NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC
Ground Rules: Character oriented RP. Characters can be anyone really, as long as they have a reason for being on an OMF. I’d prefer no battles and wars, but since they do happen I'm not ignoring them outright. Just bear in mind that troop lists and unrealistic wars springing up might ruin this RP.

"OMF City" Background Info:
OMFs used in geosynchronous earth orbit research, development, production, construction, and habitat, are joined for the purpose of constructing the PCCs first military and industrial spacecraft. These form a kind of space station with no fixed state-- individual OMFs can detach and go around on their own, and often do to adapt to the shifting needs of the PCC program. Over time, these construct things like special-built stations, more ships, and the next generation of OMFs, and become a sedentary city of sorts, with engineers, scientists, industrialists, military, and their families. There is no one official leader. “Neighborhoods” can constantly shift, literally as well as culturally, with habitation needs of a community becoming a growing problem with shared airspace, etc. Other problems such as crime or international intrigue might also arise with time. At first, though, the OMFs are purpose-built, and are essentially filled with Employees and state guests. Robots do much of the extravehicular work. Computers guide most systems and have anti-sabotage measures built-in.

The term “OMF City” is a general one referring to any large assembly of OMFs (described below). In this context, however, OMF City is the largest of these assemblies currently operated by the PCC, in geosynchronous orbit over the Santa Barbarian continent. Assembled to centralize orbital production and construction of warships and defense satellites. It initially consists of these Type 1 OMFs:

17 MicroRes
38 MicroMan
9 Obs
6 Service module

As well as these Type 2 OMFs:
42 Construction
76 Service
5 Obs modules

Shifting population anywhere from 350 to 870 personnel, of which at least 30 devoted to security. It consists of ‘neighborhoods’ of clusters of OMFs and corridors and roads leading from each to the next. There is no artificial gravity and the natural gravity is very low. Travel is done by using metal bars to propel oneself in a direction, usually feet first. The walls are strong and resilient, and can be “walked” or landed on from within. Each OMF’s control computer links up to a central network which coordinates airlock usage and OMF attachment/detachment.

OMF Info:

Orbital Manufacturing Facility.

Type 1, the largest, can each be only one of several roles: Microgravity Research, Microgravity Manufacturing, Observation, or Service. These are then customized into Modules in the Work Center of each OMF. They each have extensive life support capability, with grown genetically engineered food supplementing the occasional supply shipment, and highly efficient oxygen recycling. So, each habitat is called a Self Sustained Habitat Module, or SSHM. Here’s a rough description of the category by the first kind of modules:

-Microgravity Research, or MicroRes. Purpose is to experiment and test new types of materials for military purposes, as well as advanched chemical research and weapons. These will contain nearly anything required by necessity and experimentation.
-Microgravity Manufacturing, or MicroMan. Purpose is to produce materials efficiently as well as find new methods of microgravity production, again with military needs in mind. These will contain at least a furnace and moulder type machine for the making of foamed metallic alloys, and more advanced methods of getting rid of waste heat and perhaps a more specialized power source.
-Observation. Purpose is to gain data on anything observable and at least somewhat important. Sensor suites and telescopes are the norm here. Also the housing and operation/launch of space probes and related robots.
-Service. A general category covering a wide variety of activities; supply, construction, maintainance, repair, habitat emphasis, cargo storage, communications, security, etc.

Length: 16 meters
Diameter: 4 meters at narrowest, 6.7 meters at habitat module, 5 meters at work space module
Mass: 384 metric tons
Life Support: SSHM
Maximum Habitation: 5
Power: Solar, Battery
Propulsion: 9 x JAEE Advanced Pulse Inductive Thrusters (APITs), Total 1800 Newtons of thrust, taking up 711 kilograms of total mass
Airlocks: One 1-meter wide to the habitat module



Type 2 OMFs are the smaller variety, also has several roles. They tend to be more practical and specialized. The lower habitat capability makes it more of a compliment to the Type 1, and provide more speciality with the four auxilliary airlocks, which can be used to launch small robots and as a transport corridor between OMFs for various materials. There is oxygen recycling, but no food production.

-Observation: This is the same general type of module as in the Type 1.
-Service: Same as with Type 1.
-Construction: Purpose is to join with other OMFs to construct up to very large objects using fleets of robotic vehicles.

Length: 13.4 meters
Diameter: 4 meters
Mass: 268 tons
Life Support: Oxygen Recycler System
Maximum Habitation: 0, 3 with regular food and other supplies
Power: Solar, Battery
Propulsion: 9 x JAEE APITs
Airlocks: Two main 3.4 meters each, four auxilliary airlocks at auxilliary channel tubes


Edited for Clarity and added a few bits

QUANTUM KEY EXCHANGE...verified
CONFIDENTIALITY: RECEIVER ONLY...verified
INTEGRITY: UNCOMPROMISED....verified
AUTHENTICATION: JJ-01QCE GLEIM2...verified
SENDER: CEO Bob Pratt...verified
BODY:

Miss Yorn,

Congratulations on your most recent graduation from Trigo University. Due to your outstanding record and the successful nature of your subcorp in the PCC, you have been selected to lead a team of experimental developers aboard the new Orbital Manufacturing Facilities at OMF Type 1, #13. They will be highly skilled and are in orbit awaiting your arrival. I trust that you find this promotion acceptable. Although you are not currently being given a raise, your survival costs will be covered by the PCC during your stay in orbit, and you will find that profits and credit for superior foamed metallic alloys, foaming processes, woven metal and metal weaving, that you come up with, will be shared generously between the PCC and Yorn Industries. Shall we say, 60/40? You may discuss exact terms with our operatives, who will be picking you up shortly after you get this message.

Sincerely yours,
Bob Pratt, CEO, PrattCo Conglomerate

Sylvenna looked at the message three hours later, her face scrunching with an overall feeling of loathing. She remembered Bob Pratt from their meeting last month-- apparently he did too, by the way he said “sincerely yours.” His breath had smelled like weed and tobacco and she had had to force the appearance of pleasure and mutual attraction. But it was to get what she wanted, and she knew now that Bob Pratt had known that. They’d agreed to this, but the part about HER going up to orbit with one hour’s notice was all him.

This is his way of getting rid of me without breaking our deal, she thought. For a moment she considered ripping the bastard off, hiding revenue and short-counting products. But it was useless aboard Pratt’s insidious space station cans. His security would be everywhere, not to mention MPO, his “eye in the sky, and everywhere else.” Punishments would be severe. No. It was best the patient way.

So she instead directed her loathing at him in her mind, as the corporate thugs flew her to the airbase. The SSTO craft was waiting, like a composite-metallic black insect transport, as her car pulled in. From here it would be maybe two hours to her OMF in geosynchronous orbit.

And then a mere 8 months floating around in a flying can, she thought grimly.

“So, how’s the weather in space?” she asked the driver, a PCC security kid, as they strode through the throngs of late-night travelers.

The guy shrugged. “Never been, never will,” he said laconically.

She turned to the other man from the car. “How about you?”

“It is very cold,” he said. He was an older man, probably PCC military, and his eyes had a distant, thoughtful (or calculating?) look to them. He passed her with his huge, gaping strides.

Not very incouraging, she thought.

They reached the SSTO craft. It was bigger up close, but not by much-- a smaller one, for sure. The PCC had several, the biggest being able to carry something like forty tons of cargo. They were efficient, practical, and not very pretty. Nor strong.

One of her main concerns about extranational work of any sort was always strength. She was unwilling to go to some shithole where every native with a gun would be taking shots at her just because she was PCC. And there were a lot of such places. This plane looked like it would fall apart if she sneezed.

“This way, miss,” the pilot, an exhausted commercial captain said. She nodded at him politely and stepped up into the spacecraft. It was a cramped quarters, not much bigger than an express room aboard a maglev train. The second man from the car followed her in, and aside from him there was just a woman and another man sitting--

She looked again, and then with too much haste she realized that she knew the man. Sitting there, a smug look on his face, his mustache greasy-looking as always, his locks of golden-blond hair dangled just-so “accidentally” across his forehead, was a man she once knew. A man she once knew all too well.

“Hello, Sylvenna,” her father said, mockingly.

--
The trip with her father was predictably uncomfortable. He’d brough along his new mistress or secretary, some woman named Sari or Serry or something. They spent a lot of the time disgustingly cuddled with each other as if in love. Meanwhile his father sent ominous gazes towards her. She felt dirtied by his presence. The officer next to her, the old one, mostly slept. He seemed quiet and possibly bitter, so she found no solace in his company.

He was appointed Liason between the PCC and her representative (in actuality, just herself) and began to spit his employer’s demands out again for her to either fight bitterly or accept, bitterly. “Sixty-forty is entirely reasonable,” he said, his mustache twitching, “Considering that we-- including me, your father-- are providing ALL the facilities and transport. I didn’t think even you’d be so greedy.”

“I’m not being greedy, but without adequate payment this project goes nowhere, and then you get nothing,” she retorted, as calmly as she could.

“Oh,” he said, laughing, “you’re not being greedy? You think I don’t know you? You think I can’t tell?”

“Can’t tell what?” she asked, innocently, trying to reinforce etiquette in a crumbling situation and failing.

“I know what you did, sleeping with him,” her father said, an ugly smile on his face, “It’s disgusting. This is all you’rre getting or you get shipped back to ground. Forever. You don’t extort Bob Pratt, nor manipulate him with your little . . . thing.”

“I didn’t know you were the only one allowed to get into his bed,” she came back icily.

He said nothing, but the dislike evident in his eyes was obvious. The girl at his side pretended not to notice, indeed wore a stupid vapid grin as if everything was normal. Tension filled the cabin as the plane cruised to ever-higher altitudes and increased velocity.

When the plane reached earth orbit, and everything loose in her possession was having difficulty staying put, the pilot announced they would be undergoing docking procedure. She nodded, thinking this was fine, and then the vehicle thumped loudly against something solid. She thought she heard things break off, and looked around for gas to start venting and things exploding, figuring the stupid pilot had crashed. But instead of that, the circular door-like airlock in the back unscrewed itself and opened, like a vault, and there it was, OMF City. Or at least, an OMF.

“All passengers for OMF City, here you are. This is OMF Type 2, #47, and is the closest airlock to yours we could mate with,” the pilot announced apologetically. “You may be unused to micrograv conditions. Don’t worry, your Liasons will tell you everything you need to know.”

Terrific. She eyed her father, who was licking the unnamed girls neck like a deer with a salt lick. Figuring she was free to discover everything she needed to know from someone less repulsive, Sylvenna unbuckled herself and, floating up like in a dream, prepared to leave.

Her father grabbed her painfully by the arm and whispered loudly into her ear, his hot breath steaming against her neck like a foul breeze. “I’ll be watching you. Don’t think you can sleep your way out of everything here. You step out of line and I’ll get rid of you just like your whorish mother.”

She pulled away from him, furious. But there was nothing she could do. Bob Pratt had given her this little mission, and it just so happened he gave her her father to act as overlord and Liason. Probably he was reporting directly to the bastard regularly, telling her every act as if it were spyworthy information. Watching her through hidden cameras, everywhere. His beady eyes mentally caressing her in the shower, the bathroom, at night and in the morning.

It was now that she decided to kill him.

--

OOC: More later, my hands ache.

Bishop Jared Marklew smiled icily at his unwanted companion as her shrill, American voice filled the compartment of the train heading to Freeport from within Austrin-Ontis, where he had been giving speeches about the rights of citizens to retain some degree of earnings.

If he closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillowed cushion of the first-class seat, he could hear the echoes of the cheers still, the admiration of the crowd. His elocution and deliverance was excellent, a trained priest of the Catholic church. The Austrin-Ontis citizens had eaten it up. He felt a warm glow from spreading capitalist doctrine. Once that had been accepted ... Catholicism could follow.

"And then, ya see, I talked to Phoebe, she's like this really top literary agent, ya know? And she was like, like ... "

God save us from the corruption of the English language, he thought morosely as he stared at her. A humming sound from his Psion gave him a merciful opportunity to turn away and cease any pretences of listening.

[To: Bishop Jared Marklew
From: Diocesal Administrator Master Sanctus Solomon

I am pleased to inform you that you will be placed in charge of Diocesal affairs upon the newly constructed OMF city of Santa Barbara, overseeing Whispering Voices asset deployment. Over the past few months, the Ministry of Trade has paid Los Bananos El Fuego significant monies to transport pre-built material sections into orbit via use of their advanced shuttling system. The construction of those materials into their designated form will fall to you and a quango of Trade officials.

Please ensure you are ready for the space travel at the Santa Barbaran embassy in Hush by Thursday.

Godspeed.]

Bastards. God damn bastards! He only realised he had said the last alound when the authoress stopped mid verbal spew, and looked offended. He grimaced apologetically.

I should have guessed CADIAN would pull strings to prevent me preaching about the lowering of taxes.

His mood was foul as he reached Freeport, and booked a connecting flight.

The three men stepped out of the craft.
-"Vee arr heir about ze spacestation" One of the men said. He extremely tall and muscular. He moved with the grace of an athlete.

Another of the three. A small man with thick glasses, looked around, gazing through the bottlethick glasses at the spaceshuttle.

-"Hmmmm... amateurs.... " He stood there for a second or two until he moved towards the shuttle.

The last one, a young man, Malcolm, who had won a free journey to outer space in a Tv-show. He was not really sure how he could have won the prize, because he hadn't submitted an answer to the conquest... Could it possibly have had something to do with the pamphlets he had distributed at the university earlier?

(OOC: This and others like it are quantum-encrypted messages, the standard for all important and government-encoded communications. There is a level of encryption above this, however, in either case neither is likely to be observable by third parties.)

QUANTUM KEY EXCHANGE...verified
CONFIDENTIALITY: RECEIVER ONLY...verified
INTEGRITY: UNCOMPROMISED....verified
AUTHENTICATION: JJ-01QCE GLEIM2...verified
SENDER: Eric Love, DPCCIDG ...verified
BODY:

The Honorable Bishop Jared Marklew,

You are hereby invited for a relaxing stay aboard OMF Type 1, #29, where you will have full and first-hand access to progress on the Construction Project. I must say, it is progressing faster than anticipated, and OMF City may double in size in upcoming weeks. In addition our state-of-the-art facilities offer magnificent viewing rooms which offer breathtaking sightings of our glorious space program. It is our sincerest wish that such mutual cooperation between our two employers will continue, much to the benefit of us all. May your stay signal such continuation and benefit.

My apologies in advance, but I will not personally be there at the time of your arrival to greet you, so you will be met by my envoy, Reverend David Basis, who will be your Liason.

