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if Ory'hara were crippled...
Ory'Hara, Unabridged
A Escape Velocity Nova Fanfiction by Chris Jin
Prolouge: Waking.
People always congratulate me on getting so far despite being handicapped, or as one snide pundit put it, "legicapped". Getting so far? I never dreamed I would be a race sled pilot before my accident. I wanted to be a spacer, a trader, wandering among the stars. But a spacer has to be able bodied, ready to handle whatever extreme conditions arise. In the restriction of gravity, I am bound to my wheelchair, no problem when all I have to do is manipulate helm controls, but a serious handicap in loading cargo, and meeting potential employers. So I had to settle for half way. I can pilot, travel the stars even, but I'm still not a true spacer. No, I'm a racer pilot, bastard child of atmospheric craft operator and spacer. Like so much in my life, I have only half of what I dreamed of as a child. - Leslie Ann Jensen, private journal, October 24, 1176 NC
She rose from deep dark depths to rind herself standing level, on the open, lightly vegetated, windswept plain of an unfamiliar place. Blinking in the light of and unfamiliar sun, she held her hand up to shield her eyes and squinted into the distance. Before her, was a tableau of ancient buildings, worn down by erosion, and standing in the center of the ruins, a indistinct figure which seemed to radiate a presence she could feel, tingling against her skin. The figure, which had now resolved it's self into a humanoid as she got closer - she started; she hadn't realized she had begun to move closer- began to move, turning. . ."
<Sirrusa Station. December 4, 1177 NC>
Leslie awoke from her dream with a start, snapping up to a sitting position. Her hand came up to fell her brow, and came away with sweat. With a soft sigh, she eased herself back down, and checked her chronometer. 0837. With another sigh, she grabbed guide rail with her right hand while her left retrieved the control wand strapped to her thigh. "Red alert, your gonna fall, green light, your good to go, " she recited to herself, more out of habit than out of needing a mnemonic. Without looking, her finger found the green button that cut the Mara's Arti-grav*. Now floating in micro-gravity, she shifter her control wand to her teeth, and reached and braced her left hand on her wheelchair, then let go with her right and carefully pulled herself over, and positioned herself in the chair. Holding herself in place with her left hand, she used her right to take the wand from her mouth and press the red button. Gravity abruptly returned, and she felt the familiar pressure holding her in the seat once again. The control wand was returned to it's sheath, and she wheeled herself out of the room. She could have activated the wheelchair's motor function, but she preferred to work the muscles she could still control.
The Mara, despite being a Sigma Shipyards Heavy Shuttle, was more a home than a transport. The cargo hold had been abridged to make room for a larger kitchen and a living room of sorts. It was comfy, and there were definite perks to living in a shuttle. She could travel and take her home with her. She could entertain guests from different planets on the same week. And being able to turn off the gravity for a while when she was in space was wonderful, greatly reducing the crushing, helpless feeling she had from her condition. She hated the words that described her as being handicapped, disabled, crippled. She was capable as a pilot, as a thinker as a person. But people couldn't see past that. As so in a way, the Mara was a refuge from people; their stares, their condescension, their unwanted pity. And with the refurbished living quarters the ship now boasted, she could always take on passenger charters when she needed some extra cash. Not that she often did. She had nearly a quarter million credits in the bank from her seasonal occupation as a race pilot. The Sparrow's Cry, the Viper she had so lovingly hotrodded, was still on Diva, awaiting the next tourist season, the next round of insane high speed races through space and atmosphere alike. But for now, Leslie had a lot of free time on her hands. Not that she planned to do anything with it until after breakfast.
Breakfast was a simple affair. Orange juice, oatmeal, and oriental style pickled vegetables. Coffee never seemed to work for Leslie- adrenalin was the sole stimulant she seemed to thrive on-, but reading the recent news on the holo-com helped her mind get into gear. There was little of interest. The Congress was again dithering over proposed "tax reforms". The Aurorans had raided a Federation system and been soundly defeated. "Just like they have been for the last thirty years." Leslie's sarcasm was hardly underserved. If one actually believed that the Federation's victories were as great and common as the Hyper News Network suggested, the Auroran worlds ought to be well nigh out of ships already.
