NationStates Jolt Archive

The starfield was clean, a million points of light the result of the respective journeys of millions of years by individual photons. Suddenly, a flicker, a warping like a pebble dropped into a pond, the ripples going in all directions left and right, up and down. From infinity in all directions--no matter which direction you viewed it from--Beagle slides in from the distance with unimaginable speed, its distinctive double-saucer structure gleaming dully with the light of its new sun.

All this in a blink of an eye; first there's nothing and suddenly there's a ship.

"Tesseract jump complete, ma'am," Lieutenant Smith Dobbs looks over his shoulder from his console momentarily, then looks back. "Getting a read from astrogation now..." Looking up at the fuzzy strategic situation indicator display, it blinks into clarity. "Confirmed. We are in target system, BESS-Ten at zenith point."

"Sensors, run a sweep of the system." Commander Nnoromele leans back in her chair, black braids swaying gently from the motion. A pattern, the same with each new system... but, while monotonous, a sort of comfort.

"Confirming astronomy reports of an K4III-class orange giant," Sensors Officer Lieutenant Commander Ryom Ok-myung reports from her console, icons blinking into recognition on the strategic board. "Five planets... three gas giants and two rockies... and a nebula ring. We're seeing a lot of those... as of late." She pauses for a moment. "Hrm."

"What's up, Ok?" Nnoromele chuckles, broad lips turning up in a smile at the small inside joke.

"Mass isn't accounted for in the system... something of stellar mass... one moment while I look closer at BESS-10, ma'am." The characteristic snap of metal switches fills the quietly humming command room as technicians in the back go about their work. "Holy... shit." Ryom pauses, then pushes buttons rapidly.

"What is it?" The commander leans forward in her seat unconsciously, brown eyes intently scanning the Korean features of her science officer.

"Telescope array Alpha is on BESS-10. Screen one has X-ray, screen two has thermal. I'm tracking the biggest damned solar flare I've ever seen with array Bravo, it's on screen three and should be updating on the Big Board." Screens mounted around the spherical holodisplay flipped from status monitors to pictures of the writhing star... with a bulge slowly entering into it, the equator of it wobbling.

"What the hell is going on, Ok?"

The short woman shrugs, looking up with a look of complete confusion. "Looks like there's a collision going on. Er..."--she looks back down at her beeping console--"computer reports an L10V infrared dwarf just a tad smaller than Sol slamming into it, ma'am. Checking on that flare... it's not a flare, it's a plasma arc."

"What?"

"Look at it." The glowing crescent of the 'solar flare' passes through one of the icons representing an inner gas giant; Screen Three records the death of a world as its atmosphere is stripped away and its core fractured by the intense heat. "It's a self-sustaining fusion reaction plasma, ma'am. Star-stuff being ejected, not just ions..." She pauses again, then gulps. "Wait... we're getting a radiation burst."

"Look!" Dobbs points to the screens, with the star seeming to become larger, more convoluted, brighter in the center. "The star's growing... going nova?" He makes no attempt to hide the fear in her voice.

"Not nova..." Ryom looks down at her console again...

An enlisted rating in the technician gallery turns around with a snap, nearly hopping out of his chair. "Plasma inbound!"

"Helm, evasive! Weapons, shields!" Commander Nnoromele grabs her crash harness and slashes it across her. "SHIELDS!"

The world ends in a flash and a shudder. A mighty roar shakes the room buried deep within the metal hull of Beagle, and thus the entire ship. Outside the bridge, armor melts and ablates away almost instantaneously as plasma licks over it, exposing massive rents in the hull, tearing away almost one whole section of plating over the surface of the dorsal saucer. Atmosphere rushes out in a wraithlike scream, taking debris and crew with it, more detridus to be atomized by the stellar material streaking past at kilometers a second.

Inside the bridge, everything rattles. The lights brighten and flash with neon brilliance before they short out, wrapping the room in darkness. Lit only by the snowy screens and flickering, stretching holoprojection, the crew are thrown about by each new buffeting. Their faces are lit by single pulses of light, catching them with phosphor brilliance and etching the image onto retinas. Dobbs being thrown against his console with a sickening crunch; Ryom splaying across her console, holding her head against a screen; Nnoromele pushing herself back into her chair, wide eyed, nostrils flared, biting her lip with blood oozing.

The roar peters away to a soft snarl... then to eerie silence as red emergency lighting flickers for the first time and lights the room with a deathly pallor, hellish glow. The indicator board flickers and distorts sporadically, then returns to its normal blue spherical shape, dyed purple by the bloodlight.

"Status..." The word is a dead croak from Nnromole's dry throat, followed by a deep breath. "Status."

"Well... shields never got up." Lieutenant Commander Milovan Djukanovic grumbles, slapping his console angrily. It responds with a small display of sparks and a pop as something shorts out within it. "Sorry, ma'am."

"I'm... alive..." Ryom picks herself up from her console, still clutching it, holding on to a piece of flotsam after the wreck.

"Damage reports coming in from across the ship," Lieutenant Commander Mahir Al-Taftânî announces clearly, seemingly unfazed. "Most of the ship's on secondary power... I'll compile them and get a list to you, ma'am."

The helmsman is silent. Slowly removing her crash harness, Commander Nnoromole gets to her feet and walks shakily across the command room, placing a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder and two fingers to just under his ear.

A moment of silence as everyone adjusts, brought abruptly to a halt by the sound of Dobbs' body hitting the deck. "He's dead," Nnoromole offers quietly in explanation as she takes his seat, looking at the controls slick with blood. "We need to get ourselves away from the path of any more flares," she says flatly as she begins pressing buttons and setting dials. "How much can she give me, Mahir?"

The bridge engineer grimaces. "Ma'am, Beagle's just been raped in at least two of the seven major orifices. Gravydrive is still operational, but barely. Fusion drive... should work but I wouldn't want to risk it. If we were in a less-bricklike ride, we'd be sitting ducks."

"How much, Mahir?"

"The thought of any more than ten gees makes my stomach turn, ma'am."

"Ten gravities it is, then." A series of clicks as the chocolate-skinned woman turns a dial, brushing away the blood with her sleeve. "Ok, give me co-ords."

Ryom brings her knees up to her chest, rocking back in her chair, wrapping her arms around her legs.

"Lieutenant Commander Ryom!" Don't go fetal on me now, dammit!

Ryom shakes her head suddenly, willing her arms to the console, breathing heavily. "Acting, ma'am. Uh..." She concentrates hard on every button, on her training. "We want to be away from the magnetic pole... translate to fourty-five degrees inclination, stellar-relative."

"Bearing, distance?"

"Irrelevant, ma'am."

More clicks and the snap of a switch as the captain inserts her coordinates, and a soft pulsating hum as the gravdrives bend spacetime to her will. "The drives sound... off."

"Like I said, ma'am." Taftânî grimaces. "Two out of seven. May I suggest that once we hit a few thousand klicks a second we kill the drives and coast? I don't want to push them too hard."

Nnoromole nods. "Program set." Getting out of her chair, she rolls Dobbs onto his back, folding his arms over his chest and closing his eyes with her palm. Leaning in, she almost puts her cheek against his for a few moments, lips moving quietly, then stands up, turning to the rest of her crew.