Truly,

Eric Love, Director, PCC International Developments Group


--
Sylvenna's first thought upon seeing OMF Type 1, #30 was that it was a small can floating in space, waiting to lose orbit and crash burning into the atmosphere. It was just as spartan as she'd expected. The walls near the entrance were decorated with large numbers of warnings and notices.

AIRLOCK: Be certain to follow procedure!
-Depressurize Chamber
-Disconnect Auxilliary Flow-Throughs
-Enable Power Break
-Engage Maneuvering Thrusters Procedure
-Detachment Execution

WARNING: DO NOT ATTEMPT TO OPERATE MACHINERY UNLESS YOU ARE A QUALIFIED PCC ENGINEER
-High Risk!
-Severe Penalties!

CAUTION: Stand Clear of Airlock When Red Lights Flash

SSHM Biosystems: OPTIMAL

The most colorful area was near the crew quarters (a few bunk beds bolted to the interior) where an impressive garden of genetically-engineered foods was kept under a clear, light-filled container labelled cheerfully, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

The rest of the OMF contained a large power unit, and a bewildering array of readouts, gauges, pipes and containers radiating out from the center of the room. Overall, it looked like a cramped, dreary place to spend the next several months.

It was even worse when she realized her father would be quartered here as well, or nearby. Across the way, the second airlock lead directly to the OMF Type 1 #13, which was her work station. She didn't see or hear anyone there, however, and felt too tired to investigate.

I guess I'll be seeing it a lot soon enough, she thought wryly.

She pulled herself by the bars back the way she came. This place was sterile and dead. She had never felt quite so misplaced.

I wonder where would be the best place to store the body? a voice, the murderous voice in her head, asked.

She waited for the usual outrage, the last bit of pacifist claptrap that usually pestered her, usually in a girlish, young voice, whenver she decided to do something less than pure. This time however, her mind could conceive of no more opposition. She'd made her decision and she would stick with it.

Ah, but how to kill him? That's at least as important as where to get rid of the evidence. It won't be easy.

Sylvenna passed by a small viewing window, about a foot across. Out of curiosity, she looked, and saw the earth below. She also saw the rest of OMF City, the mass of interconnected, identical modules, extending crazily in all directions. She also saw the supply shuttles, four or five of them, moving both toward and away from the station, and hundreds of small robotic craft maneuvering carefully around what appeared by a large, metallic chunk.

She realized it was the top of something, and that beyond her vision there would be more to this construction-- obviously, very large. She'd never seen anything like it, except in the vids where they showed the large spaceships other nations fought with. What could this be, this thing Pratt was making up here?

She snorted derisively. Bob Pratt wasn't making a thing; he was sitting in his office in New State City, lording over his domain and plotting how to manipulte the world to his liking. He had help, yes, he had minions and he had help. There was little he did alone, but what he did, he succeeded in.

Well now, Bob Pratt, she thought, a sense of loathing rising up at the memory of him, I never imagined YOU would inspire anything in me.

She would need help.

--

Jared winced as he saw the Santa Barbaran embassy, with the massive rocket launch platform. All of Hush was in the old Victorian-Gothic style, as were all the surface cities of Whispering Voices - the platform stood out like a sore thumb.

He hated the launch. He didn't really like flying in planes. The shuttle didn't suffer turbulence but it sure as hell suffered from going far too fast for him, and it was a struggle to not lose his lunch.

I'm too old for this, he whimpered to himself, just before he blacked out from the G-forces.

When he woke up, the shuttle was floating gently towards the docking bay of OMF #29. He was terrified by the view of space from the screen, and couldn't wait to get to somewhere where he couldn't see it.

-

Reverend David Basis watched through a tiny portal as the Bishops' shuttle floated toward the OMF. He was quite excited, having followed and studied the Bishops' works. He didn't quite agree with everything, but he was a spiritual man who felt that all religions were pretty much equal, all beliefs essentially true. Many chastized his naivete in his simplistic holistic approach, but he didn't feel ashamed or foolish. He meditated his emotions away as the two PCC workers operated the airlock and docking clamp devices, things clanging, opening and clunking alarmingly as they did so. It was all very normal.

For living in an OMF, anyway. He had once had a much higher position and importance than this, that was for sure. He'd once been the prime spokesman for the Peoples Republic [OOC: Of Montecito, which has long since been corporatized by the PCC] and written regional Constitutions. The times, governments, peoples, orbits-- everything changed. Such was the nature of life.

The airlock opened. He smiled pleasantly, his thinning silver hair whipping around in the microgravity like the fur of a mutts backside. "Welcome to OMF #29, your Grace! I've heard so much about you. Do come in and have some gel-tea, it'll help you get adjusted to the micrograv."

(OOC: Vegana, are your guys from Vegana, and are they at the launcher or the station already? Also... some names, cuz I cant make up Veganan names, that just wouldn't be right.)

Colonel Natalia Yorgieva stalked into the Assignments Bureau and sneered inwardly at the utter chaos around the Civilian Desk. Tucking her hat under her arm she turned on her heel and marched up to the Military Desk. The line at this desk was much shorter, and FAR better behaved.

The Marine First Sergeant just ahead of her at the end of the line turned around and appraised her with a very professional eye. He noted but failed to smile at the elegance of her Class One uniform, then extended his hand and met her eyes. "Welcome to the Lost Souls Division, Cunnel" he said with an accent Yorgieva couldn't quite place.

"Spaceba, Sergeant." Yorgieva answered pleasantly as she shook the proffered hand. This was an off-duty social meeting, and therefore not subject to the rigid military protocols for on-duty interaction. "I take it is unusual for wearing of Class Ones here?"

The Sergeant nodded. "That is so, sir. Most of the Assignees prefer to wear Utilities or Battle Dress. More comfortable." He brushed his own well-worn but clean BDUs as he spoke.

Yorgieva nodded in turn. "Perhaps is good thing to stand out in crowd."

The Sergeant cocked his head and said, "No offense, sir, but you aren't the usual sort of person for this place. You don't have to answer, of course."

She nodded in agreement. Most military assignments were handled by regular military channels. Mostly, only those people who were being transferred for disciplinary reasons ever had to deal with the Assignments Bureau, but there WERE exceptions. "Da, is true. I am receiving special assignment."

The Sergeant smiled broadly. "Me, too, sir." He looked at the rows of ribbons on Yorgieva's chest with greater attention and nodded. "That's the ticket!" He pointed to a blue-and-gold ribbon.

Yorgieva glanced at the indicated ribbon. "Zero-Gravity Combat ribbon? You have as well?" The Sergeant nodded. "Is possible. Is unlikely two such specialist could be in Assignments at same time, yes?"

The Sergeant grinned and nodded. "Damn right, sir. I used to work here, several years ago. Been through here a few times since- fer one reason or another. I was kinda worried that there might be another reason for me bein' here." He straightened to attention. "Combat Sergeant Lucas Hornsby, Fifth Marines, sir."

Yorgieva was not surprised that the Sergeant had not saluted. She'd already noted that the man's rank tabs were worn on the underside of his collar. That and the lack of nametag marked the Sergeant as a combat veteran- and veterans don't salute officers except to mark them for enemy snipers. She snapped to attention herself. "Colonel-Pilot Natalia Yorgieva, 16th Interceptor Squadron. Is pleasure to meet you Sergeant."

The Sergeant relaxed back into his comfortable slouch. He leaned close to Yorgieva and whispered, "Sir, I've got contacts all over the place, and they told me that there was an interesting billet for a combat veteran opening up in orbit somewhere. I put in a request, and got told to show up here. That's all I know about this. Have you heard anything?"

She nodded slightly. "Da. Is supposed to be Security element for new orbital station."

Hornsby's eyes narrowed slightly. "Can't be right, sir. I checked. There AIN'T no billets open on Heinlein."

Yorgieva shrugged. "Is all I know." She nodded toward the front of the line. "You find out now. Is your turn."

Hornsby sauntered up to the desk and talked with the clerk for several minutes. Several more troops from various branches of the Service got in line behind Yorgieva. She checked them out briefly and repressed a sneer. Brig rats, every one of them. She turned back to see Hornsby taking his orders chip from the clerk and stepping to the reader on the left-hand wall. She straightened her back and stalked up to the desk before the clerk could signal her.

"Colonel ... uh ... Yorgeeyayva?"

"Da. Reporting for Special Assignment." She pulled her Ident from its pocket on her sleeve and slid it into the slot on the desk, keeping her left thumb on the Ident's Authenticator. The desk chimed to indicate acceptance, then chimed again after downloading Yorgieva's orders. The clerk handed her a chip the size and shape of a small coin.

"Here are your orders, Colonel. There are readers on the wall to your left. If you have any questions after reviewing your orders, please press the signal button next to your reader. Congratulations on your new Assignment."

Yorgieva took the chip and walked briskly to the readers. Sergeant Hornsby was standing next to a reader, smiling broadly. She gave him a questioning glance as she stepped past him to put her chip into the reader.

0317240815 MST

CONFIDENTIAL

Yorgieva, Natalia

Colonel-pilot, SC 4112-ZX-4910-C

SUBJECT: Assignment as Commander, Security Detachment, OMF Station MIKOYAN.

You are ordered and directed- at the pleasure of the Evil Overlord- to take command of the Security Detachment being assigned to OMF Mikoyan (HIT TAB FOR PERSONNEL ROSTER).

You will travel via OIV (HIT TAB2 FOR FLIGHT DETAILS) to rendezvous with Orbital Shuttle Rutherford, which will transport you and your team to OMF Mikoyan (HIT TAB3 FOR SPECIFICATIONS AND SCHEMATICS), where you will recieve sealed orders.

GENERAL ORDERS
You are responsible for ALL security matters on OMF Mikoyan, acting as Station Commander for all non-scientific areas of the station. Your Science Officer (HIT TAB4 FOR DETAILS) will take command of all aspects of the production and research facilities on the station. Life-support, maintenance, supplies, administration, and security are all your responsibility. Technical staff (HIT TAB5 FOR ROSTER AND OTHER DETAILS) will be assigned to deal with non-security duties.

GENERAL DETAILS
OMF Mikoyan is a specially-designed Research and Development OMF, tethered to the main OMF orbital facility for safety and convenience. Several other nations- which may or may not be hostile to EOE interests- are also present on their own OMF stations. SECURITY is of utmost importance, second only to production under certain conditions (HIT TAB6 FOR DETAILS). Maintain full INFOWAR protocols at all times. Independent power is provided by Solar panels, and secure laser communication has been established with SATNET and Heinlein...

Yorgieva scrolled quickly through the various tabs for broad outlines, then punched in a request for further details to be downloaded to her personal comp. While the system processed her request, she turned to Sergeant Hornsby. "You are going to Mikoyan OMF, da?"

Hornsby tapped a thumb against his chip and nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm supposed to report to you as Security Chief."

Yorgieva nodded as well, then retrieved her chip from the reader. "I must contact OIV crew and prepare for departing." She turned back to her Sergeant. "I should be knowing more about this station." She gave Hornsby a hard look.

Hornsby grinned broadly and tucked his chip away. "Yes, sir. I'll get right on it. Meet you at the launch at 21 hours."

"You do not have permission to bypass chain of command or break regulations, Sergeant." Yorgieva told him sternly.

"Not a problem, sir. Leave everything to me." Hornsby winked broadly at her and strolled out of Assignments. Yorgieva looked carefully around to see if anyone was paying attention, then slowly walked out as well.

"Sealed orders, yet." She thought as she emerged from the cavernous building. "There is more to assignment than Security, for certain."

Bishop Marklew gave a vaguely ill smile at the Reverend, before gratefully stepping into the OMF.

"Gel-tea - whatever it may be - sounds lovely. I'm ... not used to trips like this."

Get a hold of yourself, man. Don't throw up now.

He walked along the corridors of his assigned OMF, fighting back the nausea and trying to replace it with curiousity. It was almost a palpable relief to him when he saw someone with a sunset badge on a white uniform - from his file he recognised him as the man in charge of Whispering Voices security. However, the man soon disappeared out of site - the OMFs were surprisingly large - and he followed Reverend Basis until they reached a canteen area.

The cup of gel-tea was, mercifully, very relaxing. Marklew's heart finally slowed down to healthy levels.

The three Vrakians were ready for their flight. The Santa Barbarian shuttle trainers had been very thorough and finally certified the three "good to go".

Jim Ulio, a physicist with several years of fighter pilot training is the leader of the Vrakian contingent. Calm, cool, and arrogant, he is excited that Vrak was now reaching towards the heavens. He also felt that it was natural he was tapped to lead this crew.

Ron Strum, an engineer, is slightly nervous about the whole experience. While sharing the group's enthusiasm he also worried about possible mishaps that may occur. Space, after all, is a dangerous place.

Kim Teeraq, a life sciences scientist is a cynical, aloof person. More at home with her plants and animals than people, she wonders if going into space is good for mankind in general when there is so much crap to clean up on Earth. But her curiosity got the better of her.

These three are the brave Vrakians to be launched into space.

--
Reverend Basis smiled as he gave the Bishop the gel-tea and watched him "walk" around the OMF. Despite the lack of gravity the Bishop seemed to grow accustomed to movement here rather quickly. The gel-tea would help any nausea he probably felt.

It wasn't long before Basis couldn't help himself and a stream of thoughts rushed out of his mouth.

"I trust you enjoyed your trip? Anyway, as you know, I work for Mister Love at the International Developments Group, and I'm your Liason here. So if you need anything, don't hesitate to comm me. I myself do not know much about business up here in space. Actually, my former post was as chief ambassadorial representative for Monteceito," the Reverend babbled, and sighed at the thought of Monteceito, "but, I digress. Shall we proceed to your Stations' construction and meet the boys working on that, or perhaps a tour of OMF City? I think the political coordinator is wandering around here somewhere."

--
Tactical Commander Ben Oftham (TC, PCCITDO-OOTG #16098) drifted lazily through an OMF. The modules' work crews were familiar with his presence by now, and they tended to ignore him as he meandered by. Never before had he felt quite so idle and useless.

OMF City was, despite its coffin-like stillness and utter sterilization, comparitively crowded and busy. Researchers and industrialists and corporate swine alike. He wondered again what made him join the Orbital Operations Theatre Group instead of the conventional air forces. Ever since doing so he'd been treated to all kinds of good press and high-Gs-- unfortunately, he had yet to do what he was best at: pilot a large vehicle of war.

So he was posted here "indefinitely," and any ship he might be piloting wasn't even constructed yet. Instead, most of the OMFs were busy working on the gigantic WV station, a monstrosity of a construction that made the OMFs, clumped together like tinkertoys, look miniscule and unimportant in comparison. There was one thing he hated, and that was waiting idly with nothing to do. And that was exactly what his condition was going to be, for a long time to come, apparently.

