Your browser does not seem to support JavaScript. As a result, your viewing experience will be diminished, and you have been placed in read-only mode.
Please download a browser that supports JavaScript, or enable it if it's disabled (i.e. NoScript).
In celebration of my 400th post and incredibly inflated ego ;): I give you the second sci-fi story on the ColdStone webboards: False Dawn.
Captain Gregory Whitehawk sat at the helm, his arms draped luxuriously over the arms of the padded chair. The tiny repulsors hidden in the chairs seat and in its back gave him a feeling of weightlessness, as if he could move as easily as a spry young man again. But he couldnt. He was nearly into his eightieth year, and his hair was both graying and receding. His muscles had degenerated into flab for the most part, and Gregory was happy that he still hadnt had his mid-life crisis. Or maybe he had, and just hadnt recognized it. The repulsors, of course, were useless in deep space, even a liability, but here in the gravity well created by ST 502, they were the epitome of comfort. His ship, the Angler, had recently been upgraded with the latest hardware and software, giving it an edge in both style and functionality.
Another product of the revisions was the immense holo-screen that rose before him. Whereas the original specifications for the ship, a class M Piston, had called for a transparent view port with system readouts displayed on the LCD screens for the applicable crew members, this upgrade allowed for each systems status to be projected by hologram onto the bridge view port, as well.
Leaning back in the chair, Gregory held out a mug emblazoned with I kicked Warlord Fenris butt at Centauri, and said, Coffee. Brazil nut, black. The requested drink appeared in the cup, already steaming, and Gregory took a long sip. The hot water burning on its passage down his throat, but Gregory paid it no mind. He was used to the drink, as his post required him to work long hours. Coffee helped make that task easier. Much easier.
The device that served the drink did not create it, but rather used a short-range teleport from the galley. The technology was new, and scientists were still trying to perfect it. It had been considered to modify it into a personal transportation device, but the lab mice that were sent through came out dead. The official report was that the brain had not restarted, due to the lack of nervous impulses in the mouse. But he could not help but think that it was because it lacked a soul. The food teleporter had cost a good five thousand Euros, due to its newness. But Gregory made enough to justify it. His line of work paid well.
Gregory looked down at the drink, savoring its scent. He would drink the substance more often if it tasted half as good as it smelled. As it was, the drink was good for staying alert, and nothing more. And seeing as how other stimulants were either heavily controlled and regulated, coffee was the best he could get.
He reached out his hand to press a button on the monitor sitting in front of the chair, causing the LCD to spring to life, as the familiar chime of his ships operating system blared out at him. Grimacing and holding his ears in pain, he hastily turned the volume dial down. The blasted computer was nearly as hard to operate as his holo-vision set. He glared at the various crew members that chuckled at his discomfort. Most other captains would have reprimanded the crew on the spot, but Gregory was known as very easy going. His subordinates knew they wouldnt get a better job, or salary, anywhere else, so they didnt take advantage of him. And they also knew how to keep control when in a tough spot. With another button press and a smile, the keyboard for the main computer popped out with a soft hiss.
Gregory rested his fingers on the keys, and waited for the system software, all 10 peta-bytes of it, to load up.
While whistling a jolly tune, a fast up-beat piece that was currently the hit song from a band from Ganymede, he gazed out at the crew. Sitting at piloting was a young man from one of the worlds orbiting Centauri. He had jet black hair, and laser tattoos traced greenish patterns on his face. Gregory was never one for self mutilation, but he could tolerate it.
The weapons officer was a native of Earth, from the region known as Zimbabwe. He didnt control all weapons on board the Angler, but he had control of the nose mounted blasters and had authority over the various fighters, including the turret men, the wing gunners, rear gunners, and the missile crew. He was extremely skilled at his job, and was one of the main reasons Gregory still lived.
The rest of the people at the bridge were engineers, keeping an eye on the vital systems. They had various subordinates strung throughout other vital stations, most notably within the reactor areas. One more figure stood in the room, but it could not honestly be called a person.
The one in question was known to Gregory as K48072, or K4 for short. K4 was an android, an extension of the Anglers presence, used to study parts of the ship where superhuman skill or knowledge was required, and where the ships monitoring systems did not extend. The robot was useful to have, but certainly didnt make a good conversationalist. Gregory preferred it that way, a he long thought that robots had no business pretending to be human. The android was a necessary evil, though.
Gregory looked up from the figures around him to the view port. Below the Angler drifted the planet ST 502. The 50 stood for the system it lay in, and the 2 for its position from the star it orbited. System 50x had 5 large stellar bodies in all, none of them habitable. The ST was an acronym for Sub Terrestrial, as the main gas on the planet was chlorine.
The greenish clouds of ST 502 writhed below him, like a vat of boiling water. Then, the air began to ripple as though a pair of lobsters had been tossed in, and a geyser erupted form the planets surface. The liquid, an unknown deadly compound, sprayed into space, its silvery hues shining. It would later be pulled back in by gravity, but not for a while. For now, the globe hung in orbit.