"I want status reports from all departments with casualties, damages, repair needs and repair ETCs. Milo, if those shields still work, I want them the hell up. Mahir, emergency damage control priority is engines. Ok... if any sensor suites are operational, keep taking data on the BESS-10 stellar incident."

The sensors officer looks at the commander oddly.

Commander Nonye Nnoromole stands tall, wiping away the blood oozing down her chin from her lip with one sleeve. "It is what we're here for, no? Get busy, Commander."

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/tmbbeagle-damaged.jpg (http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/compyart/beagle-damaged.jpg)

"Okay, give me the bad news." Nonye drums her fingers on her desk in her small office, idly brushing away a bit of debris. Six paces away on the opposite side of the desk, Mahir stands at parade rest, holding the portcomp clipped to his segmented steel belt.

"I'll start on the outside and work in," the Turkish engineer starts with his slight accent, tapping the casing of his portcomp with a single finger to bullet his points. "Our armor got slagged--hard. Forward armor integrity reads seven-fourty-five out of fourteen-fifty with a large chunk of forward dorsal primary simply ripped away. Port and starboard sides read between nine-fourty and nine-sixty-five out of fourteen-fifty; they're generally intact. Aft armor got off light with a reading of twelve-oh-five out of fourteen fifty."

"Will it hold?" Nnoromele's brown eyes pierce, her lips hardened in a frown.

"Yes, ma'am," Mahir replies before continuing, "damage control reports that we've got damage to the forward attitude adjustment subgrav, now operating at sixty percent efficiency. Sensors are at fifty percent efficiency. One NPPC turret slagged... and, of course, the practical loss of the whole forward-dorsal-primary hull. I think Doctor Herewynn will want to talk about that."

Nnoromele nods quietly, knowing full well that many of the crew quarters of Beagle are located in that section of the ship.

"It gets better. Two of our docking collars are inoperable, meaning we now have two Lokis permanently affixed to us... not as if they are in very good shape anyway. The other two Lokis were practically shielded by the others, so they're in working order. Grav plating is out over a quarter of the ship, we've got four NPPC turrets slagged--three port and one starboard--and practically all of our cargo space is exposed to vacuum by microfissures in the hull. Which means we're venting."

"Seal off the cargo bays and pump out as much atmosphere as you can;" Nonye frowns, "set up temporary airlocks in the corridors leading up to them. We can use hardsuits until your boys can patch those rents." She pauses for a moment, frowning harder. "How's the drive?"

"Transit gravdrive is at fourty percent efficiency, starboard attitude subgrav is at sixty percent. As for the TJE, we've got hits to the charging system, helium tank, and the field initiator. Basically, it'll take twenty percent longer to charge the drive and only a twelve percent chance of initiating a jump. Doesn't keep us from trying repeatedly, but still. Our lithium-fusion battery is completely shorted out, so we've no jump power at the moment anyway."

Nonye sighs and leans back. "Estimated times to completion on those repairs?"

"Jumpdrive, ma'am? We can get the charging system done in three hours, the helium tank in four, and the field initiator would take a month and a half in drydock. The battery also needs to be swapped out in drydock." Mahir sighs. "The cargo bay would only take an hour and a half in drydock, but that's not an option. ETC is, I'd say, fifteen hours. The turrets need to be replaced, docking collars can be fixed in three hours but the Lokis attached to them are little more than slagheaps anyway, subgravs are a simple swap-out, and so is deck-plating."

"And our grav-drive?"

"Fifteen hours in drydock at best. Again, not much of an ETC... but we build 'em easy to fix. At worst, five days."

Nnoromele stands up, stretching her shoulders. "Understood, Mahir... keep up the effort. Concentrate first on the cargo bay, then on the jumpdrive. Are our communications systems operational?"

"Thankfully our tesseract hyperpulse generators are in the aft. They're in good shape, ma'am. Otherwise, our comm array looks like our sensors... which'll take maybe three hours to get back up to good condition once we can get to the stores in the cargo bays."

Nodding, Nonye shrugs on her battered service coat, tucking it in under her wide blue fabric belt. "When you get back to the bridge, tell Krosby to send out a distress message back to GEC informing them of the situation. I don't want to send out a general alert... we're nearly a hundred and fifty leeches from home and I know the stars are less than friendly... also, make sure what NPPCs we have left are manned and scanning the skies."

Mahir sighs. "Yes, ma'am. So much for 'we come in peace,' eh?"

Nonye looks at her chief engineer levelly. "Survival first. Peace later. Now I must go talk with Doctor Herewynn."

* - * - *

The sickbay is swamped with softly groaning bodies. On the bed, arrayed on folded blankets on the floor, propped up against walls are human and other forms in disarray, all bandages tinged with crimson and blue streaks of healing salve. Doctor Herewynn kneels down over one patient as Commander Nnoromele steps gingerly between the wounded, doing her best to shrug off the gentle moans of pain. "What's the sitch, Doctor?"

Herewynn finishes applying her blue healing salve from a jar, screws on the lid, then stands up, brushing a few stray golden locks back into place. "Look around for yourself, Captain."

"I've just come from a meeting with the engineer," Nonye grimaces, "I already know we're in a bad way. Tell me how bad."

"Well, alright." Herewynn floats over the wounded somehow, immediately finding a path while the commander follows carefully. "Twenty percent dead right off the bat. Another three percent have died since the accident, and we've got another eighteen percent wounded in some form or another. Including you."

Nonye rubs the hard scabs forming on her lip. "That's nothing... but still... fifty-one percent of the crew?"

"Actually, the number of non-ops is more around thirty-nine percent." The doctor grins wryly. "Eleven dead officers, another eleven in treatment; enlisted ratings, fifty-four dead and fifty-one in treatment; gunners, twelve dead and another twelve in treatment; sixty-eight civilians dead with an additional sixty-five in treatment. I've already impressed as many civvies as I can find with medical skills of any sort into service; I can only assume the military crew has technical skills that will help fix the ship."

"Thank you." Nonye nods quietly, looking over the neatly arrayed yet densely packed portrait of agony.

"They're lucky, really," Herewynn sighs, "none of this 'we need to get them to a hospital' business because we're just as well-equipped as any hospital back home. We just need more doctors, really." She turns to look at the dark woman. "Just curious... what the hell happened?"

Nnoromele chuckles darkly. "Lucky for us, we get front row seating for the death of a star system. We've got a orange giant about ten Solar diameters across getting hit with an infrared dwarf just a little smaller than Sol. Needless to say, both are acting like unbalanced washing machines now. Spewing plasma out like nothing else."

"Damn." Herewynn puts away the blue salve--really no more than a suspension of medical nanites and painkillers--in a cabinet and folds her arms. "Help is on the way?"

"Don't know yet."

* - * - *

Aiming tesseract hyperpulse generator at home co-ordinates...
Initializing THPG... -= contact made =-
Handshake confirmed...
Beginning broadcast, encoded GEC-STANDARD...
Repeating on tachyon backup...

MESSAGE BEGINS

TO: Galaxy Exploration Command HQ, Titan
FR: TYRS-RCR Beagle
SJ: EMERGENCY

There's been an accident. Two stars colliding in this system caused... I dunno... a plasma storm of some sort and we've been hit and are in a bad way. I'm just the messenger, but from the look of the chief engineer it's not looking good. I know the helmsman's dead--he's still here in the bridge--and I know from internal reports that we've suffered around twenty-three percent casualties across the board.

