A wall of screaming radiance, two lightyears across. An impassable FTL deadzone of sheer noise. At the center of the monster’s belly, her twin hearts: Rhoi and Hakahn; the beast who ate her children.
The first planet: Fury. Superheated gas-giant. Razor sharp iron rain. Coiled mercury core.
Inhospitable to life.
Second planet: Sheol. A hyperdense ocean of carbon dioxide.
Uncolonized.
Third event: Tsaba. Asteroid cluster. Methane gas. Methanesulfuric glass. Trihydrocarbon.
Organic compounds. No life.
Fourth planet: Entropy. Planetoid. Oxygen/Nitrogen composition. Battered by storms. Crashlandings of vessels. A junkyard of interstellar wreckage.
We don't talk about Entropy.
Drifting through the angry red clouds, scorched above by arcs of hot plasma billions of miles long — lightning thicker than nations and hotter than anything man-made — a primitive scaffolding of four shuttles, two large fuel pylons and mounting platforms slowly coasts at a factor of light-speed. Its hull is worn from the constant impacts at velocity. Vents, compartments, all sealed. Behind it, an enormous disc like shield: ejected hours ago, freely struck by the beyond white hot arms and hands of star thunder and stellar song, unimaginably massive in the grand cosmic dynamo.
The craft, seemingly scaffolding and hastily assembled elements was a precision built machine from older component: abandoning suicidal high energy electrical field modernity of space folding or high energy fusion that would surely call down upon the wrath of the dancing stars:
Simplicity, though so backwards and so dangerous was the one true saving grace of this pithy boat in the great inky void. Sailing on inertia. Riding gravity. Deflecting fragments -- all techniques of space-travel not seen in almost hundreds of years: a single inter-orbital correctional burn of hydrogen and positrons lasting hours on a ship largely made up of propellant, hopes and dreams.
Within the office block sized suicide box, A figure sat in forward compartment, watching the universe unfold in slow motion plumes of starbirth as the strange sensation called time caught up with them following stasis.
They waited, mind on their cargo — a battery of electronic coffins not like the beds they had arisen from as numbers drifted by on cathode borne thick wells of circular glass: radiant dials of amber, green and blue about the cabin lined by thick heavy switches. Hardened for the rage of the system as they fell into her gullet, drawn by gravity down deep into the belly of the monster — her womb and three children with destination.
Wrapped in skintight altex - devices and tools embedded straplessly, forming strange organesque bulks and flowing lines over their forms, one of those onboard hauled themselves weightlessly through a corridor — hand tightly gripping the motorized guide-rail. Shrapnel drifted past their vision - a bubble wrapped about their head, fingerish plates along cheekbone and jawline. Beneath, dark brown eyes and black hair, pale Yamataian features.
Hand to console, they hauled themselves up through an access hub at the centre of the small vessel’s neck into a docked shuttle serving as a control hub along with three others at its head. More metal. No sound whatsoever.
Working the controls was a pale figure, devoid of the same suit in little more than black material covering their body in a way almost product-like, disappearing into gradient: Their skin devoid of offending areas and their exterior like some finely airbrushed motor vehicle — a lithe adolescent construct with ruffled white hair and dark cerise eyes.
Pale globs of liquid sang through the air of its blood. A panel had blown out and had been forcefully repaired though the white smears suggested with great difficulty during the intense decompression. Foam, welding and backup panels covered the surface: Small spherical machines on thin wires outside sparks flying as they sealed up the hull from outside.
“For fuck's sake... Alright, alright. We’ll be fine - we can do guidance computation ourselves without telescopic triangulation -- we're meant to be self-sufficient. Do you know the scale of the power struggle?"
"White moon is under lockdown until further notice."
The pattering became louder. Voices were now shouting to be heard.
"Nobody in, nobody out; GREAT. I’m getting back into the freezer until this shit blows over. Wake me up when we approach around 2 A.U. of the terminal structure or whenever you think I should give anything even remotely resembling a shit about this entire goddamn mission.”
“That’s against protocol. You’re meant to be wide awake and physical.”