Gregory gazed past it into the deep of space. Completely empty except for the stars and the asteroids that orbited ST 50, the universe seemed infinite. That was what Gregory liked about space, the freedom from limitations, from guidelines, from government. Government sickened him. He would never like it, scratch that, maybe he would. But it would have to stop governing, first.
When another chime sounded, Gregory knew that the laboriously slow computer had finished, and he logged in and checked the travel schedule he had since saved to his hard drive.
10:20 A.M. - Freighters enter ST 50x. 10:30 - Bodin 1 hypes out. 10:32 - Bodin 2 hypes out. 10:34 - Bodin 3 hypes out. 10:36 - Bodin 4 hypes out. 8:25 P.M. - Freighters reach Centauri.
Smiling to himself, he read the scientific report his underlings had gathered at about the same time.
10:35 A.M. - Asteroid Durintak 5056 is expected to move in such a position so as to disrupt traffic in ST 50x.
Perfect. He pressed a key on the keyboard, launching the time checker. The device used a simple atomic clock, but had cost a fortune. It read 10:00 A.M. With a smile, he booted up the weapons systems on the Angler. The engines, radiation shields, and life support system never went off line unless landed, for obvious reasons. Two more punches, and sensors and communications went up.
Pilot, chart a course into the asteroid field.
Can do, captain, the man, who preferred to be called by the name of Jetlo, answered. What then?
The usual, pilot.
Are you ever going to be tired of hiding behind asteroids, Greg?
No, I hope not.
With a flick of his wrist, Jetlo sent the class M Piston sailing towards one of the bigger rocks. The class M Piston got its name from two sources: mechanics, and childrens literature. The Piston part is named after the device of the same name, because of its power, and the M is named after the most notable flaw in said books: bad drawing.
Any five year-old child will tell you that a bird in flight looks like the letter m. A flock of birds, to the same child, just looks like a bunch of ms that just happened to arrange themselves in the form of a V. Now, the Piston was designed with arched wings, very similar to those of a bird, minus the feathers, of course. The difficulties of such a shape were overcome by the guns being located on the curved parts, and the turrets on the highest and lowest points. Allegedly, the lead designers daughter said that his sketches looked like a big bird, probably inspired by too many children shows, and so the M Class was christened.
The ship closed with the asteroid, nearly clipping one of its wings before coming to a halt meters from the surface.
What now? Jetlo asked.
We wait.
With a sigh and a swish of a finger, Jetlo activated the combination repulsor/tractor beams that would secure the ship to the side of the asteroid. Gregory nervously glanced toward the atomic clock again. 10:15. Sweat poured down his face. He placed his finger inside his stiff collar to get some air. A mechanical voice came in over the intercom on his chair. Margarita, captain? You seem nervous.
Yes, thank you.
The drink, complete with glass and miniature umbrella, appeared before him. His hand darted out and grasped it, raising it to his lips to drink it in. He splashed several drops of the alcohol on himself before he was successful, but the drink flowed down his throat, replacing some fluid, and Gregory silently thanked the galley officer again while dabbing at himself with a spare cloth. This wasnt like him. Normally, he was calm and collected before a mission, but now? Im slipping, he thought. Whats happening to me? His hand shaking nervously, he placed the glass on his small table, sloshing the liquid around as though it were desperate to escape from his clutches. The stabilizing agents within quickly slowed it down, and Gregory resumed waiting.
10:18. The margarita glass had since been drained and replaced, and the asteroid field had since drifted to place the Angler nearly beside the freighters planned exit points. Gregory wrung his hands in frustration.
And then, a beam of light in the distance. Less than a millisecond later, the beam had moved to within 100 kilometers of the Anglers position. The beam had been slightly bluish, and moving quickly, but was now slowing down. All of the crew members recognized this for what it was: a ship entering a system through hyperspace. In another millisecond, the beam solidified into the familiar boxy shape of a bulk freighter.
In the seconds that followed, three more beams of light came into being and themselves transformed into freighters. The high speeds at which the lead ships traveled meant that the followers were left in the dust. The ships were separated by at least twenty kilometers each, and thus would reach a suitable hyper-jump point at slightly differing times.
A suitable hyperspace jumping point was defined as any place that had both a clear path to the planned destination, and no stellar bodies nearby. The first was to prevent smashing into a black hole at above the speed of light, and the second to prevent any objects from being pulled along with the ship. To reach such a point, the freighters would have to cross the asteroid field.
Sensors, get me a readout on the Bodin 4.
The same intercom that the cook had used now channeled the voice of the head sensor engineer. Im picking up a fairly standard freighter, no weapons, weak radiation shields. Its carrying what looks to be a supply of military equipment.
Gregory smiled. Such a load would fetch a pretty penny at the black market, even more so than the latest strange fad that kids were getting into. Gregory had dealt with such things before, and had learned not even the sure sales were worth talking to the snot-nosed brats. Guns were where the money was.