Lieutenant Keith Richter
Communications Officer
TYRS-RCR Beagle

THPG sequence complete...
Closing link...
Deactivating THPG...
Systems back to standard operation.

It flashed.

The light that Bill had always hoped would never flash, but prepared for anyways, flashed.

His substation was in charge of monitoring Beagle's progress across the stars. For a moment his heart seemed to stop, indeed, time itself seemed to slow in the G.E.C.C. As the emergency signal came in, it overrode other functions throughout the room, the viewscreen switching from its regular duties to a crimson glow, black letters foreshadowing doom. 'Red Alert'.

Time recovered and Bill refocused on his screen. The director was shouting above the din of klaxons. With a few keystrokes Bill forwarded his screen to the main viewscreen, allowing all to see the available data on the Beagle.

But even as time recovered, his heart didn't, it sunk deeper and deeper.
His wife was on that vesse and only one coherent thought could come across, Was she alright?

{THPG Message RELAY -> GEC HQ -> Beagle}
x IEV Isaac Asimov
o TYRS-RCR Beagle

Beagle, this is the exploration cruiser Asimov, attached to Galactic Exploration Command. We are charging our jump engines and moving to our current system's null points. Expect our arrival in approximately three hours. Navigational data is requested to speed rendevous once we enter the system.

Lt Alexander Harath
Comms Officer, IEV Isaac Asimov

Deep Space

In the spacious bridge of Asimov, the atmosphere is grim as the crew prepares to go to the rescue of their fellow explorers. "Twenty minutes until we can jump, ma'am," reports the officer at the helm.

"Very good, helm," replies Lt. Commander Bridget, captain of the ship. "Mr. Gavenson, spin up the field generators. I want shields as soon as we exit jump. Mr. Exec, send the crew to action stations, please. Condition Red Two."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Moments later, klaxons begin to sound throughout the ship. Damage control teams man their posts, and non-essential ship systems are locked down. Soon, all stations have reported in as ready for battle and secure for jump.

"One minute to jump." A double chime sounds in the ship, signalling the crew to jet ready. It is followed thirty seconds later a triple chime. "Jump in five...four...three...two...one." The crew braces for the gut-wrenching, inner-ear assaulting feeling of a crash jump, and

<Discontinuity>

after a seemingly endless moment, the ship has transited the light-years to emerge in the BESS-10 system. As he fights to keep his lunch down, the junior tactical officer manning the defense board slams his fist onto the manual shield activation panel, even faster than his implant can re-establish a link with the taccomp. Asimov is enveloped in a slighty reflective, slightly transparent black egg as its already-prepared generators are hit with a surge of power.

After a minute, Captain Bridget begins giving orders. "Scan, find Beagle's beacon, then turn every scanner we have on the star. Once we have their position, helm, get us a course to their location, best safe speed. Comms, signal Beagle that we've arrived and are heading for their location. Operations, furl the sails. I don't want them damaged if we get toasted."

http://web.ics.purdue.edu/~chigbee/Cetaganda/asimovBess10.JPG

The HPG signal reaches Beagle and is noted; Asimov's standard transmission as it enters the system is unheard due to a system fault... the fault being that the array in that direction is melted away.

"Ma'am, we're picking up an EM pulse that looks like a jump sig. Should be Asimov."

Commander Nnoromele nods then rolls her head, working the kinks out of her neck. Tapping a button on her console, she sets an intercom line from her station to engineering. "Mahir, what's the repair status?"

"Most of our techs are out sealing the cargo bay, ma'am," the Turk yells over the sound of arcwelders in the background, "I'm supervising engine repair. Forward subgrav is up and operational, but there seems to be some feedback damage to the power distribution from the starboard subgrav. That one's gonna take more time. We've made twenty percent of the cargo bays airtight... Alpha and Bravo sections are good, holding atmosphere."

Nnoromele nods to herself, looking up at the strategic board. "Keep up the good work. Help is hopefully en route."

"Got it, ma'am."

Releasing the button, Nnoromele turns to Djukanovic. "Track anything inbound but keep the weapons cool. No need to be overly paranoid."

"Keep 'em cool, ma'am?" Milo lets out a shuddering chuckle, his Slavic features grinning wryly. "We don't have the system integrity to keep them hot if we wanted... and most of my gunners are out patching our cargo bays."

"Keep the point-dee as an option, then." Nnoromele sighs. "Computer says we've got three hours 'till we reach safe zone and that damned star is acting up again. We're set to coast for another... hundred-sixty-two minutes."

"Ma'am, a suggestion?" Ryom speaks meekly, duty flap of her uniform down to loosen the pressure on her high collar. "The dropships are flight-ready. We can deploy them to keep an eye on the stellar event."

"Bah," the weapon officer chortles, "it's nice to see you've an eye on our duty but we've got to survive here, Ok. Every person we send on those dropships are one less than we have to fix Beagle."

"Ya..." Ok meeps, "but most of the astronomy staff is no good at either repair or healing. Flight crew can be kept to a skeleton staff... and the primary reason we didn't see the first plasma burst is because it was literally coming straight for us and we weren't radar-pinging yet. This way, even on passive sensors, we can at least triangulate on any stellar ejections and know where they're going."

Milo nods. "Point. Consider my objection retracted, then."

Nonye nods, then taps another key. "FlightCom, get those Lokis ready to launch. Gather up the astronomy staff and skeleton crews for both. They're to keep an watch out for any more plasma clouds and also to get this whole stellar event on holo. It's the chance of a lifetime, after all."

"Acting, ma'am," the voice on the other end replies.

"Aren't we going to contact Asimov, ma'am?" Lieutenant Richter asks, frowning slightly.

Nnoromele shakes her head. "We don't know that it's Asimov. Remember what happened during the whole Bright Morning colonization? Space empires and things just seem to come out of the woodwork. If we don't hear from them in a hundred-fifty minutes, then they'll read our gravitic signature and come anyway. Until then, we wait and prepare."

"Won't they just read the dropships' signature, though?" Richter scratches his scalp with a puzzled look.

"They will, yes," the sensors officer explains, "but they're heading off away from us. They may get a single point of where we are as the dropships detach and head off, but they won't have any velocity information, direction or magnitude. With us not on gravydrive and not emitting a whole lot, we'll still be difficult to spot."

"If I were a crippled exploration ship, where would I be," mutters a scantech in Asimov's CIC - or at least what passed for one on the exploration cruiser, as its primary job was coordinating scientific use of the sensors.

"They're probably boosting away from the star...or stars, depending on how you look at it," replies the officer in charge. "If their drive is damaged, their signature may not show enough for us to pick up at long range."

"Still, you'd think with all this sensor equipment, we could find them."

The officer thinks a moment. "You know...we've probably got their mass on file somewhere. If we use the stellar mass analysis package, and look for something the right size headed away from the star at high speed, we should narrow the search enough to use deep scan."

Four hours later

"Bridge, CIC. We've detected what we think is the explorer. There's at least one outrider with a grav signature, as well. Its most likely a Loki."

"Good work. Mr. Matthews, set a course for the object, best speed. Given that they haven't responded yet, we should try some other way to contact them than standard radio." Bridget thinks. "Tactical, set the forward CREWS batteries into the visible spectrum. Then, set up a low-power firing pattern, using Morse code to send our name and a standard TYCS identifier code. Use enough power for them to see, but not be threatening. Sometimes the Scolos are almost as paranoid as we are."