“Objection: If we’re struck, we are either sublimated on contact, rendered with radiation poisoning or I’m stranded in a dying ship. As the only true member and living person onboard this fucking mission, I reserve and demand my right to pass away peacefully in my sleep in the event of catastrophic fuckup on your part, rather than be subjected to the truly unimaginable horrors of interstellar travel. You’re more than qualified to run this miserable antiquated crate, aren’t you? ”
“Rhetorical response suggests stress. So this is for the purpose of psychological hygine, which will be essential on arrival, am I understanding correctly?”
The figure in the suit sighed, lumbering as they spoke over the comms, already skulking back down the corridor miserably.
“…Yes. For god’s sake YES. How many times do I have to explain this goddamn shit to you? What is WRONG with you? Was your construct based on a total fucking idiot?”
“...Your objection is noted. MOTHER reports you are permitted two months in stasis.”
“Finally, lord have mercy. Like I even need to ask - I outrank you — I’m a person, you’re equipment. I don’t even want to be here.”
“Technically, you do outrank me but I am capable of direct over-authorization for the purpose of your wellbeing as a primary asset of the mission, as authorized by the Librarian and the Physician.”
“…Get fucked.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh and and if you get that modem working, tell that stuck up bitch Librarian to go fuck herself too for roping me into this cacophony of suicidal bullshit. As for the physician, she's too cripple and fucking bent to even fuck herself.”
“Message to be relayed on transmission availability and objection to mission spec is noted."
“Don't you play coy with me. Go fuck yourself, you sardonic sack of shit. And if I ever meet the miserable Lorath sack of shit template you're based on, fuck her too.”
"Sleep well, commander.”
The first planet: Fury. Superheated gas-giant. Razor sharp iron rain. Coiled mercury core.
Inhospitable to life.
Second planet: Sheol. A hyperdense ocean of carbon dioxide.
Uncolonized.
Third event: Tsaba. Asteroid cluster. Methane gas. Methanesulfuric glass. Trihydrocarbon.
Organic compounds. No life.
Fourth planet: Entropy. Planetoid. Oxygen/Nitrogen composition. Battered by storms. Crashlandings of vessels. A junkyard of interstellar wreckage.
We don't talk about Entropy.
Drifting through the angry red clouds, scorched above by arcs of hot plasma billions of miles long — lightning thicker than nations and hotter than anything man-made — a primitive scaffolding of four shuttles, two large fuel pylons and mounting platforms slowly coasts at a factor of light-speed. Its hull is worn from the constant impacts at velocity. Vents, compartments, all sealed. Behind it, an enormous disc like shield: ejected hours ago, freely struck by the beyond white hot arms and hands of star thunder and stellar song, unimaginably massive in the grand cosmic dynamo.
The craft, seemingly scaffolding and hastily assembled elements was a precision built machine from older component: abandoning suicidal high energy electrical field modernity of space folding or high energy fusion that would surely call down upon the wrath of the dancing stars:
Simplicity, though so backwards and so dangerous was the one true saving grace of this pithy boat in the great inky void. Sailing on inertia. Riding gravity. Deflecting fragments -- all techniques of space-travel not seen in almost hundreds of years: a single inter-orbital correctional burn of hydrogen and positrons lasting hours on a ship largely made up of propellant, hopes and dreams.
Within the office block sized suicide box, A figure sat in forward compartment, watching the universe unfold in slow motion plumes of starbirth as the strange sensation called time caught up with them following stasis.
They waited, mind on their cargo — a battery of electronic coffins not like the beds they had arisen from as numbers drifted by on cathode borne thick wells of circular glass: radiant dials of amber, green and blue about the cabin lined by thick heavy switches. Hardened for the rage of the system as they fell into her gullet, drawn by gravity down deep into the belly of the monster — her womb and three children with destination.
Wrapped in skintight altex - devices and tools embedded straplessly, forming strange organesque bulks and flowing lines over their forms, one of those onboard hauled themselves weightlessly through a corridor — hand tightly gripping the motorized guide-rail. Shrapnel drifted past their vision - a bubble wrapped about their head, fingerish plates along cheekbone and jawline. Beneath, dark brown eyes and black hair, pale Yamataian features.
Hand to console, they hauled themselves up through an access hub at the centre of the small vessel’s neck into a docked shuttle serving as a control hub along with three others at its head. More metal. No sound whatsoever.