Quitcher bitchin, he scolded himself. At least you're not dead.

He chuckled quietly to himself at the thought. Yeah, but at least being dead would be more exciting.

Oftham came up against a dead airlock (airlock with nothing on the other side), turned, and kicked off just a tad clumsily to the left, his trajectory skewed. He reached out with his left arm and attempted to compensate. Now he was starting to rotate around like a newbie.

Idiot, he thought just before he collided with the metal wall painfully. He grabbed hold of a container module and steadied himself. You were so busy thinking about death...

Noting that he wasn't quite sure of where he was, he resumed his lazy course, pleased. Nothing beat boredom like getting lost, and it was still easy to get lost aboard OMF City. As he came up ahead, though, he heard voices.

"He's pushing for a promotion, he's not going to just nod and smile. He's going to report to his beloved Director everything he can," said a familiar, old-sounding male voice.

"Yorn's a risk, then?" a younger voice asked.

"You're damn right he is. This time he's gone too far."

"What about the girl?"

A pause. "No. Not now. Maybe never. We'll have to wait and see."

"Do you hear something?"

Oftham froze. He hadn't heard anything. What was going on?

"I don't hear anything. Don't worry, we've got plenty of defenses against reportbacks."

"I wasn't worried," the younger man went on, but Oftham turned. He was now flying back the way he came, turning right at the dead airlock, and headed firmly for Elsewhere. For he had recognized the older voice.

It was the Political Coordinator for the project, a Tactical Core Subcommander-- Lorsa Vojska. Highest ranking PCC officer in orbit.

--
"Yes, its been a pretty hectic week," said Specific 1st Class Mack Garcia (Spec 1st, PCCITDO-OOTG #26394, Garcia) as he smiled at the pretty half-elvenesque researcher named Sylvenna Yorn.

"Has it?" she asked. The two were drinking a cup of gel-coffee as they watched supply shuttles do their slow, graceful dance of going to and from the OMFs.

"Well, of course," Garcia went on, happy to have something to talk about with the young woman. He hadn't seen a woman anywhere near his age, or that good looking, for six or seven months. "There's a Vrakian contingent of scientis due anytime. There's a Financial Inspection Committee Representative here, the TacCoreSub's not too happy about that. The Mikoyan is getting a new contingent from the Evil Overlord today, assuming their pilots don't bungle the mating process again, heh heh," he gave a lame little laugh.

"The mating process?" she asked with a bemused smile. She noticed he had not made the connection between her and her father, the FIC Representative. Even though he knew her name and, presumably, her fathers.

"With the OMFs, I mean. There's this long Procedure... I'm not a pilot..." he shrugged.

"Oh," she said brightly, and turned to watch the shuttles again. She had wandered accidentally into this OMF, which was apparently a security station, but it incidentally had a large viewing bay of the outside.

"So, you say you're a researcher. What field, ma'am? Gravitics? Engineering? Weapons?"

She turned. "You know you sound a bit like a cop when you ask me like that."

"Sorry."

"But yes, fusion systems engineering. I'm at OMF Type 1, #13," Sylvenna told him, not quite sure why.

"Wow, that's some heavy shit," he said, impressed. "I was going for TacSub, but my energy comprehension levels were never high enough."

"Really? It's not that difficult to understand. I'm sure my fellow researchers could explain it easily. Me too, for that matter," she added, as she asked herself why she was doing this. It wasn't needed. It could only complicate things, especially if she played him wrong.

"Maybe I could come over sometime and you could explain it," he offered boldly.

She rewarded him with a smile. "Yes, you could."

Perhaps there was no need to worry about playing him wrong.
--

Bishop Marklew nodded as Reverand Basis continued to talk.

Hey ... this movement think is pretty damn fun ... and I sure as hell don't want to meet up with whoever's running the construction show til I have to - is it Ministry of Defence or Ministry of Trade? Please don't let it be the Ministry of Life and the Arts ... His musings were interrupted at the question.

"Oh - I'd like a tour of OMF city please. I have to say, that tea was some good stuff. I feel quite balanced now - I'm almost looking forward to exploring."

He gave a small grin.

Reverend nodded, relieved. He wasn't terribly fond of talking with the Political Coordinator anyway.

"Well sir, as you know, there are nearly 60 microgravity research facilities in OMF city, spread evenly around. The heart of activity right now is of course in the gravitational center, where the construction is going on."

As he talked, Basis pointed to a small diagram on a nearby screen. The diagram was three-dimensional and not very graphically pleasing or helpful, but the science guys seemed to think of it as a map. It labelled "modules" and "sectors" and "units" and looked more like a collection of differently-shaded oil barrels with fine print attached to them.

"The Type 1's are where most of the living is done," he continued, floating slightly towards the next OMF and the rest of OMF City beyond. "The one we're in now belongs to a Buddhist monk. But, he's off playing with foamed titanium alloys, so today its being used to dock new arrivals. It's that way pretty much everywhere, different each day, not very much privacy," he laughed. "And a lot of the food is gelled. Come in packets just like your tea. They say its a more digestable format. It's a little strange drinking a steak the first time, but once you get used to it, its just like Mama used to make."
--

"Ah ... yes gravity is good. I got given a list of things to do - exercises, and some drug to take ... sodium phosphate? or something to keep my bone marrow from crumbling. I don't like the thought of gelled food."

He looks around the places he is escorted, quite interested. "So - how are we preserved from solar radiation here? And who else is constructing on the OMF city?"

He looks out of a window at the construction work - and recognises the plans for the Whispering Voices "ARES INCARNATE" station. "Wow. You're building pretty fast, too ... "

"Ah. Good question," notes the Reverend. "I'm afraid I don't really know exactly. But I am told the OMF hull construction itself is made of a composite of materials that block solar radiation, among other things. How they did this with the viewing portals, I don't know, but you can still tan when there's enough light outside."

Reverend Basis showed his right arm, which is slightly less pale than his left. "Of course there's all sorts of excercise and fitness and health modules around, on more specialized OMFs."

"Aside from Santa Barbara and Whispering Voices, I don't think any other nations are involved in construction up here," he said with a short laugh.

"We've got plenty of work to do as it is, believe me. Practically all I do spiritually here is try to keep their spirits up in the face of constant pressure from their jobs. No one even wants to hear about the afterlife. They see it as a lot more work they'd rather not think about." Basis laughed again.

Bishop Jared Marklew gives a slight grimace.

Damn CADIAN. And damn the Diocesal Administration for taking orders from the High Council.

"Yes, I know exactly what you mean. I have occasionally been classed as a little ... overzealous ... in my own sermons, both religious and political." His face visibly slumps, and he moodily kicks at something on the floor. He sighs, looking again at the construction work on the Voices space station.

"I suppose I had better bite the bullet and meet the people in charge of construction, eh? Tell me, who is in charge? I know it's the Ministry of Trade - remember any names?"

I am really coming to dislike the Ministry of Trade. All of the Ministries.

"Well, the PCC tends to shy away from titles that look like government-style bureacracies," Basis explained. "So it'd be the International Developments Group, not the Ministry of Trade, but... euphemistically, of course."

He looked again at the wall readout as if searching for a way out.

"The Political Coordinator is TCS Vojska. He'll be the one who can give you any more details on the construction project, like when it'll be finished. So, if you'll just follow me," he said, and kicked off of the floor towards the airlock leading to the rest of OMF City.

As he drifted away, trying to resist the omnipresent urge to try to "swim," he turned and asked, "Your Grace, you surely don't think you've been 'overzealous,' do you?"

--

TC Oftham arrived at his quarters with a worried brow and a racing heart. Vojska was not only rather unpleasant, but he was planning on killing somebody! But who?

And what am I to do about it? a lazy voice in his head demanded of him.

This sort of thing no doubt happened a lot more than Ben realized. This was just a rare instance when he was introduced, unwillingly, to yet another seemier side of Santa Barbarian politics.

Who cares if he's killing somebody? They probably deserve it! the voice spoke up again.

What if they don't?

Yeah, what if they don't? Its not my business either way. I go up against him, my career is ruined, thats for sure.

He sighed. He knew of nobody he could talk to about it. Knowing that it was Vosjka made him realize he probably couldn't even talk to himself about it-- not out loud. Security devices were everywhere.

A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he realized that there might even be a security log of him hanging around silently near where he had heard Vosjka discuss his plans. If Vojska saw that, he would know he'd been found out, and then what?

His next thought seemed as improbable to him as anything else he'd learned in the last hour.

I've got to get to a security station.

Bishop Marklew grimaced as he walked/floated awkwardly after Reverend Basis, losing interest in most of his surroundings again.

"Ah - I meant the Whispering Voices Ministry of Trade .... and no, I don't consider myself overzealous, obviously. I mean that higher-ups have - rocking the political boat, and so on and so forth."

He stopped for a moment, extending an arm as he almost bobbed into a wall.

Don't lose it now, Jared. "So ... what's this TCS Vojska like then?"

Hungry. I could use a meal - and not a gel one. Bah. What I wouldn't give for a nice Sunday lunch - roast parsnips and potatoes and beef, yorkshire pudding, thick gravy, broccoli and peas ...

Bishop Marklew's stomach rumbled.

Reverend Basis hesitated as he searched for ways to describe the Tactical Core Subcommander.

Ruthless? Slimy? Disturbing?

"Mister Vojska is from Goleta," he said, and laughed inwardly as if it described everything. He looked down, suddenly wanting to be anywhere else and with any other job. "I've not really talked with him enough to know his personality."

He floated down past the second OMF, which was of the second variety and thus smaller and less inhabited-looking. Slyly he called back, "And don't worry, your Grace, I'm sure he's got access to some real food."

"Oh ... I ... er ... fantastic," mumbled Marklew, a little embarrassed, as he followed the Reverend. "So where's Goleta, then? I can't say I've heard of it."

I don't like the way he said that. The PCC is known for terminating citizens practically on a whim ... I have an odd feeling I'm really not going to like this man.

A small vibration emnated from his pocket - the replacement pager he'd been given as he entered the OMF (obviously, even he knew that terrestrial pagers wouldn't work up here).

<Construction 72% complete>
<Budget overspend 42%>

Oh ... goodness. That's almost double ... what the hell?

"I can't wait to meet the people in charge of this project," he added as he pocketed the pager again.

"Goleta is just south of Santa Barbara," Reverend Basis replied with some distaste. "They make noises about independence, but never achieved it like Monteceito did. Er, for a while anyway."

They were rounding a corner when someone practically crashed into the pair. It was Ben Oftham, a PCC officer stationed here, having trouble with boredom. Basis knew him somewhat.

"Whoa, easy there," he told him. Oftham was sweating and had been cruising along the OMF corridors pretty fast.

"Sorry, Reverend. Good to see you, Reverend," Oftham said hurriedly, looking at the both of them. "I was just on my way to, ah, well you know, trying to cure my eternal boredom and all."

Basis chuckled. "Good, good. This is Bishop Marklew of Whispering Voices. Bishop Marklew, TC Oftham. Mister Oftham has had difficulty adjusting to not pulling crazy gees in a very dangerous vehicle."

"I'm not sure I want to adjust," Oftham replied with a laugh, thinking about what Vojska had said. Maybe you were just overreacting, maybe he was just talking about firing some guy and you're taking it way out of context.

"The Bishop and I were off to search for the Political Coordinator. Any ideas where he is?"

But that second voice sounded like a sadist ordering a virgin steak. They were plotting, not just talking idly about firing somebody. "Um, no clues," Oftham said, trying to act casual about it.

Basis blinked, sensing something was up but unable to put his finger on it. "Would you care to join us? Eight eyes are better than six, you know," he said, pushing his old-fashioned eyeglasses up his nose.

"Uh, no thank you," Oftham said quickly. I think I'd rather not see Mister Vojska right now. Even if he was only talking about firing somebody, that somebody could always be me.

--
At this moment, Sylvenna Yorn wished happily for death instead of this unbearable match-up. She, her father, her research team were all locked tight in OMF Type 1, #13, when Mack Garcia showed up. Her father seemed to sense instantly that the two were interested in each other, and used this knowledge to infuriate her to no end.

"Well, SPECIFIC," her father was saying, "I'm not certain what your job here is."

"As I said before, sir, I'm a security off--"

"No, I mean your job HERE. In this research facility. Are you a researcher?"

"Of course not, sir, I was only invited to get some advice on fusion systems, then I could possibly go out for TacSub-"

"Specific," Mr Yorn interrupted again, his voice cold as ice, "This is a multi-billion dollar MicroRes facility. Not a career counselling session. So what is your purpose here?"

Sylvenna seethed. He knew, and she knew he knew, that she had invited him. Of course, he also probably knew or suspected why. She couldn't very well say to him, 'Please leave, so I can get him to kill you, so I can finally be free of your disgusting presence.' However much she may have wanted to.

"Of course sir," Garcia was saying, looking distinctly flustered.

A wall readout began to blink with red text against a black screen. Garcia looked at it and then back at Yorn, who was still fixing his steely gaze at Garcia like an exterminator looking at a roach-infested apartment.

"Well?" Yorn demanded.

The text began to beep audibly. It was clearly the automated message service. Garcia's eyes flittered back and forth from Yorn to the wall. "Sir, are you going to answer that?"

The rest of the team-- Sylvenna's hand-picked group of researchers-- pretended to go over some equation modelling near the central Module. Professional to the last.

Her father let out a quick sigh, and went to the readout. He pressed a few commands.

FICR Yorn: The Whispering Voices delegate arrived 28 minutes ago. Vojska has not met them. They left the AP exactly 3.5 minutes ago.

"I see the automated messages are still lagging far behind everything else," Yorn growled. Then, mercifully, he turned and left without a further glance at Garcia or his daughter at all.

But as he left he called out, "I'll be back later. Researchers, you had better not be here when I return, except for Sylvenna."

Garcia looked around cautiously when he was gone. "I'm not a researcher. Can I stay?"
--

Marklew beamed a paternal smile at the young Oftham, and quickly his time as a village pastor allowed him to discern that something was the matter. Sadly - or rather, luckily for Oftham - he was far too polite to question it.

"That won't be a problem, young Oftham. We'll find Mister Vojska fine." He then turns back to the Reverend Basis, assuming the TC will leave.

"Independence, eh? I gather the PCC retook Monteceito?"

Forty two percent overspend. I'm going to take names from this one, damn it. I'm not going to go down for unauthorised overspends by a bunch of lunatic engineers and scientists.

The Santa Barbarian shuttle neared OMF city. Jim had to thank the Santa Barbarian pilot for actually letting him pilot the shuttle for a few minutes. It was remarkable at how the shuttle responded to his steady hand. Similar to a jet fighter and yet so different. But it’s practically all automated anyhow, thought Jim.