A few minutes later, the Cetagandan ship changes course, and begins sending pulses of light towards the distant Scolopendran explorer. The power and focus of the capital-scale optical weapons is deliberately set low, so that nothing on the other end gets any (more) holes burnt through it.

"Cargo bays Charlie and Delta recovered, ma'am. Echo is looking like a lost cause." Muttering her acknowledgement of the report, Commander Nnoromele settles into her chair. "I'm going to catch fifteen. Wake me up whe--"

"Ma'am..." Lieutenant Commander Ryom frowns. "We're being flashed."

"Why am I not picking it up?" Lieutenant Richter taps his console.

"It's Morse, ma'am. Asimov and the current GEC communications code prefix." Ryom sighs with relief. "It's coming from bearing two-eighty-six inclination thirty-one... port high."

"Pfft." Richter groans. "Portside comm array is out."

"Okay then." From her console, Nonye takes executive control of the helm and executes a slow one-hundred-eighty degree yaw. "You should be in the clear to transmit something, Keith."

"Yes, ma'am. Using sensors' co-ords..."

* - * - *

IEV Asimov, this is TYRS-RCR Beagle in need of assistance. Sorry for not responding sooner, but we didn't pick up any hails you might have sent coming insystem. I'm activating the beacon so you can find us.

Status reports are available upon request, I suppose, but I know our gravdrives are hit hard and our jumpdrive has seen better days... as has most of the ship. Rendezvous with us at our destination--coordinates hacked to this signal--it will be the safest vantage point to watch the stellar event and get ourselves fixed.

Lieutenant Keith Richter
Communications Officer
TYRS-RCR Beagle

*Bump* :P

Mahir sighs, leaning against a bulkhead, hot with sweat and work. Coat of his Class A's removed, his green undershirt stained with sweat, he sighs, blinks, and rights himself. Chief Master Sergeant Lewis, standing behind his boss, sighs softly. "Get some sleep, sir. Last thing we need now is fatigue accidents, right? I got this taken care of through the next shift."

Mahir closes his eyes, turns around, and lets his back slide down the wall. "Thanks, Chief. What's the latest report?"

"Cargo bays are fixed up nice and tight, that's all good at least. Looks like the last few bays actually had internal fissures, so when we sealed up the others they turned good. According to your timetable, next step is sensors."

"We're in contact with a Cetagandan ship, so, ya, sensors take priority over comms."

"Looks like that'll go well enough now that we've access to the cargo bays. Bad news for the gravdrive, though... our spare initiator coil was in bay Alpha. I don't know if it's slagged or not, but I'm not sure I want to risk it."

"That's a problem for later, Chief. Still, good work."

* - * - *

Doctor Herewynn sits in her office, head in her hands, sobbing quietly. Hearing a knock, she immediately falls silent, dabs her eyes on the sleeves of her coat, and looks up with clear eyes. Contorting her face back into the controlled, polite, and slightly guarded smile she was known for, she calls out in a clear voice. "Come in."

"Sorry to intrude, Doctor," Doctor Kelkori of the biology staff enters meekly, pale yellow hands rubbing together gently, "but it's Technician Sears."

He's been due to die for hours. "Coming." Picking herself up with no visible effort, she takes up her kit and walks back into the soft moans of the wounded, waves crashing against the antiseptic light beige walls.

* - * - *

"I've got it, ma'am." The lieutenant helps Ryom out of her station, trying his best to ignore her trembling. "Just take care of yourself, please. You need some rest."

Nodding quietly, Ryom makes her way off the bridge, staggering down the side of the corridors and carefully up the gangways until reaching the doors to her quarters-block.

Red light. Blinking, she looks out the thick clear armorplas window inset into the bulkhead door and onto the twisted metal of deck, scorched and twisted yet blown clean by the heat that licked through them. I could've been in there, she thought, watching a door hang open loosely on its hinge, utterly motionless in the lack of acceleration, that could've been me in there...

Backing into a corner, she sinks to her knees and then falls to her side, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs, choking softly on something in her throat, head rocking back and forth.

* - * - *

"Any news yet on those Cetagandans?" Milo sat back, putting his feet up on his console.

"None yet, sir." Richter looked intently at his panel. "Err..." Looking up, he grins meekly. "Uh, didn't the commander say we should be on the lookout for hostiles?" He nods over to the sleeping form of Nnoromele, her dark head resting against her arm, slumped over her console.

"I am, Keith... and please, call me Milo. We're in too much the fix to be formal."

"Yes, si... Milo."

The weapons officer just chuckles. "All of my gunners are helping the engineers. The weapons are tied into the computer for targeting, and I've got gross target selection under control. Then we have the fact we're minimizing reactor strain and so we're not powering the naval guns, which limits us to point-dee pulse lasers... you can guess the rest."

Keith nods. "So... what do we do now, Milo?"

"Heh. We wait."

*Captain, we've almost arrived at the target coordinates. Approximate time until arrival: fiteen minutes.*

*Thank you, Lieutenant.* Sitting in a meeting room with her department heads, Captain Bridget replies to the message over her implants. A moment later, she asks, "Have we got everything ready?"

"My department's as ready as we can be," replies Surgeon Major Babcock, the ship's chief medical officer. "I've drafted as many minor healing talents and people with first aid training as I can. Nothing more we can do right now."

"As I understand, they need as many warm bodies as they can get. Colonel Thompson?"

The chief engineer looks at her. "All the shuttles are prepped, and we've got the main docking collar set for Scolopendran locks. I've got my techs working on studying ways we could possible adapt parts from our drives to repair theirs. We're also resetting our shield generators extend further than normal to protect any shuttles caught in space if there's another flare."

"Speaking for flares," says Bridget, "is there any way to predicat another plasma burst, Doctor Agani?"

"I suppose its possible. But obviously, none of our stellar physicists have seen anything like this," replies the woman in charge of the civilian science crew. "And while we should be safe out here, by the time we see something coming that could hurt us, it will already be here."

"Hmm...true. Here's what we'll do. We will place one of our probes equipped with a black crystal FTL comm midway between us and the star. That will give us at least an hour or more warning."

"But ma'am, we've only got two of them," replies the scientist, aghast. "And you know how expensive a pair of linked blacks. Do we really want to risk them?"

"They're considerable less valuable than sentient lives," snaps Major Babcock. "Or a pair of cruisers, for that matter."

"Indeed. Well, gentlemen, we should be coming alongside Beagle in a few minutes. Get to your posts." The meeting breaks up.

{Live Comms - All frequencies; m0 Clear Channel}
x Lt Alexander Harath (IEV Isaac Asimov)
o Beagle

Beagle, this is Asimov. We're coming alongside, and are ready to assist. Can you direct us to a docking port we can safely dock with, or should we use shuttles instead?

"Asimov, Beagle. Umm... give me a moment." Richter clicks off the transmit switch with a snap. "Uhh, Milo, what's the status on the docking collars?"

"Well, let's see." The weapons officer folds up his console, stands, and walks over to the engineering console, Slavic features showing almost absolute nonchalance. "One and two are not only damaged, but welded to the dropships. Very nice. Three and four are vacant and operational but there's not enough room to fit a capship. It wasn't the wisest idea to put all four docking clamps on the ventral surface of the ventral saucer."

