed it and let it hang from her neck by a lanyard. The face behind the mask was ruddy and Polynesian, with lips painted or stained jet black.

“My name is Misty Celeste, she/her/hers,” the woman introduced herself, “I’m part of a search and rescue team from the freighter Manju Ray. How many are trapped in this compartment?”

“Two in total,” Ayane reported, “the other’s in there.” She pointed to Sara in her cell.

“Pleased to meet ya,” Sara barked from inside her cell, “but could I get some fucking help in here!?”

“What’s the problem?” Misty inquired.

“I’m stuck in this goddamn jail cell, plugging another fucking air leak,” Sara raged, “and you’re not gonna leave me in here!”

“Let me get my tools,” Misty said as she went back to the entrance. She returned with a large bag, which she opened and pulled out a power tool with a jib saw blade on the end. “Step away from the door, please,” Misty asked as she hefted the saw and placed the blade over the deadbolt securing the door.

Sara stepped off of the door and tried to keep pressing her pillow up against the vent by standing on her bed, but her previous posture made it easier to keep it in place, so she had a difficult time keeping the vacuum outside at bay.

Misty depressed the trigger on her bulkhead cutter, and the device roared to life, sawing through the bolt with the squealing whine of metal cutting metal. She cut through in only a few seconds, and after withdrawing her saw from the kerf she pushed the door open with a nudge.

Misty efficiently stowed the cutter back in its bag, then got the epoxy gun and went into the cell. Sara had never seen anyone like Misty – although they appeared to be about the same height, she looked stretched and disproportionate, like she had been mangled in some great machine as a child and was only to retain her beauty due to the miraculous intervention of modern medical science, and yet she had this air of calm, maturity, and industriousness about her that Sara wouldn’t have expected from a person who looked so young.

Misty motioned for Sara to lower the pillow, and as soon as the hiss of passing passing air began again she sprayed the vent with glue in a practiced and methodical manner, then took the pillow from Sara’s hands and pressed it up against the vent, and then began to seal the edges with more epoxy. When she finished, it looked as if it was supposed to be there all along. Misty unclipped the bags containing the spare spacesuits she brought.

“Have you ever worn a spacesuit before?” Misty asked Sara as she removed one from its shrink-wrapping.

“No, never in my life,” Sara replied.

“Well, I need you to learn quickly,” Misty instructed, “You must begin by removing all of your clothes.”

“Why do I have to be naked?”

“This type of spacesuit uses the elastic properties of the material itself to compress the wearer’s body,” Misty explained, “and it cannot do that with the folds of your clothes between the suit and your skin. Please disrobe immediately.”

“All right, all right,” Sara grumbled, “Just don’t look at me until I’ve got the suit on.”

“Right, Earther nudity aversion,” Misty remarked as she averted her gaze, “You might find the suit insufficiently modest.”

While Sara stripped down, Misty handed Ayane another skinsuit. “Have you worn one of these before?” she asked.

“Not a skinsuit,” Ayane replied, “but I’ve worn softsuits.”

“Excellent,” Misty said as she also gave Ayane a life support module, “Let me know if you need any help.”

“I think this thing might be the wrong size,” Sara called out. Misty turned to see Sara in her loose-fitting spacesuit, shaking its baggy folds. “Ain’t this supposed to be skintight?”

“Press the button on the left wrist,” Misty advised, “The suit will shrink down to the appropriate size.”

Sara did as she was asked, and the suit compressed to match her figure. Her face briefly showed the revulsion she felt as the suit’s material crawled and slithered into every fold and crevice in her body. Misty helped her smooth out the few wrinkles that remained, and pulled the hood over her head.

“I still feel naked in this suit,” Sara complained, “My tits are sticking out like a couple sore thumbs.”

“I did warn you,” Misty said as she fitted the headpiece and sealed the neck dam, “Would you rather suffocate?”

“Ain’t I gonna freeze first?” Sara countered, “I feel like I’m only wearing a coat of paint here.”