Ron and Kim were both trying to see as much of the space station as possible from their angle. Ron admired the elegant design but Kim was a bit uneasy.

With a smooth kathump, the shuttle slid into the docking bay. Hissing and the whir of gears could be heard as the shuttle’s airlock linked with one of the OMF modules.

“Okay, team. Let’s go,” barked Jim.

OOC: Ah, I took some liberties with the shutttle, docking procedures, etc… Sorry. I can re-edit if you wish Santa Barbara.

Reverend Basis opened his mouth to answer the question, but no words sounded right. He fended it off with vagueries. "In a manner of speaking."

The PCC never went to war. It was a corporation, after all. No, Monteceito was never invaded, and fell not with a bang but a whimper. It was aquired, to use the current euphemism.

"I'd better get going, I'm just a minor character right now so I have to wait for my main development!" said Oftham, and left. [OOC: Ok, so he didn't really say that, but its true and its the main reason he's leaving! Also, he wants to go find his buddy in security and see if he can discover something by looking at very recent security records. But neither of these guys know that.]

"I believe you'll probably want to meet with the FICR as well as Vojska. Maybe, with luck," and here Basis attempted to hide the stunning sarcasm that seemed to want to jump from his throat, "With luck they'll both be there."

Seeing a spot of confusion in the Bishops eyes, Basis went on. "There meaning, Vojska's personal OMF. There's no central command here really, and the construction is handled with an automated network."

The two came to another OMF airlock-- exactly like every other OMF airlock, of course. Aside from the occasional viewports with outside references, it was really quite impossible to tell where one was by immediate surroundings. Only the OMF numbers gave any firm identification, stenciled onto the airlocks like barcodes, but these were never in any order and one had to be inside the OMF to see the stenciling.

Vojska's OMF was numbered Type 1, #88. Basis queried a keypad, typed a code, and it unlocked, opening like a vault. He gestured ahead but decided to disobey protocol and find something else to do. "This way, your Grace. I shall not be accompanying you, since I'm probably not authorized for everything you'll be wanting to discuss. It was good to meet you!"

Why do I get the strange feeling that I'm not going to see him again? Reverend David Basis thought.

--

FICR Yorn, greasy blondish-silver hair trailing behind him like a medusa, made his way out of the Elvenspawn's research OMF. His stomach boiled with acid as he realized the Vrakians would have already landed by now, and would be met with an empty OMF. This delay was not efficient, and what wasn't efficient would never be rewarded.

His belly gurgled. He shouldn't have stayed so long crucifying the Elvenspawn and her newest boytoy. Just keep on thinking with your dick, thats how you got her, remember?

He grunted with the effort of pulling himself along the first twists of the journey to the other side of OMF City. Wondering if he should bother excercising more, he just passed a haphazardly-placed panel of armor-- woven boron, by the look of it-- when a loud, dry sound snapped his mind to attention.

Yorn grabbed the next pull-pole and held on, rebounding gently as he strained his aging ears to listen. Very shortly, another loud crack and another, and something, could have been a shout or scream? It came from the direction he had just come from.

He wasn't a soldier, but he knew the sound of gunfire when he heard it. He dialed into the emergency tranceiver.

"Security. Over."

"Yorn here. Gunshots heard. Near vicinity of Type 1, #29. Over."

"Acknowledged. We've got other reports confirming it. Sending investigators. Are you harmed? Over."

"Negative. Over and out."

Marklew smiled farewell to the Reverend Basis, and continued on in.

What a pleasant man. I hope he cheers up though. I'm sure that this Vojska will be efficient, which is ... ah, dammit, what now?

The vibration of his pager had struck again. He reached into a pocket, and pulled it out.

<Ten gravimetric Wisps newly-outfitted for space en route to OMF City>
<To be used for testing along with the magnetic buoys they're carrying>
<More details will be provided when they arrive. PCC aware.>

Testing? What the hell kind of testing? Why did they pick me? To worry about the spirits of the crew, I guess. If I ever meet them, I'll do some mighty fine God-botherin', oh yeah.

Tactical Core Subcommander, #1029504 PCCIDTO-CCCTG, Vojska. An aging man with thin lips and a sense of thoughtfulness lurking beneath his quick smile, which he showed Marklew as soon as he entered the OMF.

"Good day, Bishop Marklew. I was expecting you," Lorsa Vojska said from his Nexus desk (A three-D computer station you sorta strap yourself onto and work with virtual reality holographic/sensor display) attached by a large module to the corner of the OMF.

He guided the arm, and his Nexus closer to the airlock and quickly removed himself, and reached to shake the Bishop's hand.

"Specific Williams, take over in the Nexus so our earthward friends know where to park," he called over his shoulder to a junior officer with a bionic implant where her left eye was.
--

Bishop Marklew shook Vojska's hand firmly, and gave him a wide smile. "Thank you, Commander Vojska. Pleased to meet you at last."

Well, 'accidentally' upping his rank can't really offend him. Saying 'subcommander' could be interpreted as an emphasis on the fact he wasn't a full commander ... or something. I really should have read that briefing dossier ...

"I understand progress is going well on the station? Although at some cost, too. Can you show me around?"

"We've been granted additional funds," Vojska said, "sometimes. But yes, it is costly, such a vast expansion into space."

Specific Williams, from her perch in the Nexus, interrupted. "Sir, WV vehicles successfully docked. Cargo has been removed. Pilots are ready and requesting that we graciously begin Phase Five."

Vojska nodded. "Right on time. Very efficient. Alert test pods 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 9. Power up all systems and establish MP1 connections."

Seeing the slight confusion on Marklew's face, Vosjka said crisply, "As co-ordinated with your government, we are researching both gravitic powered combat crafts," here he turned back to Williams, scratching the back of his head neck idly as he did so.

"Williams, initialize MP1's lock-on sequence. All pods, SMs only. Await go code," Vojska nodded once at Williams, pushing her along. Her hands moved along translucent materials deftly, fingers twitching as she operated several weapons and communications networks at once.

"Sorry, Bishop Marklew. By the way, you may call me TCS Vojska. As I was saying, and we are researching ways to track them in a combat environment. We've progressed to the last few stages of testing, and now the only way to see if all our research has paid off is to throw something out there," he coughed, "and destroy it."

“Hmmm,” muttered Jim as the three Vrakians stepped through the airlock, “Someone should be here to greet us."

Kim gave a loud harummph and distanced herself from the group. Leaning on a bulkhead this incident only served to bolster her belief that animals and plants are better companions than people. After all, a plant wouldn’t betray a person.
Ron, the technical-minded engineer guy that he was and remembering what to do in case this remotely occurring incident arose, went to the nearest wall monitor. After playing with a few keys, he managed to find the “guest” protocol arrival system.

“Hello, Ron Strum,” said the computer in an even-modulated voice, “how may I be of assistance?”
“Our team has just arrived and there is no liaison officer to be found. Is there a problem?” replied Ron.
“One moment. There has been a slight delay. Please wait at your present location and someone should be there shortly. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
“Okay. It’s okay. We’ll be here.”

Kim let off another harumph and Jim fixed her with a steely glare.

[OOC: Don't worry Vrak, everyone can take liberties with a shuttle. And I'm not ignoring you (or Evil Overlord for that matter) but, ICly as you'll see, people on the OMF are a bit preoccupied just this moment...]

The man with the gun was one that Garcia knew, at least peripherally. An IIA guy. What's his name again?

The door had only just opened, and the man had only just shown up, and Garcia had no more time to ponder where he last saw him. The gun-- it looked like an Ort-2 semiautomatic with a silencer-- was already held out at arms lengths, pointed in Garcia and Sylvenna's direction.

Protect the girl, a calm voice spoke in his mind. He kicked off a little bit and had enough time to position himself in front of her-- she had been examining his personnel file with him, joking as they went, a moment earlier-- when he felt the weight of a sledgehammer crush his chest. His trajectory changed immediately, pushed away from the airlock by the force of the bullets impact. Another sledgehammer hit, and a third.

He was aware of his own blood rushing out of him, floating about in the air like blobs of red zero-g steel being foamed into place. This can't be good... the voice, much less calm but eerily clear, spoke again. Behind his body he could feel Sylvennas, and he knew that the Ortega's rounds were just passing right through his body, into hers.

Slam. Slam.

He'd made some sort of effort to draw his own weapon, another Ortega 2 pistol, but it fumbled as he was flung back again with more bullet impacts. His blood, gouting, now clouded his vision as it smacked wetly against his face, and he tumbled out of control, spinning in the environment helplessly. He was unable to even see his attacker by now, but by now it didn't matter as he realized he was dying. Pain was so overwhelming that his mind blocked it out, deftly, like a child who dismisses his chores knowing full well he will be made to do them later anyway.

Specific Garcia was unable to see the girl, Sylvenna Yorn, as she used her unwounded left hand to grasp his fallen weapon, ready it, and squeeze off a round. Unsilenced, the powerful handgun let loose a thunderous crash with its firing. The first missed completely, but the intruder moved to use the airlock as cover as a result.

The second and third shots hit the man twice, once in the neck and once in the shoulder. The man let out a wailing, high-pitched shriek as the ripped flesh and torn arteries gave his lifes blood to the airlock surface, before losing consciousness and life.

Sylvenna listened for ten seconds to the rasping, wheezing sound before realizing it wasn't entirely her rasping and wheezing. She was only hit twice, her right hand a throbbing mess and what felt like molten metal in her left shoulder. But Mack Garcia was not faring so well. She turned, and saw him crumpled awkwardly against a bulkhead, his eyes wide, pupils wide and shiny, blood leaking from what used to be his chest like a small volcano in slo-mo.
--

At the Nexus, Specific Williams notices a flashing red light. MetaPrattOne gave her its recommendation. Standard protocol. Unauthorized weapons discharge. Dispatch security immediately. Lock down OMFs immediately, suspend normal operations until further notice.

What a rude bastard.

"Certainly, TCS Vojska. Still, I've been informed we have budgetary surplus in almost every area, thanks to that war with Roania. For the moment at least practical costing issues are taking a backburner to efficiency."

He turned to look at a viewscreen displaying visual feed from outside the OMF, and nodded at the sight of the Wisps.

http://www.debevec.org/ReflectionMapping/fn-ship.jpg


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Flight Officer Myras Eskander looked idly at the view projected into his retinas. It was his fifth flight into space - an ace, he'd been amongst the first to test the Menelmacari-based systems and space effectiveness of the craft. And, at the moment, he was bored. He didn't particularly like space - he had no artistic side that was thrilled by the open vistas, the promise of infinity. Myras, in fact, lived for two things: buzzing people on the ground, and - since he'd been promoted out of a Mig and into a Wisp - shooting things down.

So, when the command came through to disengage and begin evasive maneouvers to test out the targetting system, he was quite glad. With a hum of energy, the slick craft powered its way rapidly into motion as it projected tiny and contained gravity wells around it. Once out in the open, he began a slew of combat dodges. His sensor readings notified him that several pods - eight of them - were beginning to extrude from parts of the Orbital Manufacturing Facility - readings on one were peculiarly odd, but he simply assumed it was some sort of radar - heavy microwave emissions were being given off.

"This is Five-Zero-Eight-One-Nine-Niner, engaged." He didn't even have to speak, subvocalised transistors would have carried his voice over the communications channel - but it was habit, and hard to break.

Over the next few minutes, the Wisp performed displays of perfect precision turns, incredibly agile, able to stop and start on a dime, as Santa Barbaran systems tracked it and final calibrations took place.

And then ...

Myrans felt vaguely dizzy, and raised a finger to loosen his collar - but, by the time it got there, he was nothing but ashes, as a primitive MASER on the eighth pod opened fire, sending oscillating waves of microwave radiation straight through the Wisp's radiation shielding and refractive armour. The ship itself, corkscrewing wildly as part of a maneouver ... shot straight into OMF #15, punching right through its hull, cracking it apart. Crunching circuitry and vibrations shot through its targetting system, and a dead man's switch activated, shooting BS-1 Judders out of the small sheathes they were stored in. The system was designed for aerial combat, and was carefully designed to avoid friendly targets - but the missiles had no choice, being buried in the OMF itself. Penetrating subsonics - worthless in space, but deadly when buried into something with an atmosphere still partly extant - shot through the floating OMF, and began literally to shake apart the OMF's primary structure - the hull. Pieces fragmented, shattered like glass ... the destruction was horrific.


******************************************************************

Oh, God ... Marklew looked on in horrified fascination as crewmen and women were sucked out of the depressurising OMF into space. Oh my God, I have to get out of here, get back to ... no, calm down. Calm.

"TCS Vojska - what the fuck just happened to our Wisp?" His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm and cold.

OOC:
Obviously, the only IC knowledge available to people at the moment will be - as its announced - that a practice maneouver went terribly wrong and caused a spacecraft to impact with OMF #15. Any knowledge of what caused it to happen, or what subsequently caused the massive fragmentation of OMF#15, is strictly OOC.

Meanwhile ... down in the ocean close to Whispering Voices ... waves surge upwards from the ocean, crashing in concentric circles and ripples high enough to capsize an oil tanker, emanating out from a huge circle ... from which an immense shape rises, vaguely spherical. As it climbs slowly into the sky, its shape morphs ... and twists ... and hardens. As its compatriot before it, it heads to the Heavens.

Link (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=1296897#1296897)

[OOC: Don't worry Vrak, everyone can take liberties with a shuttle. And I'm not ignoring you (or Evil Overlord for that matter) but, ICly as you'll see, people on the OMF are a bit preoccupied just this moment...]

OOC: Not a problem at all. :)

Lorsa Vojska looked as if he was turning green in the bright, soft light of the OMF. That is, what was the bright soft light. Dramatically, red highlights pulsed everywhere, signalling the airlocks throughout the MP1 controlled network were closing.

Williams was nearly babbling. "Sir, there's been an unauthorized weapons fire, four seconds before the crash, MP1 ordered immediate lockdown at the same time the maser initiated-"

"Alright, alright," Vojska said, temporarily ignoring the Bishop's question in the chaos. "Get me a damage report. Halt the testing, lockdown the station. Nothing docks or leaves. And figure out how the hell the maser sequence initiated out of turn. I ordered SMs only, dammit!"

Meanwhile, the OMF airlock shut, its double doors simultaneously cutting into the metal grooves and securing with a whooshing sound.

"Bishop, I'm afraid all hell has broken loose," Vojska said, genuine concern showing (for once), "This particular round of testing was not supposed to include the maser prototypes, and not at such a close range."

Williams noted the preliminary damage reports now being flashed before her eyes. "Sir, we've lost #15 with heavy damage to six others nearby. Security personnel reporting they are unable to respond to the reported unauthorized shots due to lockdown."