Click. "Uhh, Asimov, we've got two open clamps on our ventral side but you won't fit there unless you've got some sort of extendable tube."

"And be careful to the ex-Lokis welded to our hull."

"Did you get that, Asimov? We've got some dropships... er... sorta permanently attached at the moment and be careful of their wreckage."

"Roger that, Beagle. We won't risk using the extendable with that much damage to the area. Expect small craft to be inbound within the next five to ten minutes."

On the bridge, the comms officer quickly switches to the internal bands being used being used by the emergency teams assembled near the flight deck and lower docking collar. "Attention, all teams. Boarding tube is a no-go. Get to your assigned LACs."

He switches back to the ship-to-ship link. "The first of our transports is now on approach. They've got medical teams aboard." As he sends the message, a ship, much smaller than a dropship, drops from Asimov's gigantic boat bay and heads for the damaged explorer. It carefully approach the ventral side, and latches onto one of the ports. After the lock is carefully pressurized and checked for leaks, the LAC opens its own lock.
A young flight officer stick his head down into the Beagle's docking area. "Hullo, anyone home?"

A technical sergeant looks back up in the null-gravity of the docking area with a wry, humorless grin. "Not as many as we would like, sir."

* - * - *

"So, boarding tubes are out?"

"Apparently so, Chief."

Lewis folds his arms and coughs. "Hangar bays are still in good shape?"

"Last time I checked." The senior spaceman addressed looks over a datapad. "Yep. Luckily untouched."

"Get 'em set up for mass-cargo ops."

The spaceman pauses for a moment. "It'll be tough, boss. We've still got twenty-four Peregrins in those bays."

Chief Lewis thinks for only a moment. "Space 'em. We need the room."

"Chief? Those are aerospace fighters we're talking about... shouldn't we get an o-ciffer's sig for CYA if nothing else?"

The chief master sergeant eyes the technician with a level stare. "I'm not sure you're aware, Spaceman, but remember what got hit hard? The gravydrives and the TJE. Where are most of our officer's duty stations?"

"Oh."

"Those who didn't get fragged there got vaped when the forward quarters block peeled off. The light commander over there," Lewis nods to the sleeping Mahir, "is the last officer qualified to make this decision, and he is in no condition to make it due to fatigue. I'm the next in the chain of command, and I'm ordering you to space those damned fighters. We can retrieve them later."

"Yes, Chief."

* - * - *

Asimov, Beagle. Be advised that we're jettisoning our aerospace fighters to make room for shuttle transfers; keep an eye out.

Lieutenant Richter
Communications Officer
TYRS-RCR Beagle

A few minutes later, a swarm of several dozen medical personel swarm into the docking bay. Leading them is Surgeon Babcock.

"We're the first batch of medical personel. They'll be some more on the next shuttles. Would you direct us to your medical bay, or some other area we can set up for treatment in there's no room there?"

---
{Live Voice Comms; Asimov <-> Beagle}
"We'll be careful. We should be ready to start some shuttle transfers by the time you've finished. Umm...just a moment."

A few moments later, the comms officers says, "Captain says we can use our tractors to put them on a vector where we may be able to retrieve them. That is, unless your CO thinks it would be better to go into 'defense of classified tech' mode and blast them all, just in case. With all the solar activity, who knows if we could find them again."

"Umm," Richter slurs into his mike, "lemme see... yeah, the plan is to retrieve them later." Flipping off the transmit switch, he rubs his eyes and yawns broadly. "Aaagh. Everything's blurring."

"Get a tech to cover for you, Keith." The gunnery officer shrugs. "No point in wearing yourself out."

"But this is an emergency..."

"Yes, it is." Milo leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head, grinning wryly. "However, there is very little you or I can do about it. Your job--talking to people--can be taken over by your senior tech; my job--shooting people--is kinda useless. We should just relax and keep ourselves fresh for a time where we can help more essential people with their jobs."

"Hrm... okay."

* - * - *

An ensign holding a portcomp turns around, rubbing a day-old growth of black stubble on his chin. "Sickbay's swamped. We're storing what wounded can be moved there in the fighter repair bay. Hasim," he nods to a technician in standard smoke-patterned fatigues, "take these fine people to FR Two."

* - * - *

Sighing, Doctor Herewynn stands up and closes the white-cooked eyes with her palm. "That's his last. Kelkori, strike up another Form 255."

"Yes, ma'am." Kelkori simply reopens a file on his portcomp. "Where are we going to put him? The morgue is full up and we're out of storage."

"If we don't have any more fridge-coffins we'll have to make do." Herewynn watches the short man wince slightly as she brushes aside any attempt at euphemism. "Contact the engineering staff and see if they've reclaimed any refridgerated cargo space."

The biologist nods quietly, bowing his head to see his input into Form 255 better. The doctor's communicator chirrups; pulling the boxy device from under her coat, she holds it by her ear. "Herewynn."

We got some Cetagandan doctors from Asimov. I sent 'em to Fighter Repair Two to meet up with your detachment down there. They said more are on the way, do you want me to send 'em up to you?

"Yes, Ensign. Also, ask them if they've any more coffins."

A slight pause on the other end of the line. Yes, ma'am.

"Roger that. Oh, and the second LAC full of medics should be docking any minute now." As the fighters were dumped from their bays, tractor beams skillfully latch onto them and place them in an solar orbit. All data about this orbit is recorded to ease locating the fighters at a later time.

----

The Cetagandan follow their guide to FM Two, where they begin to efficiently set up portable medical equipment. At this point its primarily diagnostic devices and enough actual treatment equipment to treat light injuries. Despite there being only sixteen of them, they make quick progress. The Cetagandans seem a varied bunch, and several appear to not be human. As she directs the setup, Surgeon Babcock explains, "We've all of our actual medical personel here already, but another transport-fitter LAC is just behind us carrying some portable sugical units and cryotubes, along with people with first aid training."

"Coffins? Gods, I hadn't even considered that," Babcock replies when asked, shaking her head. "I'll have them get some body bags out of the LACs emergency stores, and have actual coffins sent over once we get the smaller shuttles going. I'm sorry, we were in such a rush we didn't even think about it."

She sighs, obviously fighting to keep a calm face. "Honestly, we aren't prepared for something of this scale. Despite the ship's size, we've got a much smaller crew than normal, even with the civvies. We've got far more automation than a true warship, so less actual crew and less doctors, healers, and nurses. We're lucky so many of the biologists have field medic training."

As Babcock is talking with the ensign, the setup has finished and a dozen medics are working their way through the injured, treating what the can and stabilizing those they can't yet. At the same time, three more go off towards sickbay. Surgeon Babcock heads off with them, leaving the second-ranking doctor in charge of those who remain.

Back at the other undamage dropship clamp, and second LAC docks and the surgical equipment begins to unload.

The sickbay is still an example of suffering, ordered and organized by severity and type; gently groaning bodies cover every surface, floor, counter, and bed. Doctor Herewynn stands like a Valhallan stretcher-bearer over the wounded, albeit one dressed more demurely in a high-collared white longcoat. Seeing the Cetagandans enter, she steps lightly in a path around the hurt, immediately speaking in a serious tone. "Glad to see you here. Our secondary storerooms went up with the crew section; how are you doing on medical supplies?"