The first ship had reached the asteroid field, threading its way in between the drifting rocks, clumsily but surely. Gregory had often thought of the freighters as lumbering cows, barely able to support themselves without a skilled handler. The driver of the first ship proved to be such a man, coming out with nary a scratch. He jumped out of the system, his ship reverting back to the blue beam. The second pilot did likewise, but the third suffered a small ding when it collided with a smaller asteroid.
The ship wobbled a few times until it stabilized, then exited the system. And then, Durintak 5056 came along on its once a month high-speed jaunt around the system. It moved roughly four times as fast as the other asteroids and moved outside of the belt along the planned exit point.
Go now! Gregory shouted with a nod to Jetlo. The young man shifted the Angler into high gear and darted on an intercept route with the Bodin 4. Adrenalin pumped through Gregory's system, replacing the nervousness that he had had previously with newfound energy and determination. Open communications.
The view screen on Gregorys desktop lit up, showing the face of the freighters captain. Greetings, what may I do for you? the man, looking like an overblown toad, asked in a voice that sounded more like he was saying a rout reply than a question.
For starters, captain, Gregory said mockingly, You can drop your shields and land on that large asteroid next to you. If you want to keep your ship from looking like a hunk of Swiss cheese, that is. Gregory had experience in masking his voice, making it sound intimidating. He had learned it from a joke book called Conquering the Cosmos for Fun and Pleasure, but the advice on a menacing tone was sound. His ship board communications systems enhanced this effect by not sending over his own image. People tended to be more frightened of an unknown element than of an eighty year-old man.
Making a course. Just please dont kill us! The man spurted out the words as if they were a peeled lemon, soaked in onion juice.
Good man. The communications went dead. Excellent.
Then the intercom flared up again. It was sensors. Captain, you may want to take a look at the surface of 502. It looks like its gearing up for a huge blast of that gaseous substance.
Gregory patched the feedback from an external camera to the view port, and was amazed. The green atmosphere was writhing even more than before, as if the lobsters trapped inside the pot were trying to break loose. Then the green gave way to a dark shadow, and the dark shadow to a gray hulk. The hulk lifted from the surface, revealing its hard, angular surfaces and exposing itself to be a starship.
With a flash of realization, Gregory saw that it was a destroyer from the European Union. The ship was covered from bow to stern in hard steel, with massive engines jutting out from behind. Rods protruded from the hull, ending in wicked barbed tools that could not be mistaken for anything but high-powered weapons. The hull gained a pale blow from the radiation shields now forming to envelope the ship, contrasting with the dark metal. Captain, incoming transmission.
Put it on the view port.
Before him, the face of an E.U. Commander shone, its perfect proportions pleasing to every eye but Gregorys.
The man was genetically engineered, altered, and enhanced from head to foot, but every strand of DNA he had, he had got from his parents. That is, he had gotten the genes for the wits of Einstein, the ball-playing skills of Jordan, the business sense of Gates, the political skills of almost every President since Clinton, and the tactical genius of the best of the Army from his parents, who had generously granted them with a few million Euros out of their pocket books.
All Gregory had was what the good Lord had seen fit to hand him.
The creation spoke. Greetings, Angler. In case you were unaware, this is what we call a trap. Now, normally Id be arresting you right now, but the penalty for piracy is death. And Im allowed to act as the entire judicial system if I catch you red-handed.
(This message has been edited by Celchu (edited 05-19-2002).)
Nicely done Robert. I changed a few words here and there, and fixed a few spelling mistakes, but nothing major, like tense shifting ( ). You have captured an interesting feel for the story, and I'm going to read the other two. Soon. Maybe tomorrow, it's rather late at the moment.
Less biased people may comment now.
-Andiyar
------------------ "Any good that I may do here, let me do now, for I may not pass this way again"
I just love sci-fi, and this is an ideal example of a well-written sci fi story. Interesting characters, interesting plot, interesting ideas, well-developed and scientific atmosphere/background....I wouldn't call it perfect or brilliant in any way, but there certainly aren't any faults!
------------------ The answer to life, the universe, and everything is...42.
Thanks for the comments, both of you.
Andiyar : I know you can find something more to say about this story! Say it, or I'll write a Cythera cron!
And for llegolas... /me points to the 'Part 1.'
------------------ "... For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil must give us pause..." - Willaim Shakespeare, Hamlet
Quote
Originally posted by Celchu: **Thanks for the comments, both of you.
**
Do that and I won't let you win this month's chronicle of the month. And I won't send you that very interesting (to Epitheisterra) event chain that I've been working on.
Oh, alright. Gregory is amusing, the idea of an 80 year old space captain makes me laugh........ and the fact that he drinks margaritas. Your characters are nicely done, you set the tone well, and it flows smoothly. How's that?
/me puts aside the list of nice phrases to say about chronicles that he bought for $5, and then says something straight from the heart.
It's...... nice!
Lol. Ok, I'll assume brilliance is following closely then.