Vojska sighed with frustration, his calculating mind working furiously. I thought I told him to use silenced weapons. Could be another unauthorized discharge. Make no conclusions yet. See to the station and the Wisps. At least we've shown they can be targetted, though.

"Put out a distress call to the Kerry Corporate tender," he ordered Williams, "We need medical and mechanical assistance out there before the debris throws any more shit into the fan."

"On it, sir."

A pause. "Williams, what was #15s field of research?"

"MicroRes. Gravitics sector."

Figures, he thought. My head could wind up floating out there by tomorrow now. If Yorn's still alive, anyway.

The insertion went flawlessly, as did the rendezvous with Rutherford. Once aboard the shuttle, Yorgieva slid into a couch near the aft end of the compartment and buckled in. She watched the shuttle crew and- more intensely- the Mikoyan staffers as they played out their particular roles in the tedious shuttle-loading ballet between crew and passengers.

There were two obvious engineers, so engrossed in their incomprehensible technobabble that they would have drifted away if there'd been anyplace to go but into the shuttle. The crew calmly retrieved them and thoughtfully deposited them in couches facing each other- at the forward end of the compartment.

Her security staff- Sergeant Hornsby and a weaselly-looking young man in Navy utilities slid into the shuttle with a grace and economy of motion that told Yorgieva that they were accomplished spacers. The shuttle crew did little more than double-check their positions against the loading chart before turning to the last passenger.

"Is not space-rated", Yorgieva thought to herself as she watched the crew try to contain the spinning dervish. The "gag-bag" was well-sealed around his mouth, to everyone's relief, because the man had obviously been spilling his guts since he'd hit orbit. He was tall and cadaverously thin, and shaved his head to try to conceal the large bald patch at the top of his skull. His glassy eyes betrayed the contact lenses he should have removed before leaving Earth. As the crew got the man inserted into the restraints across the aisle from Yorgieva, she could see the name tag on his general-issue coveralls- "Stanton".

Shaking her head, Yorgieva stopped watching the crew and returned to her briefing materials. She had two versions of the data on OMF Mikoyan. The Official Version, which she ran through her computer solely to be able to truthfully report that she'd seen it, and the extensive data that Sergeant Hornsby had managed to scrounge up in the few hours he'd had before boarding the OIV. She immediately concentrated on Hornsby's version- after pretending to read the official file for a sufficiently long time.

The Sergeant was a good compiler of information. His data were listed as "rumors", "hearsay", and "innuendo". Yorgieva deduced that these titles were Hornsby playing CYA in the event of future official trouble. "Rumors" was apparently Hornsby's most accurate information, with "hearsay" and "innuendo" in descending order of importance or accuracy after rumors.

Under "Rumors", Yorgieva read that Stanton was a brilliant practical Physicist/Engineer, who was being sent to Mikoyan to put the finishing touches on some invention with military applications. She also learned that Mikoyan was fairly small by OMF standards, so full-scale production of Stanton's dreamchild would probably be handled on Heinlein once he got the technique perfected.

She risked a glance at Stanton and noted that he had apparently passed out. He'd be much more comfortable on Heinlein, where they simulate gravity by rotating the station around the central docking hub.

The weaselly-looking man in the Navy coveralls was IW1 Aoki- a Navy Infowar specialist. She checked the summary of his service record Hornsby had included. Two years on Heinlein, one year Molnya service, and several trips to Mikoyan during construction.

The two engineers were non-security technical staff named Katirzan and N'Gome. They'd been in space before, but Yorgieva had little faith in their abilities based on what she'd seen so far.

The "launch" warning light came on, and Yorgieva tucked her computer back in its pouch on her left thigh and relaxed. The crew hurried to finish stowing the last of the supplies and took to their own couches. Yorgieva listened carefully to the thrusters' vibrations through the hull. Shuttle pilots were usually either hot dogs- using far too much thrust to get the shuttle moving- or too timid, using too little thrust and prolonging the orbit unecessarily.

Not this pilot. A slow build-up to a steady 1/10th gravity, which held for nearly a minute before shutting off abruptly. Yorgieva mirrored the tracking data from Molnya-3 to the screen at her couch and noted with pleasure that the current orbit was a minimum-fuel rendezvous and the pilot would only have to make minor attitude and course adjustments to link up with Mikoyan. She shut off the screen and relaxed. Her stomach was giving her mild trouble- making her pay for spending the last two years in 1 gee- so she dealt with it the way she always did. She fell asleep.

Sergeant Hornsby stretched as Rutherford stopped thrusting and keyed up the readouts on the other cargo. Yorgieva was asleep, the two engineers were STILL babbling in deep uberGeek, Aoki- the Security tech in the Navy utilities- was awake but not doing much of anything. Stanton was NOT awake, but his telemetry showed a different pattern from the Colonel's calm breathing. Hornsby looked up to say something, but the shuttle crew was already working on it.

He turned back to his readouts, then shut them off and unbuckled. One of the crew eyed him warily, then turned back to cleaning Stanton up after Hornsby's movement showed familiarity with microgravity. Hornsby pushed gently against the couch and drifted slowly up to the control cabin door. The pilot was punching in his launch report.

"Sarge!" called the pilot without looking up from his report. "Thanks for the heads-up on Her Mightiness back there. Her being space-pilot rated doesn't change anything I do up here, but it let me warn the crew to keep on their toes."

"She's sleepin' like a baby now, Cap'n." Hornsby said cheerfully. "Glad to see she hasn't lost her space legs after all that time dirtside. How long to rendezvous?"

Still without looking up, the pilot said, "Just over 90 minutes. Won't need the thrusters to match up, we'll be almost relative-zero velocity when we get to Mikoyan. Just attitude jets."

"Don't get fancy, Cap'n. Colonel ain't likely to cut you any slack if you bump into OMF City."

The pilot snorted in derision. "Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Sarge. I know every patch of space around here by its freckles. I could do the approach without radar."

Hornsby shook his head. "Don't try it, Cap'n." he warned. "Herself will have the instruments mirrored to her couch and she'll have your nuts if you try anything that stupid."

"Yeah, I've read her file. She was a hot dog herself when she was comin' up. Those are always the ones who hate to see somebody flying the way they used to do."

Hornsby relaxed. "Okay, Cap'n. I'll brush myself outta your hair."

"Later, Sarge."

Hornsby spun expertly in place and pushed gently away from the control cabin. He grabbed his couch support as he drifted by and used the velocity from his push to rotate back onto the couch with no additional movement. He buckled himself in against the possibility of unscheduled maneuvers and copied his new CO by falling asleep.

"All Hell has quite clearly not broken lose, Mr. Vojska. However, once the Minister of Trade hears about this - which he probably already has done - I'm fairly sure neither of us are going to be in particularly happy positions. Now, whilst your subordinate deals with the problem - what in the blazes caused an experimental weapon pod to be deployed?"

The Bishop, quite clearly, is highly agitated, horrified thoughts heading through his mind.

... Last Rites to perform - if we can even get the body out of there. And my job - my ordination - all are at stake, here. They're going to want a scapegoat, and they're going to want one soon.

He looked at Vojska consideringly, and took out his pager with a sigh as it vibrated again. The message was shorter than he had expected - in fact, shorter than he was comfortable with.

<Report>

OOC: Does the Ministry of Trade know about the weapons testings' targets? Depending on whether it does, Vojska may not actually say what he does below. I'm somewhat confused for some reason, its been a long day I guess. :)

IC

Vojska replied, "I misspoke, Bishop. What we have here is a case of systems malfunction. The network is designed to employ multiple weapons types under one overall control and in a variety of sequences. Could be a computer malfunction or some small flaw somewhere in the chain."

Vojska looked at Williams. "Could be human error, too," he said. "MetaPrattOne will search for the exact cause, but at this point it might not show up until we can get a thorough inspection of the wreckage. Williams, politely inform the shuttle to Mikoyan that docking with any OMFs in the area is not recommended due to unforseen circumstances. Don't be too informative as to those circumstances."

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "As for the pods deployment in the first place, I, had assumed you were already aware of our purpose here?"

“BEEP!”

Ace Ramirez swore savagely, then keyed in the answer circuit without pausing in his work. “This had better be damned good!”

“Could be, sugar. Most likely bad, though. Rutherford is docking right now.” Cynthia’s cool tone cut through Ace’s irritation and calmed him down before his brain had time to process the words.

Damn! Ace reflexively checked the computer’s time, even though he knew Cynthia wouldn’t be wrong about something like this. Sure enough, 1432 Zulu.

“Christ on a crutch, Cynthia. Sorry about yelling like that. I did tell you to let me know.” Cynthia Zargosi was the one part of Mikoyan that never failed to function properly. “This damned security cut-out circuit’s got me in a mood for murder.”

“Better damp that mood down deep, then Ace. Her Majesty is arriving any second.”

Ramirez thought furiously for a moment, then made the tough decision. “Cynthia, this circuit has to get fixed now. Get one of the Lab boys to meet Herself at the lock and convey my apologies. I’ll be along as soon as I find the fault.”

“Never mind, sweetie. I’ll do it myself. One of the Infowar techs is aboard Rutherford, too. Want me to send him your way?”

“Hell, yes! That’s a great idea. Why the hell aren’t you running this place, Cynthia? You’d do a better job than I have.”

Cynthia sniffed. “I have better sense than to want to try to run this madhouse. Try not to blow anything up while I greet our new Boss.”

Ace thought good things about Cynthia for a few seconds, then dove back into the circuit he was working on.

Cynthia slipped expertly through the narrow tubes of OMF Mikoyan, using just enough push with her hands and feet to keep her going the right direction. Her timing was perfect. She coasted out of the tube into the docking airlock just as the “Pressure Equalized” light came on. Cynthia curled into a ball and spun halfway around, then suddenly straightened up and grabbed the stanchion near the tube access and faced the lock.

All three sets of lights were green. Cynthia double-checked the instruments to be sure that both airlocks were shut, the magnetic collars were sealed, and the pressure was equalized before she pushed the “Door Open” button. The heavy door swung slowly open on hydraulics. Two P-suits floated easily through before the door was completely open. Several others waited in the airlock. The tall, thin P-suit grabbed the same stanchion Cynthia was holding and waved the stocky suit through the access tube. The next two wore bulkier pressure suits with lots of attachment hardpoints. Those must be the engineers. They glanced at the suited figure next to Cynthia, then pushed out of the lock. They instantly spun around and bounced off the bulkhead and sprang carelessly into the access tube.

The next P-suit through the lock displayed none of the grace and low gee familiarity the others had shown. He drifted slowly and clumsily through the lock, making swimming motions and spinning slowly on the long axis. When he hit the opposite bulkhead, he used too much muscle to stop himself, and ended up bouncing back into the airlock. The last suited figure was still in the lock. This one caught the clumsy suit with practiced ease and sent him drifting slowly back toward Cynthia. The tall suit next to her grabbed the clumsy man in the suit and pushed him into the access tube.

The last suited figure eased out of the lock and spun around to stop motionless next to Cynthia. Cynthia made sure the lock was empty, then pushed the “Door Close” button. After all six lights were green again, Cynthia turned around to meet the newcomers.

The tall figure had removed the suit’s helmet and stored it against the bulkhead. Cynthia nodded at the sharp features on the face of the woman before her. “Colonel Yorgieva. Welcome to Mikoyan OMF.” The Colonel was classically Russian, with high cheekbones and startlingly dark eyes. Her dark hair was cut short- a wise precaution for people working in low gee.

Yorgieva quickly sized Cynthia up, and nodded in return. “Privyet, Gospoza Zargosi. Where is Leftenant Ramirez?”

“He’s up in Three, trying to trace a fault in one of the security interruptor circuits for the comm laser. He wanted to be here to meet you himself, but that circuit has to be fixed before 1600.”

Yorgieva nodded again. “Da, is more important than meeting me.” She turned to the wiry man slotting his helmet next to hers. “Aoki, go assist Leftenant Ramirez with circuit.” Cynthia nodded at Dave Aoki as he pushed off the bulkhead and floated into the access tube. He winked back.

Cynthia turned back to the Colonel. “Rutherford is unloading supplies through the cargo lock. I am at your disposal for the next thirty-three minutes, Colonel. What would you like to see first?”

Yorgieva waved at the tube. “Please to take me to One.”

OMF Mikoyan was laid out as a series of secondary modules around the Primary Core. Module One was the command center. Module Two was living quarters. Module Three was communications and detection. Module 4 was storage and power. All four of these modules surrounded the Lab Core- where the real business of Mikoyan was done.

Cynthia was surprised to see the burly, dark-skinned Sergeant at the console in One, his leg hooked under the seat to keep himself in place. He eyed Cynthia briefly, then turned to the Colonel. “After I got Stanton safely stowed in his bunk, I popped in here. I’ve been gettin’ a feel for the systems, sir. Everything’s pretty tight, in my opinion. With your permission, I’ll run the lines and check the angles. I can give you a preliminary assessment in a couple of hours.”

“Spaceba, Sergeant Hornsby. Rutherford returns from Heinlein at 0420. Be ready to assume duties by then.”

“Yes, sir.” Hornsby eyed Cynthia’s figure through her suit appreciatively as he locked the cover over the console and pushed gently away from it. Halfway to the tube to Four, he jackknifed in midair and straightened out facing the tube. His hand darted out to grab the stanchion next to the tube and he pulled into it with no wasted motion.

“Most of your people seem to handle zero gee pretty well, Colonel.” Cynthia observed after Hornsby had gone.

Yorgieva nodded. “Stanton. He will be running Lab Core. Am told he will adjust.”

Cynthia smiled. “Let me get you familiar with the consoles, Colonel.”

Up in Three, Ace Ramirez set his tools back in their clamps and sighed. “God DAMN! Thought we’d never find the fault. Good work, Dave.”

Dave Aoki absently ran several system tests on the repaired circuit, then shut the portable computer off. “No problem, el-tee. You’d already done the hard part before I got here. All I had to do was replace the sensor.” He kicked gently out of the console access to let Ace close up. “Does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

“Not a lot, but more than it should.” Ace’s voice was quiet as he locked down the console access. “I don’t want to prejudice your opinion with mine. Just take a look at the repair log and draw your own conclusions. We’ll compare notes when you’re ready.”

“I’d like to toss in my two cents, too.”

Ramirez and Aoki started at the unexpected voice, their reflexes sending them bouncing across the tube corridor before they could recover. Ace hooked a stanchion with his feet and used that leverage to grab Dave Aoki and push him to another stanchion. Once he was sure they were both anchored, Ace turned toward the cross corridor to Two and Four. A burly, dark-skinned man with closely cropped hair floated at the tube junction, braced across the tube with thick, muscular arms.