Sighing, she finished her orange juice and rolled to the cockpit. The room had been rebuilt to accommodate her wheelchair. The wheelchair slid smoothly into a pair of grooves in the floor, and various locks secured the wheelchair so it would not shift in flight, though that was mostly a backup against failure of the dampening field. Leslie keyed her comm. "Sirrusa Station, this is shuttle Mara, requesting undock clearance."
"Mara, this is Sirrusa, clearance granted. Take care Neko."
Leslie grinned at the nickname. Race fans knew her as Dragonfly, but among the kindly former miners and spacers who ran Sirrusa, she was Neko, the cat, never willing to fully settle down anywhere, yet often winning people's good will. A slight shudder went through the ship as the magnetic clamp deactivated, and she took the Mara out. Four minutes later she was in hyperspace.
()-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------()
<Bureau Central Database Facility, Earth. December 4, 1177 NC>
She closed her eyes, allowing herself to detach briefly from the perilous probabilities her mind had so painstakingly worked out, reveling in the warmth of her husband's body pressed tight against hers. But only for a moment. Then the brilliant mind that had made her such an asset to Federal intelligence, and later the Rebellion, went to work. It had been a calculated risk, staying in the Bureau, and passing information on. As a low level technician, she had not been subject to scrutiny by Vell-Os. But it was inevitable that the flow of information, once put to use, would come to the Bureau's attention. Her carefully set tripwires had alerted her, and she had halted operations and covered her tracks. But she was only buying time. She had to get out.
Her eyes opened, and she reluctantly detached herself from her husband's hug. The two stood in silence for a moment. "Can you get to your ship?"
He nodded. "I'm hardly under suspicion. And I can always go see her with the excuse of wanting to do some mechanical checks. But I can't just grab the Lark out of dock. I'd be caught immediately, and even if I got away. . . a Patrol Boat can't make it to safety without refueling."
"Don't worry, I have no intention of trying to escape on a Federal warship. . . But a distraction might prove useful."
"Ah. So do you think we can arrange passage with an independent captain."
"Oh, that would be easy enough. Now finding one we can trust. . . that might be harder"
"I assume that since you're talking, you have a plan?"
"Indeed. But that can wait. Spacers generally get stay in the bar 'till 11 at the earliest anyway, so. . ." The quirky half grin he found so cute emerged, causing her face to light up in the first time for days.
Discussion of escape plans was adjourned in favor of a more recreational activity.
Chapter 1: Encounters
I stepped off my ship onto the well-worn floor of the N-sector terminal docking tube #7 with a deep sense of foreboding. My dreams had been troubled, and now some hidden part of me seemed to tingle at a stimulus I could not identify. Though my rational mind saw nothing much changed from the dozens of other times I had been here, some part of me was sure that something was going to happen. Something big, although not altogether bad. Maybe someday I'll look back on this entry and laugh at how paranoid I was. Then again, maybe not. - Leslie Ann Jensen, private journal, December 5, 1176 NC
General Cade Smart frowned at the memo from Frandall. An operative extraction was always tricky, but this one was a active Bureau employee. He couldnt ask any of his men to tak on such a mission. . . Cade suddenly gave a start as he encountered a new paragraph. She was making her own escape? And seeking contact in Auroran space? He shook his head. If she could pull it off. . . He'd instruct his attaché with Heraan house to keep an eye open, but there was little else he could do. The woman would have to step carefully.