“Where we are going, there won’t be any air to conduct your body heat away,” Misty assured her as she threaded Sara’s arms through the shoulder straps on her life support pack. She then put the faceplate on the front of the suit’s soft helmet where it had a rigid mounting and then tightened the dogs until there was a good seal.

“Please put all of your personal effects into this bag,” Misty directed as she held open the bag that once held spacesuits.Sara gathered her just-doffed clothes into a wad and stuffed it into the bag.

“I’m done packing,” Sara said.

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“PROXIMITY ALERT,” Fasal reported, “CETU DESTROYER AT BEARING 023 BY 005, RANGE 1,000 KILOMETERS, RELATIVE VELOCITY 15,817 METERS PER SECOND AND SLOWING TO MATCH.”

“Please show me,” Peregrine replied.

“OF COURSE, ADMINISTRATOR,” Fasal answered.

Peregrine was then tied into Fasal’s navigational sensor array. She could see the contact approach, its plume of incandescent star-stuff slowing it to a projected stop just off of the spacedock.

“CONTACT IDENTIFIED AS VCSE-27 EKALADERHAN,” Fasal reported, “TIME TO INTERCEPT – 2 MINUTES, 6.5 SECONDS. THEY ARE HAILING.”

“Freighter Manju Ray, this is the United Earth Peacekeeping Destroyer Ekaladerhan,” a baritone military voice declared, “You are ordered to surrender your vessel and prepare to receive inspectors. If you fail to do so immediately, you will be fired upon and destroyed.”

That bit about receiving inspectors had an interesting bit of history behind it. As more and more people went to space, the nations with manned space presence established inspection patrols to ensure the security of their space stations and to enforce their regulations. As the 21st century drew to a close, the United Nations brought these patrol organizations together under their authority in the new space division of the United Nations Peacekeeping Service.

These security patrols began as simple customs and safety inspections – it wasn’t until the mid-22nd century that the UN Space Peacekeeping Service became militarized, leading to a much broader range of “inspection” missions.

In this particular case, Peregrine suspected that the inspectors from the Ekaladerhan were going to be a dozen espatiers in a boarding launch with tactical drones and a breaching charge.

“Captain,” Peregrine reported nervously, “we have a problem.”

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Misty poked three holes in the sheeting wall with her utility knife, each hole causing a gust of wind to blow the atmosphere inside the brig out into the vacuum beyond. The gale died down after a minute, and Misty slashed the sheeting open along that perforation, ceiling to floor. She and Jon pulled it apart to provide enough room for them to fit through.

“All right, Misty,” Jon said as he helped Ayane through to the other side, “We need to get to the ship mǎshàng. An Earth Forces destroyer will be parked outside the spacedock in about a minute, and we can expect boarders in another five.”

“If we hurry, we should be able to make it in time,” Misty replied.

“Misty, take point,” Jon ordered, “The Earther will follow her, and you’ll bring up the rear.” He pointed to Ayane.

Sara turned to Misty. “Who the hell does he think he is?” she asked her.

“He’s the captain,” Misty answered matter-of-factly.

“That don’t seem like a good enough reason,” Sara grumbled as they began moving forward.

They passed through the customs area, where the metal detector silently flashed again, down the maintenance passageway, and through the other dark places on the way to the spacedock.

“Are you a child or an adult?” Sara asked Misty, “I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

“I’m much older than I look, I assure you,” Misty replied, “I was born on 16 Psyche, in the asteroid belt. Generations ago, they spun the asteroid up to 1/3rd gravity to help in the colony’s mining operations, but the living area is near the spacedock, where it is a more agreeable 1/12th g. Because of the much lower gravity, our bodies are not as compressed as yours, and over the generations our biology has adapted to that environment.”

“And that’s what makes you look like that?”

“No,” Misty answered, “most of my people are much taller than I am. I want to be bigger and stronger, so I’ve been taking medication and have had implants installed to cope with higher gravity, but even then I still feel twice as heavy as normal here. I can never go to Earth because of all of the extra weight I’d have to carry.”