"We should be fine for now, and as more shuttles come in we'll get even more. Cryotubes, surgical equipement, drugs, blood, you name it and chances are we've got it or can make it. Our facilities are a bit overstocked, even if we don't have many people. I'm Surgeon Major Samantha Babcock, by the way," she says, shaking Herewynn's hand when she get a change.

She surveys the room, taking in every detail. "I see you got many of the worst wounded in here. I'll have more of my senior staff come up here. It should take some of the strain off of your staff. And you, for that matter. If I guess right, you've all been up since the accident. You need rest, or you'll just end up another casualty."

"Chirugeon-Doctor Herewynn of Freod." She bows slightly with the handshake. "Yes, I've been awake but such is the strength required." She blinks and bows her head, hiding a stifled yawn by stretching the vertebrae of her neck. "Nevertheless, you speak wisdom. If there's no problem, I'm going to get some sleep."

She grins with a humorless wryness. "With the casualty counts and our personnel officer dead, we've yet to re-establish shifts."

* - * - *

The clatter of wheels over textured metal fills the deserted corridor, a crewman pushing a cart of tools and deck plating over the simple corrugated steel. Letting go for a moment to wipe his brow, the cart slips out of his fingers as his acrid sweat stings his eyes, rolling slowly to stop abruptly against the wall with a muffled thud and a soft mewing sound. Pausing, the rating blinks for a moment before stepping forward to investgate. Seeing someone curled up on the floor, he jumps down.

"Sorry, ma'am, didn't see you there! You okay?" Kneeling beside the uniformed officer, he shakes her shoulder lightly. No response is forthcoming except a slight mumble. Watching, the crewman sees her slowly rock back and forth, propelled by her knees working slowly against her hands.

"Shit!" The crewman thinks, and he thinks fast. Unclipping his communicator to his belt, he taps in a code and holds it to his ear. "Yeah, this is MacPhearson. I've found a wounded at Bulkhead Thirty, Deck Nine. That's right, forward of the breach. I'm going to take her down to the hangar--she doesn't look hurt too bad--and leave my cart of plates here. It's not vital anyway."

Snapping off the boxy device before he can get a reply one way or another concerning leaving behind plates, he slips a hand under the unresponsive form of Ryom and lifts her to his shoulders gently, taking the empty gangways along less damaged portions of the ship. There'd be less people that way, and the last thing the crew needed was to see an officer gone fetal.

* - * - *

A single technician dressed in the standard smoke-cloud fatigues, labeled MacPHEARSON over his right breast and carrying the limp form of a small female officer over his shoulders, slips into Fighter Repair Bay Two and tries to get someone's ear quietly without calling much attention to himself. "She's fine, far as I can tell," he whispers, "but she's fetal-unresponsive. Psych never was my big thing; I'm just getting her out of the situation and into care. She's a light commander, too, so this is pretty important."

tag for future reading

"Good. With your permission, I'll try to rotate out some of the others as well, at least for a few hours." Babcock takes over for Herewynn, and sets to work. She makes her way through the sickbay, speaking with the doctors and nurse who are working. Some she has take a short break to grap a nap or snack, while others she orders out of the bay entirely, forcefully if need be. At the same time, she helps treat some of the injured, and speaks with others to help keep their spirits up. Babcock sets some of the less injured one who need to remain in sickbay for monitoring to help run errands for the medical staff, hoping to take some of the strain off their sholders.

---
In FR Two, the head Cetagandan doctor has MacPhearson carry the Ryom to an isolated corner of the room and quickly examins her, finding nothing wrong. "Just a moment, Ser MacPherson. I'll contact Surgeon Babcock. He pull out a comm unit, and flicks it on. "Ma'am, we've got a slight problem," he says softly. "We've got an officer down here, looks catatonic. Can't see anything physical."

"No physical injuries? Hmm. That rules out Igor. Have Lieutenant Elison look her over ASAP, do a probe if need be. We can't afford to have the crew loose another officer at this point."

"Aye aye, ma'am." The doctor flags down one the others as soon as he finishes with another patient. He quickly explains the situation.

"I'll take care of her," says the lieutenant. He looks over at MacPheason. "Healer-Lieutenant Elison. Can you stay here a few minutes and answer some questions? I'd like to know her full name, position, where she was during the accident, and where you found her. It'd also be helpful if you could stay for a while, if she knows you even a little. Having someone she knows here when she wakes would be good."

"Oh, and one last thing. Do you think she would have any objections, religious or otherwise, to a telepathic probe? I may need to do one if we are to get her awake again."

MacPhearson lightly slaps one palm to the back of his neck. "Really, ma'am? I'm just a turret-slave, I don't deal much with bridge crew except for Djukanovic. Nametag says Ryom, so I know she's the chief sensors operator, first name Ok-something... something Korean like -nyung or such. She'd have been on duty during the accident, so that says bridge, but I found her just outside the bulkhead that leads to what was formerly one of our crew quarters blocks.

"Telepathic probe?" The gunner looks far out of his league, bringing his hand around to his chin. "Honestly, ma'am, I don't know 'er well enough to judge."

"Well, at least where she was found explains some things. Likely drove home how easily it could have been here dead. It seems similar to cases I studied on post-battle psych trauma at the Collegium..." Elison mutters to himself. "Gods, but I wish I had more experience...Well, nothing I can do about that. Igor?"

"Yeth?" says a voice behind the pair.

Elison turns, and says to the hunchbacked man who has seemingly appeared from nowhere, "I need a curtain rigged around this corner, and a white-noise generator. I'm going to need to concentrate, and don't want to be distracted."

"Yeth, thur." The man disappears into the confusion of the bay, in the general direction of a crate of supplies. Elison turns to MacPhearson.

"If you could, pass words to whoever's in charge that I'd appreciate someone who knows her personally to be on call to come down here if at all possible. My teachers alway said that having someone known to the patient around is very helpful. Not even a friend, just a familar face from the bridge crew."

MacPhearson's face, already none too happy, falls even further as the psion mutters about inexperience and some chintzy horror-movie minor character shows up. He keeps any comments about not inspiring much in the way of confidence to himself. "Will do, ma'am."

Stepping back and pondering what to do, he pulls his communicator and dials up his contact to the bridge.

* - * - *

Milo raises an eyebrow at the chirrup from his earpiece, activating it with a quick two fingers to his left ear and speaking lowly to the pasted throat-mike. "Djukanovic."

Sir, Gunner MacPhearson here. Got a problem.

"Don't we all, Gunner. What's the sitch?"

I'm here in the medical relief place they've set up in the fighter repair bay after dropping off Commander Ryom. Looks like she's collapsed from the stress; she was fetal when I found her.

"Damn." Milo half-frowns and looks up, seeing that none of the other officers or ratings on the bridge were paying attention. "Need me to tell the captain?"

I'm just doing what I was told, sir. The Cetagandan down here says she needs someone who knows Ryom personally down here to make the telepathic whatever work better.

"Oh, great." Milo grumbles. "Well, Dobbs is dead, so that leaves the captain for her friends that I know, and she's currently zoned."

Doesn't have to be a friend, sir. Just someone familiar.

"I suppose I fit that bill then. At least I'll be more useful down there than I will be up here. Stick around, I'll relieve you."