()-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------() <N-sector terminal, Kane Band, Earth, Sol. December 5, 1177 NC>
She was just a little frustrated. Reconnaissance of the 6 Independent Terminals, now on it's second day, had been fruitless. The spacers were mostly people who lived on the edge, choosing the lonely life in space out of love of solitude, or desire for adventure, or inability to stay in any one place for long. Few seemed to be the type that would take on a passenger charter on a small scale, as her carefully veiled inquiries (made while disguised of course) revealed. The few that would were either the mercenary sort who would turn her over to the Bureau in a eye-blink for a few thousand credits, or young hotheads whose reliability was in question. Most worked as free agents filling in the gaps in the shipping schedules for Sigma Shipyard or United Shipping, occasional ferrying passenger is they were going the same way. Running a simple cargo to a defensive military spacedock was more than most were willing to risk. And those who sought the danger were not the kind she could keep from ruining the cover she was depending on to make it out of federation space. It seemed that a charter flight into Auroran space would be hard to negotiate. She sighed, then headed for the elevator to leave the N-sector for the inner ring. She pushed the call button and waited impatiently for the car. "You're going to be waiting there for some time. The elevator for this sector is down," A voice behind her warned. She turned. There stood, well, sat, a young woman of about 25 in a wheelchair. "You'll have to use the one in O-sector. P-Sector is closed to the public." "Thanks" she said, embarrassed at the initial flash of irritation that she had been forced to reign in. "How do I get there?" "I'll take you." The girl in the wheelchair grinned. "I haven't anything else to do. No honeymooning couples looking for charter flights today." It took a good amount of will for her not to cry out in surprise. "You do charter flights?" The girl cocked an eyebrow at her. "Well, that's a change. Most people ask me 'you're a spacer?' first," she said, a note of amusement in her voice. "Interested in a charter by any chance?" "Well, yes. . . But I'm hoping to visit Auroran space. Not many spacers seem inclined to take me." The girl laughed. "I imagine not. Aurorans do have a tendency to fire first and ask questions later. Luckily for you, I have access to Auroran space. . . Apparently someone in Heraan house owes a friend of mine, and my friend arranged for me to get codes that let me visit Auroran space without being shot at for fun. I used, it too, to participate in a race in Rimerta." The girl stopped ,as though realizing that she had perhaps spoken too much. "I'll take you, since you you've been gracious enough not to comment on my. . . state" The girl gestured at her legs. Then she smiled and held out her hand. "My name is Leslie Jensen Mentally reciting a prayer of thanks, She took it. "Mika Chamberlain," she replied, giving the pseudonym she was using. "Thank you so much. I so wanted to take my husband to see Auroran space for our anniversary." "Ah, a surprise." Leslie's grin became a smile. "I wondered why you didn't just put a add out on the network Bulletin Board System." 'Mika' feigned embarrassment. "Yeah. If I'd known how hard this would be I would have." The two women shared a laugh, then started to walk, or in Leslie's case, roll, down the concourse. "So, Leslie, did you say you race?" "Yeah, though I mostly race in Diva. My call-sign is Dragonfly. . . Ever heard of me?"
<Kane Band Traffic Control Facility - Quadrant III, Earth. December 5, 1177 NC>
Mika made one last check to insure her tracks covered, then removed the memory transfer unit. Now, all she had to do was make the rendezvous with Leslie and she would be on her way out. . . so long as the Bureau didn't realize what she had done, until she was out of the system, she was as good as gold. She quietly let herself out. The program she had installed would wipe the logs that recorded that Mara's presence in N-terminal, as well as replace the video recordings of the area with one that showed no ships docked at tube 7, and would activate the next day, after she had, (hopefully), made it out of the system. The Bureau would note her absence within a day, of course, but the distractions her husband had programmed into his patrol boat would keep them from finding her trail immediately.
Author's Notes:
The plot thickens. I think you can see where this is leading. Leslie may soon be in a much less sporting sort of race. . . ^_~
First part outstanding. Second part a bit less flowing, but good work. Really outstanding start, Chris!
Guapo
Thanks
Welcome