The Voyage
They had been heading towards the abandoned relic of a station for two days. To make matters worse, in their collective estimation, they were crammed into a small shuttlecraft that lacked even the most basic amenities they had become accustomed to onboard the Morrigan. No personal quarters, no hand prepared mess food (standard rations only on this trip!) and absolutely no other distractions save for what books and other entertainment they had loaded into the shuttle’s memory before departure. The tedium was a draining weight on the soul and mind, resulting in a near constant state of fatigue.
This predicament seemed to bother Captain Emerson the least, thought Ensign Rohan Ambie. He was as stoic as ever. Whether it was an away mission, an enemy engagement in the void of space, or his daily breakfast in the mess hall, the Captain’s demeanor remained constant. Annoyingly placid at times but, from the standpoint of people under his command, appreciated and admired. Ambie had been excited about this mission when he was first assigned. He would be boarding a space station that has been shrouded in mystery, plagued by rumor, and was the ongoing subject of tantalizing speculation throughout the fleet. He was ecstatic with his fortune! He had double timed back to his quarters directly after his meeting with the Captain and Commander Bissett, anxious to gather his gear for a mission that wouldn’t start for several more days.
That was four days ago. As the monotony of this particular trip had set in, he found his earlier enthusiasm waning. He hadn’t even been told exactly what this mission entailed which, despite the implied intrigue of the ICSF9987 military non-disclosure form he had signed, he found his mind racing towards all manner of dull conclusions. For all he knew, this could be a “classified” run to pick up trash! Doubtful, as part of his preparation had involved the highly unusual request of removing all wireless communication capabilities from their DatScrolls. He racked his brain but couldn’t understand why the Captain would order this. Why handicap perfectly good equipment? Every device they use both onboard a starship and on away missions have wireless data transfer capabilities. This has been standard on most devices for hundreds of years! Also, why were they making a three day trip at sub-light when they could be using the Morrigan’s MS/T drive to cross the same distance in a matter of hours? He had also heard Commander Bissett off handedly remark to the Captain about the shuttle's lack of long range communications! Nothing made sense.
Commander Danielle Bissett was twitchy. The closer they drew to the station, the more the XO’s body would occasionally buzz with an electric anxiety. The sensation would start in her gut, work its way up her torso, then down both arms. In those moments she would shake her hands, as if trying to swat away a fly, in an attempt to dispel the miniature lighting bolts that crackled under her skin.
The anxiety wasn't unwarranted, this was the first time she had been assigned to accompany Emerson on one of these particular missions. The Morrigan had been in the middle of a six month deployment in the outer frontier when the communique, which deemed this mission time critical, had come through. This combination of factors had prevented them from docking at the nearest base to board his usual escort of IC Intelligence brass. She had quickly volunteered after reading the priority dispatch he had shared with her, mercifully sparing him from the inevitable grief of asking her to face potential danger and, more importantly, past sorrow.
Intellectually, she knew there was no possible way that this would be a repeat of the ICS Dermont. Still, she couldn’t shake the encroaching uneasiness. In reality, the safety measures built into the station were infallible. But you never knew. She decided it would be a good idea to check the equipment they were bringing in with them one more time before arrival. If there was going to be an issue, it would be with something they brought. She would have the ensign check them again as well. Ensign Ambie had proven not only competent, but a slight cut above, in his duties onboard the Morrigan. He was also a near-genius when it came to on-the-fly device modification, an essential skill for this mission. Hence, l’enfant (as she called him internally, due to his youthful visage) - as inexperienced as he may be - had been brought along. Praise of his skills, however, had been subdued. No reason to get the kid cocky, cocky equals overconfident. Unfocused. These are the last things they needed.
Captain Michael Emerson made his way from the aft of the shuttle, past Ambie, and up front to take the co-pilot seat next to Bissett. He glanced down at the controls. Twenty six more hours until they reach Station 98, or S98, as it is more commonly called. Perhaps it was time to brief the ensign, he had noticed his bright eyed enthusiasm fade over the last day. He didn’t blame him, Ambie was young and had a head full of adventure. No doubt he viewed their current predicament as the antithesis of the adrenaline fueled mission he probably envisioned.
Emerson needed to temper Ambie’s former unbridled enthusiasm and present lackluster boredom with a more pragmatic view of what they were in for. Like Bissett, Emerson knew well the potential dangers they were about to step into and how quickly it could all go completely wrong. Thoughts awakened memories of past events that brought up a bitter mixture of pain and guilt. He quickly pushed these down and glanced over at Bissett. They locked eyes and gave a knowing, somber nod. Emerson swiveled his chair around to face aft where Ambie occupied one of the four high backed seats.