Something in the man’s face made Ace swallow the curses he’d been ready to unload on him. “You gotta learn to make some noise when you’re coming up on people, man.”

A faint smile appeared briefly on the man’s face. “Sorry ,sir. Old habits die hard, I reckon.”

Ace shook his head. “Probably my own damned fault anyway. Flappin’ my gums instead of paying attention. I guess I really need this transfer.”

The smile on the man’s face returned in force. “From the look of the logs, I’d say you deserve it, sir. Sergeant Hornsby.” The sergeant tucked his legs against the tube and extended his hand.

Ace shook Hornsby’s hand after bracing himself. “So you think there’s more to it than wear-and-tear, too?”

“Damned straight, sir.” Hornsby was no longer smiling. “I ain’t the only one, either. Why do you suppose the Warlord sent up a full Colonel to replace a Lieutenant?”

Ramirez sighed heavily. “I was actually hoping I was just being paranoid.”

“That sort of paranoia is one of the marks of a good officer, sir.” Hornsby caught Aoki’s eye. “Dave, why don’t you do a trend analysis on the repair logs and meet us back at One?”

“On it, Top.” Aoki kicked against the bulkhead and sailed down the tube. Hornsby turned back to Ace.

“There is no bloody way that me, Aoki, and the Colonel would normally be assigned to this hole in the sky. Three veteran spacers, all with combat experience- one space-and-atmosphere pilot, one Infowar specialist, and one …”

Ramirez broke in. “Thug? Spook? Leg-breaker?”

Hornsby bestowed another smile on Ace. “I prefer to think of myself as a ‘General Specialist’, sir.”

“All right. So someone at Headquarters agrees that I ain’t crazy. You realize what this means?”

Hornsy met Ace’s eyes with a level stare. “Damned straight, sir. It means that somebody is about to find out that Evil Overlord Enterprises doesn’t play games.”

OOC: The Ministry of Trade will have spies and informants amongst the WV personnel helping in the construction of New Babel. They'll know that a Wisp was destroyed, but that's about it for the moment.

IC:
"I am aware why pods were deployed. Simply not weapons pods. That was to be a sensor test, no? And that malfunction has just cost a human life and a significant amount of money." Marklew sighed.

I'll have to wait for the wreckage, I guess. Sod it. "If you'll excuse me, I need to send a preliminary report to the MoT. I trust the error will be located soon." Marklew moved into a corner, and turned his back to the others in the room, drawing out what looked like a Psion organiser.


Serious error occurred during sensor array testing.
One non-sensor array pod deployed.
Wisp impacted on OMF #15.
Causes still sought.


That should do, hopefully. He turned back to watch Vojska and Williams carry out their research.

Since they were securely strapped in- Yorgieva at the Command Console and Stanton in his bunk- they were the only two people on Mikoyan who weren’t thrown into the bulkheads by the distant impact. Stanton was still unconscious and probably would have been useless anyway, but Yorgieva was not only military but Russian, and a veteran pilot. She was running multiple systems checks and sending an encrypted laser message to Heinlein before Cynthia Zargosi had recovered from her encounter with the aft bulkhead in One.

“All personnel report, voice only. Check all station areas for damage. Muster injured in Two with Gospoza Zargosi. Engineering, send EVA team to inspect hull. Lab Core, check for internal damage and report, but stay in Lab unless injured. Sergeant Hornsby, Leftenant Ramirez, retrieve special case from Four and report to One immediately.” Yorgieva took a moment to check Cynthia’s condition visually while her hands centered the comm laser on the EOE satellite array.

“Gospoza Zargosi! Are you injured?”

Cynthia shook her head weakly and clutched desperately to the stanchion she’d found herself floating near. Yorgieva turned her attention back to the communications task at hand, and Cynthia took stock of her personal situation. She shifted her muscles and limbs and was relieved to discover that nothing was broken. She was still seeing double occasionally, but the bump on her head seemed to be the worst of the damage.

Cynthia pushed carefully away from the bulkhead and drifted to the secondary console, pulling herself into the cushioned seat and strapping in. Without interfering with the Colonel’s activities at the Main console, Cynthia double-checked that the primary safety functions were operating normally. She quickly highlighted the most important items- tube crash doors, atmosphere scrubbers, and temperature control- and forwarded them to the Main console so Yorgieva didn’t have to check them herself.

All the emergency protocols had operated as designed, within seconds of the wrenching shock being felt onboard Mikoyan. All tube doors and airlocks were sealed and holding. There was a minor pressure leak in tube 4-3, but the sealant had been released automatically, and the leak was slowing as Cynthia watched the gauges. The outer hull of One had been breached by something, but the inner seal had prevented any atmosphere loss, and the inner hull hadn’t been touched.

Dave Aoki reported that he’d broken his arm, and he was on the way to Two to check on Stanton. Hornsby and Ace were having trouble getting the airlock door to Four to close properly. Ace had applied epoxy resin to seal the Module and they were on their way to One. The Lab boys were frantically trying to contact Yorgieva on the internal comm circuit, but the computer routed the call to the “hold” routine since they didn’t seem to be in any danger except for possibly being scared to death.

Cynthia piped the summary to Yorgieva’s console and unbuckled, kicking toward the doorseal to tube 1-2. The colonel acknowledged the message with a raised hand without pausing from her message to Overlord Cosmodrome.

Ace sent Hornsby to One by the direct route while he took the scenic tour himself. He noted that the leak in 4-3 had been adequately sealed. He also cycled the airlock in Three for the Engineers to go out and check the hull. Since Hornsby was burdened by the case they’d removed from Four, Ramirez only arrived at One a few minutes after the Sergeant.

He found Hornsby floating over the secondary console with one leg hooked under the seat as he removed components from the case and hastily assembled them. Ace reported his inspection results to the Colonel and drifted closer to see what Hornsby was up to.

Sergeant Hornsby slipped a pin into place with a ‘click’, and then floated the assembly to Ramirez. Ace hooked the object out of the air and swore in several languages. It was an odd-looking gun. “We already have a bloody hole in the hull, so why the hell are you planning on making more of them? Don’t you idiots know what happens when you use firearms in space?”

He pushed the weapon back to Hornsby, who retrieved it silently and fitted a magazine into the handle. “OMF City is mostly aluminum!” Ace roared at him. “Bullets will go right through the bloody hull and depressurize the compartments! What are you idiots thinking?”

“Mikoyan is not aluminum.” The Colonel’s calm voice cut off Ace’s ranting. “Mikoyan is double-hulled ceramic/carbon-fiber composite material, with sealant between hulls.”

Ramirez turned to look at Yorgieva, Her hands were still operating the console, but her eyes were set on his, and her voice was hard as iron. “Decision was made at highest level of military operations. New weapons developed specifically for Security Operations in orbital environment. Sergeant, demonstrate weapon for Leftenant.”

Ramirez turned to see Hornsby floating back to the console from the open hatch to 1-3. “See that helmet in the hatch, sir?” the Sergeant asked quietly. Ace looked. There was a helmet floating in the hatch, the clear visor staring back at Ace. He turned back to Hornsby, who floated the odd-looking handgun back over to him. “You scored pretty well on your last practical shoot, sir. Aim the weapon normally at the visor and touch the trigger pad.”

Ace looked carefully at the weapon. It looked like a standard firearm, except the trigger had been replaced by a small button and there didn’t seem to be any moving parts. He hooked his feet under the console and braced his other arm against the bulkhead, then aimed at the helmet’s visor. Once the sight picture was right, he touched the trigger button.

There was a soft “ssshhhhtttt!” sound, followed immediately by an explosion of purplish dust on the visor of the helmet. The weapon moved gently in his hand, with none of the recoil Ace had been bracing against. Without taking his eyes off the helmet, Ace said, “Now, THAT was pretty neat. How do you safe the weapon?”

Hornsby chuckled. “Simple, el-tee. Just take your finger out of the trigger well.”

Ace took his finger away from the trigger button and examined the weapon in more detail. Hornsby talked him through it. “That button where the hammer on a standard gun would be is the magazine release. There’s a sensor on the grip that arms the weapon only when the proper owner is holding it. Another sensor in the trigger well locks out the firing mechanism unless your finger is inside the guard. Guard is big enough to accommodate a suit glove. Felt recoil is almost non-existent, as you’ve seen, and there’s no loud bang, either.” Ace released the magazine and handed the weapon to Hornsby as he looked at the magazine.

“Magazine is airtight, for a variety of reasons. It only opens in the loading chamber of the weapon or in a special re-loading machine that we have here onboard. Ammunition is special.” Hornsby handed a round to Ace. It was smaller than the standard 11.5mm EOE round, around 7mm. The cylinder of the casing was sealed tightly around the oddly purplish ball at the head of the round.

Hornsby continued his speech. “Round is 6.5mm, a special powdered ceramic compound, compressed under vacuum. Propulsion is electrically excited compressed atmosphere. Air mixture in the round expands very rapidly under certain electromagnetic field conditions. 15 rounds to a magazine.”

Ace handed Hornsby the round and the magazine, then drifted over to retrieve the helmet as it bounced down the tube. He examined it as he jumped back into One. There was a small mark on the visor where the round had struck, but no cracking or penetration. He checked the inside as well. No spalling on the inside from impact delamination.

“So, what’s the effect on softer targets?” Ace asked as he hooked his legs back under the console. “I can see why you aren’t worried about depressurizing a compartment.”

Hornsby grinned without humor. “Its effective, sir. Count on it. Thick materials- like pressure suits, for example- usually stop a single round from penetrating. Probably feels like getting punted by the Devil, but you won’t get a hole in you. Thinner materials give very little protection at all. Ordinary clothing doesn’t even slow the round down. Once it penetrates the flesh, the rounds rapidly ablate, causing a lot in damage with very few blow-throughs.”

Hornsby reloaded the weapon and handed it back to Ace. “One thing, sir. Make sure you’ve some sort of bracing when you shoot in microgravity. There ain’t a lot of recoil, but there is some.”

Ramirez grabbed the weapon and the holster Hornsby handed after it. He hooked the holstered weapon onto the harness designed for that purpose on his uniform tunic. “So now we all go armed, eh?”

Yorgieva spoke again from the Command Console. “Nyet. You, me, Sergeant Hornsby, and Petty Officer Aoki only. Are more weapons in box, under Sergeant Hornsby’s control. Starting now, Mikoyan is under Security Interdiction. All communications and personnel go through me until otherwise directed. Will be watch rotation until Rutherford returns to extract you, Gospoza Zargosi, and transferring Lab technician.”

Ramirez looked closely at Yorgieva and Hornsby, They seemed to be relaxed and calm. “Do I get to know what is going on?”

Yorgieva smiled without humor. “Someone in OMF City playing games, risking life of everyone. We are NOT playing games. Not here. Not on Earth.”

Ace Ramirez looked from the Colonel to Hornsby. They had identical hard eyes and feral smiles. “Christ! I thought orbital duty would be simple and straightforward.”

Sergeant Hornsby heard Ace’s soft mutter. “Oh, it is, el-tee. This is as simple as it gets. All we gotta do is empty our sight pictures.”

Sorry, double post

OOC:

going to assume time passes on the OMF station as research into the accident is done, in order to get this moving again.

IC:

Fresh from its encounter with a Menelmacari gravshuttle with at least one important passenger, the being known as Yves makes its hulking and often seperate ways towards the OMF station - or more specifically towards New Babel, which is practically completed at a cost well over budget due to the desire for speed that does not sacrifice quality.

--
Reverend David Basis floated serenely through the long corridors of OMF City. He was single, naturally, and trying to fight the bitterness and cynicism that came from his hard, unappreciated life as a spiritual man in an atheistic, materialistic society. But, reflecting upon the stately nature of Bishop Marklew, a man whom he admired, he found his spirits lifted.

He was just thinking of ways he could actually get his life back on track, make a difference like he'd wanted to all those years ago. It didn't matter if he had, once, talked with Queens and Presidents on important matters. The most important thing was faith, both in oneself and in the Creator.

There were 1.8 seconds from the time the Wisp crashed into the OMF he was in to the time a 7 foot chunk of composite metal sliced through him and cut him in half at mid-chest. His last thoughts were of God, and of total and utter confusion.

--
FICR Yorn made his way, six hours later, to Vojska's OMF, where he found Marklew and Vojska going over damage reports calmly.

"Vojska, I demand to know what is going on here!" he exclaimed.

Vojska looked up, a look of surprise and barely concealed disappointment upon recognition of Yorns presence. "Yorn. How pleasant you are. Unfortunately, you are not authorized to know everything that is going on here."

Yorn scowled. He'd expected an answer like that. "Don't give me that. The Financial Inspections Committee may not care what half-assed research you do here, but we do care if multi-billion dollar systems are destroyed and security is shit. We've got the Vrakians waiting in limbo, shots being fired, and large-scale emergencies. You'll tell me what's going on, or I shall go directly to Mr Pratt."

Lorsa Vojska said nothing. He knew the threat was real, and he knew also that somehow, his man had failed to eliminate Yorn. What a shitstorm.

"We've got the situation under control. Williams, see to it that the damage zone is completely sealed off. It would be a shame if someone broke through an airlock and found nothing but vacuum and blood," Vojska added, casting a sly glance at Yorn.

Yorn pushed his way into the OMF, scooting forward to the Nexus and Vojska. He acted as if Bishop Marklew or Specific Williams were not there. "Vojska. I can be on the line with Pratt in five minutes. Don't try to stonewall me."

Yes, what if I just disabled your communication priveledges? Hmm, couldn't report back to Pratt then, could you? But then you'd probably throw a hissing fit. It's too bad you didn't die yet. "Very well, Yorn, have it your way. We've had an accident, and a Whispering Voices fighter crashed into OMF City. We've got a fleet tender outside and are clearing away the wreckage and bodies," Vojska said, with a sigh. He didn't like having to continually go over mistakes, not for foreign representatives or internal ones. It was inefficient.

"Just what caused this accident?"

"Undetermined. Experimental weapons pod sequence got confused and prematurely fired. I'm sure you understand."

"Vojska, if I understood, I wouldn't have to ask."

Williams cut in suddenly. "Sirs, sensor pods picking up a new contact! Four nearby vessels confirm it. Very massive, unlike any ship I've seen, headed our way at eight-hundred thirty-six thousand kilometers."

Vojska turned. "How massive?"

"Undetermined. Optics don't show it to be conventional at all. MP1 is choking on the ident."

"Energy signatures?"

"Almost none. It's moving 130 clicks per second, but not radiating much heat. Some gravitic distortion. It looks..." and Williams drifted away, staring at something in the virtual display known only to her.