Working the controls was a pale figure, devoid of the same suit in little more than black material covering their body in a way almost product-like, disappearing into gradient: Their skin devoid of offending areas and their exterior like some finely airbrushed motor vehicle — a lithe adolescent construct with ruffled white hair and dark cerise eyes.
Pale globs of liquid sang through the air of its blood. A panel had blown out and had been forcefully repaired though the white smears suggested with great difficulty during the intense decompression. Foam, welding and backup panels covered the surface: Small spherical machines on thin wires outside sparks flying as they sealed up the hull from outside.
“What’s the situation?” the figure in the space-suit called out with a slight gruff to their voice -- speaking loudly over the drumming sound of metal against the hull like heavy rain.
“Hull ok, environment returning to normal within the hour.”
“Cause?”
“The frontal blast-shield didn’t purge cleanly at stage 2 — one of the percussive bolts didn’t go off so we had to sever it manually using the third backup. We struck the resulting debris.”
“So the Rook isn’t quite ready for prime-time. How’s payload?”
“Intact, zero losses. Power had to be re-routed from the ignition systems but the collectors are green and our trajectory changes have already been calculated and implemented.”
“Space without distortion or FTL is agony… The modem?”
“No damage. Its functional, actually… Well…”
“Go on.”
“We failed to establish contact with Nursery One. We believe a power-struggle is in progress but there’s not much more we can tell than that. Phantasmagorica may be compromised.”
A deep sigh, head rocked back. Deep deep breaths. Focus. Thinking, thinking...“Hull ok, environment returning to normal within the hour.”
“Cause?”
“The frontal blast-shield didn’t purge cleanly at stage 2 — one of the percussive bolts didn’t go off so we had to sever it manually using the third backup. We struck the resulting debris.”
“So the Rook isn’t quite ready for prime-time. How’s payload?”
“Intact, zero losses. Power had to be re-routed from the ignition systems but the collectors are green and our trajectory changes have already been calculated and implemented.”
“Space without distortion or FTL is agony… The modem?”
“No damage. Its functional, actually… Well…”
“Go on.”
“We failed to establish contact with Nursery One. We believe a power-struggle is in progress but there’s not much more we can tell than that. Phantasmagorica may be compromised.”
“For fuck's sake... Alright, alright. We’ll be fine - we can do guidance computation ourselves without telescopic triangulation -- we're meant to be self-sufficient. Do you know the scale of the power struggle?"
"White moon is under lockdown until further notice."
The pattering became louder. Voices were now shouting to be heard.
"Nobody in, nobody out; GREAT. I’m getting back into the freezer until this shit blows over. Wake me up when we approach around 2 A.U. of the terminal structure or whenever you think I should give anything even remotely resembling a shit about this entire goddamn mission.”
“That’s against protocol. You’re meant to be wide awake and physical.”
“Objection: If we’re struck, we are either sublimated on contact, rendered with radiation poisoning or I’m stranded in a dying ship. As the only true member and living person onboard this fucking mission, I reserve and demand my right to pass away peacefully in my sleep in the event of catastrophic fuckup on your part, rather than be subjected to the truly unimaginable horrors of interstellar travel. You’re more than qualified to run this miserable antiquated crate, aren’t you? ”
“Rhetorical response suggests stress. So this is for the purpose of psychological hygine, which will be essential on arrival, am I understanding correctly?”
“…Yes. For god’s sake YES. How many times do I have to explain this goddamn shit to you? What is WRONG with you? Was your construct based on a total fucking idiot?”
“...Your objection is noted. MOTHER reports you are permitted two months in stasis.”
“Finally, lord have mercy. Like I even need to ask - I outrank you — I’m a person, you’re equipment. I don’t even want to be here.”
“Technically, you do outrank me but I am capable of direct over-authorization for the purpose of your wellbeing as a primary asset of the mission, as authorized by the Librarian and the Physician.”
“…Get fucked.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh and and if you get that modem working, tell that stuck up bitch Librarian to go fuck herself too for roping me into this cacophony of suicidal bullshit. As for the physician, she's too cripple and fucking bent to even fuck herself.”
“Message to be relayed on transmission availability and objection to mission spec is noted."
“Don't you play coy with me. Go fuck yourself, you sardonic sack of shit. And if I ever meet the miserable Lorath sack of shit template you're based on, fuck her too.”
"Sleep well, commander.”