“Ensign?” Ambie’s head snapped up from the display he was engrossed in.
“Yes sir?” Emerson’s gaze was austere and unflinching, making him slightly nervous.
“It’s time I briefed you on our mission. First, I need to give you some background. You may be familiar with the incident seven years back on the ICS Dermont…” Within the first few minutes of the Captain’s briefing Ambie went from bored, to completely terrified.
***
A day later, the station was in visual range. Emerson and Bissett manned the pilot and co-pilot seats while Ambie stood and peered out the canopy windows from behind. A dull silver, multi-level cluster of cathedral like spires with a halo shaped docking ring towards the bottom, drifted in the starry void ahead. Eerily, thought Ambie, there weren’t any lights. None coming from the vertical windows that dotted the numerous spires, no running lights blinking from the docking ring...nothing. A dull glow from the system's distant star revealed the station’s age. Pock marks littered its surfaces, paint that made up the station's numerous markings was faded and chipped, black spaces where exterior hull plates were missing dotted its structures like missing teeth. The ensign wasn’t completely familiar with this model's history, but he knew that it had been built roughly ninety years ago. S98, as well as the seven other “cathedral” stations around the galaxy, had been mothballed more than twenty years prior. As far as he knew, this was the only one that was still in use. The others had been dismantled for parts and material years ago. Until today, he had only seen images of them during academy history lectures. Whether or not he had seen an image of S98 during its heyday he couldn’t recall.
“We’ll be docking in half an hour.” Bissett announced, turning to glance from Ambie to the Captain. “Time to suit up.”
S98
Bissett had manually docked the shuttle, a feat not accomplished since her days in flight training. Standard automated guidance wasn’t an option here as all communications systems had been gutted from the station. Fortunately, for a skilled pilot such as herself, this had only posed a minor inconvenience.
From the docking port, according to the schematics, they were relatively close to the Control Hub. This still meant an almost half kilometer walk through the docking ring, across one of the eight causeways that connected it to the central body of the station, then a hike up several flights of stairs. With the station's diminished reactor generating just enough power for essential operations, lifts were considered an unwarranted luxury. Bissett counted herself lucky that the station's airlock doors were still powered; opening them manually would have been a challenge.
They were crammed into the small airlock at the back of the shuttle. While it was slowly decompressing, they went about giving their fitted EnvoSuits a final check via the forearm controls. So far so good. Their helmet displays were functional, connections to the small atmosphere pack on their backs were good, and they all had more than enough oxygen for the trek there and back. Bissett found her hand straying to the holstered sidearm on her right hip. Bien… That was ready too.
Bissett’s nonchalant patting of her pistol wasn’t lost on Emerson. Mainly because he had thoroughly checked his right before donning his suit. Realistically there was a 99.9% chance that they wouldn’t need them, however, being armed gave them both a much needed sense of security. Emerson’s previous visits had gone without incident, but those guaranteed nothing in the present. If things went completely wrong they could shoot their way out. Maybe. VBC sidearms wouldn’t have done much good on the Dermont but, then again, this was a completely different scenario. Even if this mission did go south, he pragmatically thought, a more merciful fate would befall them than that of their long lost crew. Being burned alive in an escape pod was a cruel way to go.
The light hissing of the airlock doors opening snapped him back to the present. Emerson checked his helmet display then stepped into the gloom of the station corridor, Bissett and Ambie followed. They switched on their helmet lights to find the curved, steel grey corridor, seemingly stretching endlessly to their left and right.
“This way.” he pointed.
The Hike
The hike to the Control Hub had taken over half an hour. The walk through the docking ring and connecting causeway was a breeze. The twenty flights of stairs afterwards were significantly harder. They probably had never been used when the station was manned and fully functional as the lifts, unless there was an emergency, were always operational. Given this assumption, Ambie could hardly believe the derelict, shabby condition they were in. It made the parts of the station they had been through appear pristine in comparison. The metal alloy creaked and groaned with every step. On several occasions Ambie could swear he felt the frame start to lift away from the bulkhead that it was supposedly bolted to. He was jumpy, especially given what he was told during yesterday’s briefing.