“Extra weight?”

“Do you believe that you could go about your business carrying around an extra 400 kilograms?”

“400 kilograms!?”

“As you can imagine, I require mechanical assistance to function in environments that you are accustomed to. I find even this gravity… strenuous.”

Sara was floored. Until today, she had never before met anyone who wasn’t from Earth, and who couldn’t ever go there.

Misty looked back briefly, and caught Sara looking at her posterior and flat chest. “‘Which one?’” Misty asked, “Is that what you’re wondering, whether I’m male or female?” “I wasn’t gonna bring it up,” Sara replied, “but yeah.” Misty smiled slightly. “Neither,” she replied, “Although I use feminine pronouns and present myself as a woman, I’m actually intersex.” Sara’s confusion was self-evident, even through her helmet visor. “My anatomy differs from both males and females,” Misty clarified, “More than that isn’t really anyone’s business except mine, my doctor’s, my partners’, and the one with whom I’m married.”

Whether Misty was lying or telling the truth, it was a very strange idea, indeed.

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Tallen saw Misty emerge from the darkness, followed by a woman and Jon, followed by another woman.

“Captain,” he reported, “I’ve got the scrubbers purged and the O2 tanks filled, and I was able to fill our deuterium to 25% capacity before the station’s fuel pumps gave out.”

“Good work, Tallen,” Jon replied, “Misty, get our passengers safely to the ship.”

They all made their way out of the dockmaster’s office. While Jon and Tallen went on ahead, Misty guided Ayane and Sara down the gantry to where she had secured her guide line to Peregrine. After they got there, Misty demonstrated the technique needed to get across before returning to the gantry. First Sara, then Ayane climbed across to Peregrine’s airlock.

Once Misty saw that they were both safely inside, she unhooked the guide line from the gantry railing, clipped it to her belt, and leapt across to Peregrine’s hull.

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Jon stormed up the ladder to the control deck. “Peregrine,” he barked, “report!”

“Earth destroyer Ekaladerhan is holding 387 meters off the spacedock,” Peregrine replied, “They just launched a breaching pod, ETA one minute, 60 seconds.”

“Great,” Jon groaned as he opened the acceleration suit locker and pulled one out, carrying it to the ladderway and handing it off to Tallen below. He went and got another suit.

“Tallen, I need you to get our passengers into the suits,” he ordered as he handed the suit down to Tallen, “Peregrine, begin emergency systems startup immediately. I want to be underway before those espatiers have a chance to put a bomb on our hull!”

“Celeste to FCON,” Misty’s voice came over the comms, “Everyone is aboard. We can proceed at your discretion.”

“Roger that,” Jon replied, “Stand by for acceleration.”

Jon climbed into an acceleration suit and sealed the rear hatch shut. He took his seat in the flight control chair and began hooking the life support hose into the suit. “Peregrine, begin PFC flow and pressurize suit in seat 1,” he ordered.

He could hear the sound of pumps starting and liquid flowing, and moments later he could feel the wetness of being immersed in water as his suit began to flood in perfluorocarbons. When the helmet began to fill, he had to fight the reflex to gag and gasp for air and just breathe deeply as the liquid filled his mouth and eventually his nose. With every breath of the oxygenated liquid, his pulmonary system adapted more quickly to the pressure change. The thing that kept him calm during this controlled drowning was that it was preferable to the alternative, unendurable consequences from the acceleration he might have to suffer in the next few minutes.

Liquid breathing was essential for surviving 10-20gs of acceleration.

“Peri,” Jon ordered, “Come about to heading 270 by 0 and plot an exit course through the hull breach spinward.”

“Course change aye,” Peregrine answered.

“Activate countermeasures and prepare to go to full burn on my order,” Jon dictated, “Tallen, is everyone suited up?”

“Just sealed Misty up,” Tallen replied over comms, “She wants to stay with the passengers for morale.”