Yes, sir.

* - * - *

Several minutes later, the lieutenant commander comes huffing into the fighter bay, making no particular attempt to be stealthy. Waved down by the gunner, he makes his way over to the curtained off section and nods curtly to the Healer-Lieutenant. "Lieutenant Commander Djukanovic. How bad off is she?" Looking over his shoulder, he jerks his head in MacPhearson's direction, which elicits a return nod and the gunner retreating to other duties.

Elison gestures to a seat. "Feel free to sit down, Lieutenant Commander. My examinations have shown there is nothing physically wrong with Ryom. Her current state is likely the result of the stress of the last day, and was triggered by the sight of the destroyed crew quarters. I am going to attempt to bring her out of the catatonic state using a mental probe. What I'll essentially be trying is to convince her that withdrawing like this isn't good, and that she should face reality rather than running away. If successful, I will be able to get her to awaken. "

"All you need to do is wait here a bit while I do so. When she wakes, a familiar face will give her something to latch on to in the real world, an anchor if you will. It shouldn't take much more than a quarter hour of so in real time, or at least all the cases I've observed have."

Elison grimaces. "If not sucessful, though, I'm afraid in all likelyhood it could take days or even weeks to recover, and the help of psych specialists."

"Now, unless you have any questions, I'll begin."

Elison lies down on a cot next to the one Ryom is laying, folding his hand on his stomach and closing his eyes. He then begins to gently extend a psychic probe into Ryom's mind. At first he touches at just the surface, but begins to probe deeper in a search for her conciousness - or, to use another term, her soul, the thing that makes a person who he or she is.

*Hello? Lieutenant Commander Ryom? Can you hear me?*

"I thank you for your honesty," Milo quips as he sits down in the indicated seat, "but it doesn't do much to instill confidence. Still, your area of expertise and not mine... I'll just watch. Carry on."

* - * - *

Ryom's mind is in quiet turmoil, reeling from everything happening around it. Hearing this gentle voice where there shouldn't be any, it responds slowly. *D... d-depends. I could be hearing myself...*

Loki Dropship Beagle-Three

In the bulbous mission-adaptable-mass pod slung under the large gull-winged insystem ship, an astronomer taps his console. "Hey, what do you think of this? Cameras have picked up a new concentration of mass here."

http://spaceflightnow.com/news/n0104/16solarflare/eit_image.jpg

"I thought the star was calming down," grumbles his comrade, looking over the data.

"It was, after it had thrown off enough mass to stabilize itself. Sorta looked like we were going to have ourselves a stable star afterwards after the surface distortions decreased, but I suppose there's been density issues on the inside."

"Hrm... this does look like large densities of mass are returning to the surface. Probably not good. Disappearing again, in short order?"

The first astronomer nods. "Either it'll turn to a stable internal orbit or slingshot out... and judging by the magnitude of mass involved, I don't see how it will maintain stability after that."

"Really, it doesn't matter so long as if that thing gets shot out it doesn't hit anyone. Barring that, it's an excellent day for stellar science."

"Hrm. I hope all the data we're collecting on the solettes being flung across the system is worth the cost."

'Ok,' thought Elison to himself. 'Step One accomplished. Step Two, get the patient talking while calming her down. Shouldn't be too hard. I've seen it done a dozen times. Yeah.'

Opening up the psychic link a bit more and exuding waves calm through it, Elison responds, *My name is Elison. James Elison. I'm from the Cetagandan ship, I'm here to help you.* Hoping to convince her that he wasn't just a figmint of her imagination, he sends an image of himself to her, hoping that the unfamiliar face will prove it.

----
While the medical teams have been working, the engineers on Asimov have been loading up into shuttles. Now, several of them launch and dock in the now-empty bays once occupied by the fighters. Off the lead shuttle steps the chief engineer. He asks to meet with whoever is in charge of Beagle's engineering department, to figure out how his staff can help get the stricken ship operational again - or at least able to limp home.

*My name is Elison. James Elison. I'm from the Cetagandan ship, I'm here to help you.*
Where am I? The voice is timid and very much afraid. What's happened? I'm afraid I don't remember...

* - * - *

"Chief Master Sergeant Lewis, sir, current executive chief engineering officer." The big man extends a brawny hand. "We've already affected what structural repairs we can; our cargo bays are airtight again and we're working on our sensors and communications equipment with what we can pull from stores. Gravydrive got hit hard but we've already replaced the damaged subgrav blocks and are working on the main drive. What we can't replace or repair properly we can jury-rig long enough to get home... Still need about two days with current manpower to do that right, though.

"Big problem is our jumpdrive. We've got a damaged field initiator and the one in spares probably is a little too cooked for my tastes. We're running checks on its integrity right now but that'll take some time... repairing the delicate FI would take a month in drydock and we don't have that kind of time. The Li-fusion battery is slagged too, so no joy there. Best we can do is repair the helium tank and the charging system."

'A case of post-traumatic memory suppression, then,' thinks Elison to himself. He searches around, and soon finds a wall where there should be memories. He begins to gently work at wearing the wall down, while continuing to speak to keep Ryom focused on him.

*There was an accident on your ship. You were injured. I'm part of a rescue. Everything's going to be alright, though, help is here*

-----

"Colonel Gephart, chief engineer. Well, I can tell you that we do have a spare initiator for sure. It should be compatabile, its effectively the same type as yours is. We should be able to rig up some kind of battery from our spares. You're on your own as far as the gravy drive goes, though. Systems aren't compatabile, at least not enough to try if we don't absolutely have to. Warm bodies we do have plenty of."

I remember the accident too well. The voice turns slightly angry, but still frightened. Look, it's dark, I don't know where I am, and I don't remember getting injured any. I was going off duty and then I just can't think of anything after that. Hell, I don't even... I don't even feel my body. What the hell is going on?

* - * - *

"Good, sir; the coil is the important thing. The battery is just a backup to make a secondary jump, and at least we're within jump range of Sol. Our gravydrive is more a matter of time than of equipment; it's built hard so we could jury-rig it if we needed it very quickly but doing it right will take a while. If we turn our techs into an advisory role and then get your people to effect repairs to the gravydrive, we could get that done in a day."

Milo folded his hands, bringing them to his lips as he intently watched whatever the hell it was that Cetagandan was doing to Ok. Honestly. he thought to himself, I'm not the person for this. I hardly know the girl. He sighs to himself, mind wandering out of concern. I know she seconded from the Combined Services into the GEC like I did, but... she was a sensors officer on a Voyeur command analysis team. Hell, she's never set foot on a warship, far as I know, has never seen the grime of pain and suffering that's the trooper's lot for herself...

A flash of memory, ozone and fire aboard Plasmapede. He stiffens, then breathes carefully, forcing himself to relax and once again forget... if only for now. Yeah... it's always hard the first time, but some just aren't cut out for it when it happens.

* - * - *

The sleep of the fatigued is the sleep of the dead. No comfortable rest attained; no dreams remembered... but, maybe, that is for the best. Doctor Herewynn sleeps with folded arms on a blanket spread on the floor. She always was more comfortable on stiffer surfaces when she was worried. Richards tosses and turns in the corner of one corridor, having offered his room to help house the wounded. Nnoromele leans back in her chair, head lolled slightly off to one side. Mahir unconsciously tightens his jacket around him, frowning deeply.