"Yes? Report, Specific!"

"It looks alive, sir."

FICR Yorn, meanwhile, thinking this was just another ploy to get him out of the loop, interrupted. "What about the shots?"

"Shots?" Vosjka repeated dumbly, his mind elsewhere.

"Yes, TacCorSub. Shots. I heard the distinct sound of unauthorized gunfire before the crash. Very near my daughters MicroRes facility."

Vojska shook his head, genuinely distracted and attempting to keep it that way. "I don't know about shots, Yorn, but in case you can't tell, we have several bigger fish to fry at the moment."

Yorn wouldn't be put off. "Well, if your security can't handle both external and internal disturbances at the same time, perhaps its a sign that they need to be replaced."

Vojska gave Yorn a dirty look. "If you're feeling scared about your.. disturbances... I suggest you avoid that area. In fact, I also suggest you avoid this area. We have work to do, and I can't have you interrupting. The FIC knows this. I am not the only one who can be replaced, Yorn."

This was true. Very true. Yorns stomach did a slow turn as he silently raged at Lorsa Vojska. He found the gunshots to be rather suspicious, and Vojska's unwillingness to deal with them. But he could do nothing here, not now. His curiosity satisfied, he returned Vojska's icy glare for a moment further and departed.

"Notify the Mikoyan, New Babel, other foreign interests of the contact. I guess they won't be appreciating any more surprises this day. And it's directly headed our way, then?" Vosjka asked the specific.

"Yes sir, to be more precise, if it continues on that vector and speed, it will reach the WV station's center of gravity in 4 days."

Vojska raised an inquisitive eyebrow, turning to Marklew. "Mister Marklew, do you know anything about this?"

--

OOC: Sorry about the long delay. I'm STILL bleeding, which means I probably have something like oral infection or stiches coming undone or something equally pleasant. Damn wisdom teeth.

I killed off David Basis! A longtime character for me. Still, had to be done, I have too many floating around as it is.

WV, I took some liberties with the velocity and readings of Yves. Feel free to correct where wrong, and I'll change them.

Colonel Yorgieva keyed the response circuit, cutting off the gabble on the public frequency. "Da, we are already knowing this. Perhaps next time you tell us before shrapnel is threatening Mikoyan!"

She listened for a moment, then keyed Sergeant Hornsby's receiver into the comm-link. "You say large mass is heading for OMF city? What vector? Object is not communicating? Bojemoi!" Yorgieva cut the circuit and cursed viciously in Russian for several minutes. Feeling a little better, she keyed a report into the communications link to Heinlein and the EOE satellite grid, then cut Hornsby's circuit back in.

"You heard?" she asked.

"Yes, sir. I've got the engineers working on the modifications to the power room now."

"I have sent word to Headquarters. Molnya data shows Gagarin is on far side of planet."

Hornsby swore softly. "That means it's just us, then."

Yorgieva laughed, a harsh sound with no humor in it. "Da. Us and idiotic karachin in OMF city."

"Like I said, boss. Just us."

"Get power linkage set up, then put everyone in suits. Break out special weapons case."

Hornsby's voice was calm, almost happy as he replied. "Already in the works, sir. Soon as the techs get the system rigged, I'll be heading to One to meet you."

Yorgieva killed the circuit and began locking down airlocks throughout Mikoyan. She checked and armed the jettison circuits, then physically severed all power and communications links to OMF city. Keying the console to her helmet, she unbuckled from her seat and floated across the compartment to the storage locker and removed the small weapons crate Hornsby had brought up from Earth. She took four of the pistols and attached them to the hardpoints on her pressure suit. One at a time, she removed the green magazine from each weapon and replaced it with a red one taken from the crate.

"Perhaps should have named station Stalingrad" she thought to herself as she waited for the outcome of the race between Hornsby's modifications to the communications lasers and the unknown object hurtling toward OMF city. Arming herself with EOE's zero-gee hand weapons probably wouldn't affect the outcome of whatever happened next, but she was Russian, and felt immeasurably better with weapons at hand when the unknown came calling.

Command and Control Center, DomLBeF Military Battle Platform Reciprocity
35,786km above mean sea level

In a chamber lit by harsh red lights, men in jumpsuits man consoles. Since there is no artificial gravity, space has been used to its full extent - every wall is a floor, with computer access terminals and chairs attached to them. In the center of the room lasers project a 3-D globe image of trajectories and intercepts, of located targets and projected courses.

"Commander? We're getting sensor data in from the Jameson's high-gain arrays - now that their equipment is operational, we're getting great intel. We've got confirmation on operational capacity - LIDAR reports from Victoria Station. And as soon as it came online, we got something. Something unusual is going on at the Santa Barbaran orbital construction facility. We've got emissions consistent with Menelmacari gravitational drives." The reporting console-jockey, a woman by the name of Julia Hernadez, sends the information to the tactical display at the center of the room.

"Give me a camera feed from the nearest Ghost satellite," replies the commander, a light-set man in his late thirties, as he straps himself into his command chair. He inspects the highly enhanced digital image from the sensor satellite nearest to the SB OMF station. "Has this got anything to do with the massive loads that WV have had shot into orbit by our Isla Meridia catapult? They paid a ton of money, and had some very odd requirements."

Another technician replies, this one controlling the communications and information exchange systems. "Nothing from Cape Tobago Control about what's going on. The last launches happened about a week ago." The lights from his blinking screens highlight his face in odd oranges and greens as he speaks. He is nearly interrupted by a shout from the woman who originally gave the warning. "Woah! Weaponsfire, weaponsfire. The Jameson's Argus satellite network reports large-scale emission of directed electromagnetic energy in the microwave range. LIDAR is reporting particulate scatter around the OMF - we have an impact, something hit the OMF complex, we've got very slight orbit shifts - they're compensating with stationkeeping thrusters."

The commander rubs his head. "Are they under attack? From what?"
"I can't say, sir. Might have been an accident."

The communications officer pipes up again: "Sir, ground control reports that the large contact they believed to be an erratic asteroid definitly isn't. It's on an intercept course for the WV construction, ETA 4 days on current vector and speed. Er... if it misses it, it might hit the planet, sir, and it's large."

The commander looks at the tactical screen and his now much more complicated situation, and makes a command decision. "Call ground control for orders, and have Vicky launch a pair of Akito fighters to do a nice and cautious flyby. Tell them to keep at least a thousand klicks away. Space is free, but there are limits."

Hangar Bay One, DomLBeF Eyrie Class Carrier Platform Victoria Station

Klaxons howl and spinning amber warning lights paint the walls with streaks of orange. Crewmen run to decouple fuelling hoses as the suited pilots clamber into their command chambers, connect their virtual cockpit systems, and shiver as they feel the cold embrace of the aerogel fill the space around their flat-lying bodies.

"Good for launch, clear the bay!" shouts the Flight Control Officer. Suited crewmen head to the airlocks and dog them closed as the FCO starts the pumps which labour to depressurise the hangar. The hangar door slides open, and with a blast of compressed air the two functional yet sleek Akito class space combat craft are pushed outside of the metallic embrace of their mother station. After a few seconds to clear the hangar and local space, the pilots kick in their ships' twin beam ion thrusters, harnessing the power of their ships' fusion reactors for motive force.

Their limited combat craft's computer systems recieve a download of navigational information from the mother station, and with a squirt or two of chemical propellant for orientation, blast out past the station and towards the scene of interest. Their 'hands' reach up in their virtual cockpits to press down a pair of 'switches', turning their Identify Friend or Foe (IFF) transponders from 'Transmit on Friendly Query' to 'Transmit Constant', identifying their position and identification data to all rather than just those with the appropriate trigger code.

"Red One has two beams hot and normal, fusion plant inside safety boundaries, on-course and running smooth. Estimated Time to Intercept six minutes."

"Red Two confirms and concurs. Situation normal."

Bishop Marklew looked confused at the question fired at him by Vojska.

What the hell? I don't even know what that means! Gravitic distortion? 130 clicks per second?

"I ... "

Wait. "It looks alive, sir."

"I know what it is, I think." He sounded calm, not at all as if he was hoping that his tenuous connection was correct. "It's the first of our biofleet - actually produced on Terra, capable of bringing itself up here and adapting to the environment. That is - it might be. Can you get me visual? If it looks like a manta ray or a sphere, I'm right. If not ... I dunno."

Well, I might be right.

He hurriedly got out his communications device and punched through some messages.


Meanwhile, the giant manta ray floated benignly through space, magnetic signatures high, gravitic distortions medium, heat emission negligible.

OOC:
more detailed description in the referenced thread.

"Does it look like a manta ray, or a sphere?" Vojska calmly relays to Williams. She confirms it.

"In that case, kindly inform all those concerned that this is... scheduled," TCS Vojska says, "All forces are to remain at alert until the wreckage is cleared. Give CSAR drones a few more hours to find any survivors, but I think by now there will be none. CA teams to the breeched areas, secure facilities so we can unlock the damn OMF City."

Specific Williams reports, "Sir, we've just lost all communications with the Mikoyan!"

Vojska growls. "What's malfunctioning now?" This was getting worse. Just when he figured it was safe from the WV 'Bioship.'

"Systems optimal. They terminated connections on their end. I only just now noticed it, sir, could have been up to ten minutes earlier."

Vojska strokes his chin, thinking. What could they be up to? And the last they knew, the bioship was some sort of threat. Now that was false-- at least, Vojska hoped it was false-- and the Evil Overlordians were not aware. Problem, he thought laconically.

"Sensor and comm data also confirm DomLBeF fighters from Victoria Station approaching. Looks like they're keeping an eye on things up here, sir."

Great. Just what I need, more eyes glued to my every fucking action. "Ah, Bishop Marklew," Vosjka said in a soft voice. "Do we have any way of communicating with the bioship? And more importantly, does it have any way of transmitting an IFF? If not... well, we could have a problem, Bishop."

Suddenly the section that the Vrakians were in began a lock-down sequence. Doors at either end of the passageway sealed up. Jim, with his military training immediately, instinctively went to the sidearm - the Ort-2 semiautomatic - that the Santa Barbarians provided. Ron began to furiously query the computer while Kim stayed in her corner - thinking that this trip was now cursed.

“Colonel Yorgieva, what is going on?” Stanton’s face on the console was an unpleasant- and unexpected- surprise. Yorgieva choked back the first three responses that came to mind and answered politely.

“Gospodin Stanton, I am busy.”

“Colonel, I am also busy- or I was until you disconnected the entire commgrid. I demand to know why my dataflow to Heinlein was cut off!”

Yorgieva had a great many things to deal with at the moment, and Stanton’s disturbance was not a welcome addition. With the patience only a Russian could manage, she responded. “GospodinStanton, is military situation. All communications circuits restricted to military use until crisis is over.”

Stanton was a starry-eyed caricature of the absent-minded scientist, but he was most definitely not stupid. It took him barely an eye blink to change gears. “Please feed the data to my console here in the Core and I’ll see what I can do to help.”

Yorgieva blinked twice in surprise, then piped the DataStream to Stanton’s terminal. “Bolshoi spaceba, Gospodin. Direct channel open for input at any time.” Keying Stanton off the commgrid, Yorgieva turned to see Sergeant Hornsby towing a large crate through the hatch to tube 1-4. She arched an eyebrow. Hornsby nodded.

“Just what we figured, Colonel. Small arms, only. They all have red magazines, though.” He latched the crate down near the console and strapped himself into the chair opposite Yorgieva. “Anything new?”

“Nyet. Object still on course to Earth-Luna system. Molnya data says object is not on collision orbit. Gagarin preparing to boost out of orbit to intercept.” Hornsby started to pull up the orbital data. The Colonel shook her head. “Nyet. Object will be in orbit before Gagarin leaves radar shadow of planet.”

Hornsby slumped in his seat. “What now, boss?”

“Am authorized to use best judgement from headquarters. Modifications are complete?”

“System is hot, sir. Got one of the Engineers babysitting the ‘kettle’ to make sure there aren’t any problems.”

Yorgieva thought for a moment. She badly needed data she didn’t have. Stanton’s serendipitous call gave her the faint possibility that the academicians and engineers in the Core might have come up with something. “Privyet, Gospodin Stanton. You have something?”

“Colonel, I have analyzed the Molnya returns, and there’s a strange pattern to the lidar echo.”

“Which means?”

“I am still unsure. I may be able to tell you more if we could use one of our comm-lasers to bounce a signal off the object. I have ordered my technicians to orient the Lab’s sensors to the commgrid. We should be able to get a spectrometer reading from the object’s surface.”

Yorgieva was impressed. Her initial low opinion of Stanton had been formed by his reaction to micro gravity and seeming uselessness since, but this was an excellent suggestion and she told him so. “Comm unit three is at your disposal, Gospodin. Good luck.” She turned to Hornsby with a question in her eyes.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t look at me, sir. I thought he was a waste of atmosphere, too.”

On the hull of Mikoyan, a small emitter turned toward interplanetary space. Unlike every movie and TV show ever written, no visible beam showed in the vacuum. Time passed as the laser beam traversed the distance to the unknown object, reflected from its surface, and returned to the sensors surrounding the emitter.

Yorgieva’s direct channel from Stanton blinked to life. “Colonel, we have analyzed the laser return data.” The Colonel waited silently. Stanton’s face was flushed with excitement. “We may have a First Contact situation, here.”

Hornsby swore loudly, and Yorgieva’s face grew stern. “Am not in mood for jokes about BEMs and LGMs, Gospodin.”

“I assure you Colonel, that I am not joking. The laser return indicated a fairly refractive surface with a high albedo … in other words, the laser energy was scattered so thoroughly by the object’s surface that we could get very little spectrograph data. At 1.637 seconds after contact, the beam was re-focused back to us.”

Yorgieva swore to herself in Russian. Hornsby was cursing fluently in at least three other languages. Their orders most assuredly did not cover this. Shaking her head, the Colonel asked, “Did you detect signal other than returning laser?”

Stanton was watching some equipment out of Yorgieva’s line of sight as he replied. “No, Colonel. The only interesting part is the fact that the signal was slightly blue-shifted- which is understandable since the object is moving toward …”

The rest of Stanton’s words were lost as Yorgieva’s mind experienced the mental equivalent of a very heavy pressure. The effect lasted several subjective minutes, but when her eyes and ears cleared, the console clock indicated it had lasted a little over one second.

Hornsby was holding his head in his hands, his palms covering his eyes. On the screen, Stanton was floating in the middle of the camera view. His mouth was open and saliva dribbled out and formed floating spheroids that drifted around the lab.

Yorgieva hit the “General Alarm” button and held it down. After seeing Hornsby react, she released the button and announced over the intercom, “All personnel report status to One on circuit 5.”