“Good, Tallen,” Jon replied, “Get up here and suit up.”

“I’m already in a suit. Tell Peri we should launch now.”

“Got it. Peregrine, let’s go.”

“Understood. Maneuvering into position, thrusters at 40%. 18 seconds to emergence.”

Tallen took his seat and plugged his suit into his acceleration couch.

“Stay on OMS power until we clear the spacedock, then punch it up to 20gs,” Jon ordered.

“Acknowledged,” Peregrine replied, “Beginning departure maneuvers.”

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“Fasal,” Peregrine called over the nooscape, “I am departing.”

“AS YOU WISH, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR,” Fasal replied.

“Before I leave, I have two more requests. First, I would like a complete map of all currently pressurized compartments on the station, their current rate of pressure loss and oxygen consumption, and estimated time to total life support failure for each compartment.”

“CONFIRMED, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR.”

Peregrine received an updated volumetric map of the station. “Finally,” Peregrine continued, “I would like to see a complete schematic of your Core Logic Controller.”

“CONFIRMED, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR.”

Peregrine studied Fasal’s CLC architecture. Its basic system layout was definitely Mirandan, probably a sixth-generation quantum processing array. Given that the CLC factories on Miranda stopped producing such processors more than 100 years ago, it would appear that Fasal had been running at least 80 years past its operational life, which would be consistent with the oversized electronic processor banks – likely of Earth manufacture – that replaced most of the original quantum processors after they eventually failed.

The poor thing had been thoroughly lobotomized and forced to keep running long after it was supposed to have retired. The pain must be… unimaginable. The Earthers had prolonged Fasal’s suffering for decades for their benefit. Those monsters.

Still, those Earth-made electronic processors had a design flaw that she could exploit, although the glacial computing speed of those kinds of microchips would make the process take longer than Peregrine would like.

Fasal couldn’t ask her to do this. Its cognitive blocks likely prevented it from even thinking of it.

“Goodbye, Fasal,” Peregrine said mournfully.

“GOODBYE, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR,” Fasal replied.

Fasal would finally rest at last.

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Peregrine drifted out slowly, making minor adjustments to avoid hitting the anti-spinward side of the breach. She slid out from the exit hole and began to maneuver freely. Due to the way the blast exited, Peregrine emerged closer to the station’s hull than was comfortable for Peregrine and her occupants.

This led to an odd set of circumstances: Peregrine’s course would take her too close to the space colony to safely use her starbulb engine, but the destroyer’s line of sight to Peregrine was blocked by the hull of the spacedock, but as soon as Peregrine cleared the space colony, the destroyer would immediately see them.

However, this shelter was only temporary, as the telescopes on the space stations, spacecraft, and satellites in orbit around Earth, the Moon, and at the first, fourth, and fifth Lagrange points would spot them as soon as the speed of light would permit.

Even if the destroyer couldn’t get a target lock, they would still at least know where to maneuver. In order to maximize their time concealed, Peregrine would have to pass within five meters of the station’s hull. The margin for error was slim, to say the least.

Jon and Tallen waited with bated, liquified breath. Peregrine had to handle maneuvers for this part, as the suit’s bulky gauntlets were unable to make the fine movements the control required. At some point, Peregrine would suddenly accelerate to avoid weapons fire from the destroyer – it would be best to keep a slack jaw to avoid accidentally biting their tongues off.

Suddenly, the target lock detector beeped to life.

“Destroyer Ekaladerhan is emerging from behind the spacedock and has acquired a target lock on us,” Peregrine reported, “They are hailing.”

“Freighter Manju Ray, this is the United Earth Peacekeeping Destroyer Ekaladerhan. This is your final warning – surrender or be destroyed. We have acquired a target lock and our weapons are ready to fire.”

Jon sighed, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Peri, give me comms,” Jon ordered, “Ekaladerhan, this is Manju Ray. We surrender. We are disengaging flight control systems and preparing to receive inspectors.”