'Memories unblocked. Good, good. Hmm...I suppose honesty is the best policy here."

*Um...the darkness...I'll try to give us something more to work with.*

Elison concentrates for a moment, and creates what could best be described as a generic plane of mental being-ness. It consisted of white sky, an endless gray plain for a floor, and a pair of chairs. He brings himself into the image, and pulls Ryom into it with him. He looks around and grins a moment, obviously satisfied with even this meager accomplishment, before remembering where he is and returning his face to a state of calm professionalnes. He sits in one of the chairs, and gestures at the other.

"Please, sit and I'll try to explain. What you said seems to fit with what I know. You were found near your quarters. Or, more accurately, where they used to be. I understand that entire area is completely mangled and open to space. You were found catanonic at the section seal. I believe it to be shock-induced, and I found when I first made contact that you'd blocked the memories of the accident away."

He pauses "I...err, I really hope you don't mind that I'm doing a mental probe. No one seemed to know if you'd object, and it was the only way I could think of to help you. Its not as bad as I expected, I've seen cases far worse, you'll be fine once I can wake you up in the real world, and, and I think I'll shut up now before I make even more of a fool of myself."

---

The chief engineer nods. "I'll have the initiator sent over on the next shuttle, and get as many people moving as we can without compromising operations on our ship."

<OOC: Shuttles and such are moving from this point forward. A few hundred would be over within an hour or two. I don't know exact numbers, but who cares?>

"Heh. So we're stuck inside my head. That makes more sense." Ryom looks around idly at the mindscape. "And for your information, I remembered the accident just fine. Maybe too well. It's just that the disconnect of walking down a hall and then suddenly finding myself in utter darkness with a strange voice tends to be rather severe.

"So, how do we get out of this?" She sounds quietly resigned. "And how bad of a condition am I in on the outside?"

* - * - *

Work progresses apace; damaged components are swapped out in favor of new--or at least less-damaged--parts. Technicians in electronics and mechanics bay pore over the devices sent down to them, again following the process of repairing or replacing, but in detail.

The unlucky ones on bag-and-tag detail arrange the dead in reclaimed Bravo cargo bay, taking notes of credentials and cross-checking with Form 255s--or filling them out for the first time--before gently laying and locking them into refridgerated cryocoffins. Even stacked three high, they take up far too much floor area.

In the non-emergency care area set up in Fighter Repair Two, the lightly wounded are accepted, treated, then sent out to be useful again. Those few who are in a far worse way than originally thought are sent up to sickbay, which begins to clear out as patients are either moved to volunteered quarters to recuperate... or cargo bay Bravo to be outprocessed.

"Physically, you're fine. It lead me to believe that you'd withdrawn deep within yourself in a classic case of traumatic stress disorders. You're in nowhere near as bad as shape as I expected. I even hauled a bridge officer down here to help."

Elison shrugs. "Really, it should simply be a matter of me bascially pulling you back up out of what's basically the subconcious levels of your mind, back to where you concious mind should be."

"All you need to do is take my hand," he finishes, extending his hand.

<OOC: My dice seem to like the Lt. Commander, unlike my poor Jenners last night. Rolled 3d6, came up 6 6 6. *tosses away the difficulty chart thingy he made*>

Elision easily does as he said he would, and an subjective moment later he opens his eyes back in the real world to find only a short time has passed. He sits up, and reaches over to Ryom. He gently shakes he shoulder, quietly saying, "Lieutenant commander? Are you awake?"


----
The Cetagandan technicians work with efficiency, following the instructions of their Scolopendran directors. They go out of their way to be helpful, and are quietly supportive of Beagle's crew. It is rare for a Cetagandan extended family not to have lost someone in the line of duty, especially among those who choose careers in the military or exploration services.

Ryom blinks gently, then slowly stretches out from her slightly huddled position. Lying on her back, she looks around experimentally, being careful not to move overmuch. She smiles weakly, looking very tired indeed.

Milo lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in.

* - * - *

Hours of work pass, shifts change. The exausted are relieved by the only marginally less exhausted as the two ships continue in their careful polar orbit around the writhing star.

Aboard one of the Lokis station-keeping along the plane of the ecliptic, a technician frowns at the image at his screen. Calling his supervisor over, the look is contagious.
http://surfwww.mssl.ucl.ac.uk/surf/week/images/w34_2001/sxt162621.gif

* - * - *

"Hrm?" Commander Nnoromele blinks, rubbing the crust from her eyes as she pushes away the grey blanket someone had covered her with.

"We've another stellar event brewing, and it's not good." The sensors tech on duty grimaces. "Looks like the impacting star has disrupted the core of the parent."

"Explain."

"Well, the inside of a star is really just a bunch of convection currents, really. Having a massive additional set of currents thrown into it has completely destabilized the system. Heat isn't transferring like it should, meaning pressure balances are going out of whack. Essentially, all our models are predicting upwards of an eighty-percent chance that the star is going to spin most of itself off."

Nnoromele tightens her jaw before moving to the helm, now covered in a dark rusty brown-black crust. "Comms, tell Asimov we're getting out of here. Recall the Lokis... I need a report on the gravydrive. We need to get as far away as we can, to buy time as we charge the jumpdrive."

"Ma'am," the engineering tech on duty frowns, "the new initiator coil hasn't been installed yet, and we don't dare work on the TJE while it's holding a charge."

"Well... we'll just have to take our chances, won't we?"

"Well, that was easier than I expected. Sorry about dragging you down here, Commander Djukanovic. Well, not really, as its definately a good thing." Elison turns to Nyom. "I realize you're tired, but I'd like you to stay awake for a while to be safe. I'm sure there's something to do if you don't want to sit fiddling your thumbs."

---
"Confirmed, Asimov. Captain Bridget says she's going to interpose us between you and the star and then extend our sheild outward as much as we can. Its not much, but it should help protect you a bit more."

Milo looks at his watch. "Well, Ok, you've made it up just in time for your second shift. I'm sure they'll keep you awake on the bridge." Helping the short woman up, he nods to the psion. "Thank you."

"Yes... thanks." Ryom smiles weakly.

* - * - *

"How much can she give me, Mahir?"

The engineer sighs, shrugging back into his jacket and not bothering to tuck it in. "We've made quite a bit of progress. We're up to fifty gravities easily, maybe more if we're careful about delta-a."

"Fair enough. We're moving out. Time to charge the jumpdrive?"

"Well... at safe charging time, three days."

"And overloading the charging circuits has the potential of damaging the drive even more?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Nnoromele tightens her jaw. "Three days it is, then."

The gravitic drive inaudibly begins spinning up, propelling Beagle further away from the turbulent star.

Elison gives a jaunty wave, and grins until they leave line of sight. At that point, he winces, rubbing his temples. "Ow. I hate deep dives outside of psisheilded rooms. Igor, when you get a chance, get me some headache tablets."

----

A few dozen kilometers behind Beagle, Asimov matches the ship's acceleration. A bulge of its matte black primary sheild is spread out to nearly ten kilometers from the ship, interposed between the star and Beagle in the hopes of shielding them from any direct blasts, although it can do nothing about anything going around the sides. Millions of kilometers back, a tiny probe continues to take readings and trasmit to Asimov, keeping watch for the beginning of a flare.