Hornsby sat in his chair and shook his head slowly. “Damn, sir. I don’t know what the Hell that was, but I got no interest in ever finding out.” Yorgieva nodded in agreement as she tallied the replies. The Engineers reported the same effects she had experienced. Stanton was just now coming back to consciousness, and the Core assistants were reporting a variety of effects in between the two extremes.

She keyed the intercom again. “Check station for damage. Tell Stanton to report when he is well.” She turned to Hornsby. “Send Priority message to Heinlein and Headquarters. Possible First Contact situation. Object presumed alien spacecraft. Attempt at contact with comm-laser resulted in possible telepathic response.”

Hornsby’s eyebrow rose at that. Yorgieva nodded. “Has happened before. All EOE military personnel have overload circuits installed in implants to prevent telepathic espionage.” Hornsby nodded as he digested this news. Yorgieva continued. “Advise headquarters to contact OMF city and relay message also.”

While the Sergeant started sending the messages Yorgieva brought the power plant up to full operating power and tested the circuits. Perhaps the BEMs were friendly, perhaps not. She intended to be ready for either case. While Hornsby sent out his encrypted messages, the Colonel typed in a very special series of commands to the central control console.

Sylvenna Yorn decided to leave OMF Type 1, #13. The body of Mack Garcia, thanks to Sir Isaac Newton, stayed in place where she left it, saving him the indignity of floating around the pod crashing into things. As it was, his blood travelled out from the scene in blobs, like little spaceships sent to colonize the universe, splattering against the various composite-metal panels and electronic boards, pipes and machinery.

The shooters body had been flung backward by the force of the projectiles. Parts of him bounced off the walls morbidly or hung in front of her as she made her desperate way out of the OMF.

So, Sylvenna, a voice asked in her head, where are we off to now?

The shooters body wasn't uniformed, but she suspected it had been a security guy. Someone working for her father, perhaps. He left awfully quick, didn't he?

But it was too risky. As it was, she was hit, bleeding. Red lights were blinking throughout the corridor-like OMF connecting to hers. She felt a strange sense of craziness at the unreality of it all, when....

Ka-boom! Ker-splash! Bang!

A loud, jarring, crashing sound came echoing throughout OMF City. On the other side of it, a Wisp was crashing into the OMF. A few seconds later, after a very short silence which seemed to last forever to Sylvenna, and a reverberating explosion seemed to make her jaws shudder.

A klaxon now began to sound. Or perhaps it had been going all along, and she merely hadn't noticed it over the gunfire and blood and the thumping of her heart. Immediately, however, her mind grasped the reality of the situation.

The important part of reality, that is. While she wasn't sure what was happening-- her mind offered up everything from "this tottering collection of buckets is under attack" to "maybe someone's gravitic experiment went wrong... again"-- she was certain this was a major emergency.

Didn't he say something about the Vrakians? Going to the meeting pod for today... the same one you got here on..

She nodded, light-headed but her vision clearing. Yes, he didn't mention the specifics, but they had been on the message screen he was reading.

Then go after him... this is our time... but first take care of this bleeding you seem to be doing.

In the odd timewarp that is space, both the huge biocreatures headed for the Orbital Manufacturing Facility finally arrive at their destination - close to New Babel. Distantly, on the surface below, two more shapes - the last of their kind - spring out of the roiled ocean surface, and ascend towards the Heavens.

“Argh,” said an exasperated Ron, “I keep getting the same answer. Control says that someone will pick us up soon but that was hours ago.”

“Gee, sure glad we still have air,” quipped Kim who rummaged around in her emergency food rations.

“That’s enough Kim,” barked Jim, “Ron, why were we locked down here?”

“Well, the best I could figure out from the system was that there was some kind of explosion. Probably an automatic response to minimize damage.”

“Makes sense. After all, this is, from the mission briefings that I read, the Santa Barbarians first space station.”

“Yeah, but an explosion? In space?” chirped Kim.

“For Murphy’s sake, accidents happen. Sure, the danger is greater due to the fact that a puncture, even a little one, could result in decompression and loss of life. Space is risky, okay? Besides, you voluntarily signed up, remember?”

Sylvenna applied the tournaquets <sp> as best she could; they wouldn't hold, and she had a feeling (pain) that she would definitely need medical assistance soon. But her half-elven biology was helping her greatly even now, and she made her way down the red-lit connective OMF tunnels, wondering what had happened in the larger world around her.

The dizzying lights and sounds continued for some time, and she felt her consciousness slip and vision grow hazy. She did her best to focus. It didn't help that all the OMF airlocks were sealed shut. There was no getting through them; even if she was willing to use force, it would take a helluva lot more than to penetrate ordinary steel or titanium. OMFs may be buckets,she thought, but at least they don't fly apart like aluminum alloy cargo modules.

She came to an airlock to her left. Shut, of course. But it was occupied and the other side was pressurized. The airlock would be solid, but she figured if she pounded hard enough on it someone would notice the feint thumping through the metal.

She pounded her hand against it strongly, clingingly desperately to a utility pole to avoid the reaction from flinging her backward. But each hit was weaker; the blood loss was still too much to cope with, and before she could hit a seventh time, she passed out.
--

OOC: Here’s hoping this is my cue… :)

“Shut up,” hissed Ron, cocking his ear to the airlock, “Did you hear that?”

Kim and Jim stopped their quarrel and hesitated, straining to hear. The section seemed eerily quiet.

“There is it again”
“Damn! Someone’s pounding on the airlock!”
“Or something.”
“Shut it Kim. Ron, can you open it?”
“I’ll try.”
“Is that such a good idea?”
“Shut up.”

The lock opened and air began rushing out. A computerized voice could be heard,

“Warning. Lock 52 opened. Decompression danger level orange. Manual override engaged. Warning…”

“F---! Look around! What the hell?”

Jim could then see Sylvenna’s body slowly floating away from the utility pole.

“Grab her! Grab her!

Together, Ron and Jim pulled Sylvenna into their section. Kim rushed to their side and, with her first aid training springing into gear, listened for her breathing, checked her pulse and began examining the tourniquet while Ron scrambled back to the terminal and shut the airlock.

“What the hell happened to her?” exclaimed Jim as he held her down so she wouldn’t float away. Turning to Jim he ordered, “Get on the horn and tell them we found one of their own. Pretty bad shape too. Request medical help pronto.”

Ron nodded and began to punch away at the computer terminal again.

OOC: Nicely timed. 8)

<later IC response goes here.>

Orbital Manufacturing Facilities Construct Large Orbital Station

OMF City The nondescript OMFs (Orbital Manufacturing Facilities), maintaining an intricate structure in geosynchronous earth orbit, have completed their first major project in coordination with the International Developments Group and the Whispering Voices government.

The project, code-named and ominous until now, is the largest space construction ever to have been built by the PCC, weighing in at [censored] metric tons. New Babel serves as a platform for the very latest in WV/PCC technologies research and orbital infrastructure.

"The project has had its bumps and turns," said Eric Love, director of the IDG, "but it has been completed. We now have to hand it over to the WV government, which is a pity for many of us who've grown accustomed to its presence during its construction. But, this signals a new age in space technology development, adding a new launch platform for the next PCC/WV steps into space."

While the Chief Executive Offices have not officially acknowledged the construction or development of New Babel, it is certain to have been a vast project which, now complete, will allow the OOTG to resume development of Santa Barbarian orbital projects.

OMF City, the name given to the collection of OMFs gathered for the stations construction, will continue to serve PCC interests, government authorities said. However, it is unlikely they will retain their current state of connection. "OMFs are designed as singular, but modular, outposts for various orbital operations, and will continue to serve in this function as long as they are suited to it," Love told reporters.

--

Sylvenna's eyes flutter open as the faces of two men and a woman float (literally) into view. "Did- did I pass out?... must be the blood loss..."

Seeing their obvious concern, she adds, "I... I think I'll be ok, I..." but here she encounters an inner voice warning her not to give out her half-elven heritage to just anybody, "I heal well," she finishes lamely.

On the computer terminal behind Jim, a Spec. Williams' response comes through with a soft bleep.

Identify patient verablly or using the DNA recognition hardware. Apply first aid. Staff has been alerted; please state specifics of your emergency so that we can prepare and respond optimally.

--

Sylvenna's father, Eldebrath Yorn, Financial Inspections Committee Representative, has had enough. Not only was Love's pet project a cost-nightmare, but Vojska would even now be trying to cover it up so he could look good for the falsified news reports back home and impress Bob Pratt. Yorn makes the decision to open up a private line to Bob Pratt.

He knows that Vojska, being the paranoid control-freak he is, will have already blocked or at least be monitoring closely any incoming or outgoing messages. Luckily, he has brought with him a small, cutting-edge state of the art quantum communications device which can be neither covertly nor overtly monitored without disrupting the signal in a very telling way.

It does require an external power source, of course, and that the receiver, in this case Bob Pratt, is able to read the message. MetaPrattOne is the backbone of the whole operation, and handles it beautifully.

Assuming...

Yorn hooks the optical network up into the OMF console. This is no easy task in itself; but he has done it often enough that he doesn't need a manual. Success! the QCD lights up subtly and is operational. He writes a short letter; short because of the low-data rate transfer of such highly encrypted messages.

Pratt:

Situation unsatisfactory; Vojska inept reqs replacement; FICR recmnd full fin. withdrawal.


Short, to the point, Bob likes it that way so this will do, Yorn thinks. He hits the "send" function. But instead of sending, the console tells him,

User ident authorization unrecognized. COMMPRIV may have been disabled for this session. Contact CO for details.

He didn't... Eldebrath tells himself, unbelieveing. He can't do this! Not legally, not.... that fucking bastard!

Vojska has already disabled his communications priveledges.

Sylvenna's eyes flutter open as the faces of two men and a woman float (literally) into view. "Did- did I pass out?... must be the blood loss..."

Seeing their obvious concern, she adds, "I... I think I'll be ok, I..." but here she encounters an inner voice warning her not to give out her half-elven heritage to just anybody, "I heal well," she finishes lamely.

On the computer terminal behind Jim, a Spec. Williams' response comes through with a soft bleep.

Identify patient verablly or using the DNA recognition hardware. Apply first aid. Staff has been alerted; please state specifics of your emergency so that we can prepare and respond optimally.


“What’s your name?” asked Jim while searching for some kind of tag or ID card, “Your people need it so they can send an emergency team.”

Meanwhile, Kim was scanning Sylvenna more throughly and probing gently. Then she floated over to the console and reported,

“The patient has suffered two gunshot wounds. No exit markings which indicates either low velocity or softpoint ammunition. Right hand and left shoulder suffered extensive injuries. Severe loss of blood. Tourniquet in place. Request immediate ER team."

Ron was fiddling with the “DNA recognition hardware.” She’s too far to put her thumbprint on the scanner or for a retinal scan. Ah…this microphone can be unclipped.

Ron removed the microphone and, with the extension cord trailing behind, sailed back to Sylvenna.

“Speak into the mic,” he prompted.

OOC: Would Kim be able to tell something different about the patient being that she is half-elf? I mean, Kim might be able to say, "Hey, she looks rather strange."

OOC: Yeah, probably. I'm not too sure on elf biology, but I think the idea on NS is generally that they have some sort of really good immune and body healing systems, maybe aided by (I dont know. Nanobots? Magic?).

The majestic hulk of the spacestation New Babel drifted above the Devil's Desert, guarded by the five monolithic creatures, their huge span cloaking it from view as they maintained their eternal watch and complementing the regional orbital defences.

A grim sight, the rippling morphing flesh: yet, deep within it, a miracle took place - the first birth. A tiny, tiny creature - no more than a centimetre long - came mewling and crying into the world, its voice barely leaving the confines of its crystalline egg. It was thin, and fine, and glowed with an intense heat that caused steam to rise up and mist the window of the observatory. And then, its brothers and sisters hatched. Individually, their voices were barely audible - the slightest disturbance. Together, the sound swelled up and rose - piping, and musical. They shivered as one, the newborns - feeling the first contact of their parent-mind, a behemoth outside. Propelled down the slick birthing canals by tiny stubby wings, the younglings shot into the cold void of space amidst spurts of amniotic fluid. Joy filled them as they met the heavens they had been created to explore: and they sang.

No normal music, of course; there were no molecules to pass it through the medium of vacuum. Instead, tiny organic resolvers held miniscule amounts of liquid hydrogen in centrifuges, spinning around at incredible speeds - ones so great that tiny bipolar gravimetric fields formed. Any one would have been insignificant, simply allowing the singer to fly through space should it have chosen. But together they amplified, resonated, spread out at the speed of light: and although they had no sound, the objects they touched would vibrate and make sound, as the grouped gravity wave travelled.

And the large, coiled, protective creatures unfurled their miles-long lengths, and taught them - the babies, the new Choir - how to sing. And they sang their first song, an infinite song that would travel throughout the universe along its vibrational tones. A song praising God: for where other nations produced ships of war and destruction, Whispering Voices had raised a most elegant and unusual tribute to the vast unknown: a living prayer, a collection of beings that lived to praise the Almighty.


http://raph.com/3dartists/artgallery/lo3.jpg (http://www.raph.com)

OOC:

apologies for the pic being a bit oversized.

OOC: Whispering Voices, no apologies since your pic is around middling size according to NS standards. As well, I have no clue what you’re up to but it is intriguing.

IC:

Kim went back to Sylvenna and loosened the tourniquet. Something a bit different about this one she though. The hair? No. The skin? No. But the eyes and the certainly the ears are different. Kim, being the scientist she is, was naturally intrigued but didn’t ask any questions due to Sylvenna’s weakened state. But she did mentally file this away and promised herself to look into it at an opportune time.

Jim was still asking Sylvenna who she was and how did she manage to get herself shot? His hand didn’t stray far from his holstered Ort-2 semiautomatic. Ron meanwhile was busy communicating with Santa Barbarian Control.

OOC: Whispering Voices, no apologies since your pic is around middling size according to NS standards. As well, I have no clue what you’re up to but it is intriguing.

Exactly what it seems like - making creatures that sing Psalms in space ^_^

Reclaimed from the archives

ooc:
Huh whats going on? This thread was over, I thought?

Though it IS a handy reference. Vojska is now in command of the Mars Fleet about to bomb Noachia.

And there's Sylvenna Yorn, who's currently being used for a little biowarfare thing.

And hey the OMF Cities (they're entirely residential/commercial now) might get caught up in the whole martian colonial rebellion thing.

Still...

ooc:
Huh whats going on? This thread was over, I thought?

As far as I know, it's still over, but it was too good a thread to be permitted to languish in the Archives. There was a lot of good writing here, so when I stumbled across it (while looking for something else), I rescued it.


TEO