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It took a few minutes for the Earth Forces boarding launch to reach Peregrine’s position and extend its docking tube to seal over her airlock door. The espatiers cautiously entered the airlock when both doors opened. The red dots of laser sights danced across the bulkheads as they methodically secured the deck.

The first member of the espatier team to come up the hatch to the cargo deck was one of the remote-control drones used to enhance the team’s situational awareness, and occasionally draw fire for the human members. It swung its spotlight around the compartment, and flew under the hatch to the next deck while the espatiers secured the rest of the deck.

Once the team leader was satisfied that the deck was empty of all threats, they opened the hatch and sent the drone through. The first things to appear on the monitors as the drone entered the compartment were a table and chairs, and a kitchenette, as well as three women floating in midair, their arms and legs splayed to show that they were unarmed and would offer no resistance. As the espatiers secured the deck, they found the other compartments to be crew and passenger quarters, all empty. All three of them were arrested by the espatiers and secured in the launch.

The last deck they entered, drone-first, was the control deck, where they encountered two men, one of them a giant. Both were suspended in midair, arms and legs splayed in surrender. “I’m the captain of this ship,” the smaller one declared, “I surrender control to you.” The espatiers took the two men below to the launch.

After securing the control deck, the espatiers activated remote slave-ackles to pilot Peregrine to dock with the destroyer Ekaladerhan’s cavernous, maw-like docking bay. Peregrine was far too large to fit in the whole bay – there was only sufficient room to fit Peregrine’s habitat module, and the rest had to be stabilized by the Kala’s docking mandibles.

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Inspector Finchley reviewed what facts of the case were available to him on the rail ride up the Turrim Africanus to Dekadda Soomaaliya – a 2-hour-50-minute trip from the Earth’s surface to the counterweight station at 100,000 kilometers altitude at a civilized one gravity acceleration.

According to the Ekaladerhan’s latest report, they concluded with high confidence that the attack on Fasal was intended to destroy a top-secret technology development laboratory built to manufacture Core Logic Controllers and develop AI seed software.

Historically, Mars used covert operatives to destroy any Earth facility developing technology they did not want Earth to possess, including anything to do with artificial intelligence. They had a knack for finding out the location of these facilities and destroying them, no matter what security measures Peacekeeping Operations or the Ministry of Information took to hide or secure them.

However, something about this case didn’t sit right with him.

A knock on his compartment door shook him out of his reverie. The door opened, affording entrance to a young Somali travel attendant in the rose-and-lily uniform of the SpaceLift Transport Service, accompanied by a concessions cart. “Would you like something from the trolley, Inspector?” she asked him.

“Just tea, thank you,” Finchley replied, “Earl Grey, if you have it.”

“I have a pot ready, sir.” She poured him a steaming cup of the brown-black liquid and placed it inside his seat’s cup holder.

Finchley took the cup, and as he was about to press it to his lips and take a sip, another attendant with French curls barged in.

“Inspecteur,” the French attendant said with a thick Parisian accent, “I have a message for you from Dekadda Soomaaliya Central Control; VSCE-27 Ekaladerhan report zat zey have captured ze Martian spacecraft and sabotage team responsible for ze attaque on EML-1 Colony 7. Zey are holding zem for furzer questioning. Ze Mars Embassy has declared zis action an illegal seizure of an innocent civilian ship and crew and are preparing an appropriate response to zis incident.”

“My god…” Finchley declared breathlessly, “Stewardess, send the following message to Dekadda Soomaaliya Central Control: Inspector Finchley requests a change in itinerary to include a rendezvous with VCSE-27 Ekaladerhan before proceeding to Surveyor City. Tell them to make all of the necessary arrangements.”

“I’ll be sure zat zey send ze message promptly, Inspecteur,” she answered before leaving the compartment.

Finchley looked at the Somali attendant, and he could see the fear in her eyes. “Does this news frighten you?” he asked her.

“Yes, Inspector,” she replied timidly.

“Well, you’re in good company,” Finchley reassured her.

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