After several rest stops and an exhausting amount of stairs, they arrived on landing twenty. The door at the end was marked “CONTROL HUB”. Emerson walked up and keyed the panel, the door began slowly sliding open. In the ensign's mind what followed was a flash of fire resulting in their searing deaths. What actually occurred was the captain glancing through the opening, then stepping inside. Ambie started feeling woozy and realized he had been holding his breath, for how long he couldn’t recall. Commander Bissett must have sensed something amiss.
“Everything all right, ensign?” Genuine concern showed on her face.
He took a deep breath. “Yes ma’am, fine. Thank you.” The commander was tough but had an underlying maternal air which he had appreciated from his first day onboard the Morrigan. He was especially appreciative of it now.
“Just breathe and stay sharp, d’accord? I don’t want to have to drag you down the stairs back to the shuttle.” The reassuring smile on her face said he was tough enough to see this through.
“Understood ma’am.” He nodded, then followed her into the control room.
Like the rest of the station, the room was shrouded in gloom. What the helmet lights revealed was a cavernous, multi-level, terraced space. Darkened control panels populated almost every wall. In the center was a sunken, shallow circular pit containing a high-backed control console that curved around its far side. With a quick nod from Emerson, Bissett stepped down and approached the console. She produced a thin rectangular card from a case on her utility belt which she then slid into a slot. The panel flickered to life.
“Power to Lab Seven should be fully restored within 20 minutes. By the time we get there we’ll have atmosphere as well.” Her hands danced across the controls, pausing occasionally as she referenced the display.
“What’s her status?” Emerson asked, his voice curiously colored with a hint of concern.
“La pute…” Bissett spat. “…is in perfect stasis. No anomalous readings from any of the station's active systems either. We’re good.”
Her normally light french accent was significantly more pronounced, something that occurred when she was agitated or anxious. Emerson didn’t blame her, whatever stress induced tells he possessed were definitely on display for Bissett as well.
“Let’s get to it then.”
The walk to Lab 7 was always easier than the one to the Control Hub. Down a few flights of stairs, then through a maze of more curved, darkened corridors that eventually led to a windowed set of airlock doors with the lab beyond. Emerson was convinced he could find his way here with his eyes closed. How often had he done this over the last six years? Whatever the number, he had lost count. Or, more accurately, intentionally forced it out of his mind in order to forget. Each time was a reminder of a long lost ship that he and Bissett had watched disintegrate into a debris laden fireball with all hands on board. Each step became an echoing memorial of his lost crew. A crew that had died for, at best, intangible reasons. He could feel the anger starting to well up, a potential raging fire that threatened to consume him. He should order them back to the Control Hub, have Bissett set the reactor to overload, then the three of them could high tail it out of here and watch S98 explode from a safe distance. He would call that justice. To hell with the Interstellar Confederation’s precious asset.
Emerson became aware of Bissett’s gaze. He had a feeling that, even without his elevated heart rate showing on his suit display, she would have sensed his anger fueled tension. His tell. Her eyes flicked to the side, opening a private channel via the optical controls on her faceplate.
“Michael...” the softness of her voice exuded understanding, soothing him. She was the only one that could truly grasp what was going on in his head. They were forever bound in a mutually shared grief, one that resented the pandering sympathy they would occasionally receive.
“I’m ok, Danni.” He said, exhaling. She nodded, a thin smile playing across her face. As far as he knew, he was the only one that called her that. It had become a sort of inside joke between them. As young academy cadets, they had been onboard the ICS Manchester during one of their many hands on training missions . He had let the bastardization of her name slip during a hand-to-hand combat exercise in which they were giving each other a good knockaround. She seemed to be miffed by the abridgement. “What, does that offend your delicate French sensibilities?” he sarcastically had asked, to which she burst out laughing...and then proceeded to smack him square in the face with the lightly padded business end of her pugil stick. He had come to, flat on his back, about a minute later. They had laughed the incident off during mess hall that evening…the name had stuck ever since. He smiled broadly at the memory. Bissett was one of the most feminine women he knew but she could throw down with the toughest of them. Must have been that farm she was raised on in the French countryside with her two brothers.
Bissett glanced down at Emerson’s forearm display and saw that his heart rate was slowing. Bien.The lightning under her skin, however, raged on. The sensation had started shortly after they had left the Control Hub. Thankfully, they weren’t apparent to anyone but herself...she hoped. This was going to be the first time since their escape from the Dermont she would see la pute face to face. So great was her hatred that she refused to call it anything else. The derogatory term removed any semblance of humanity. Nothing containing an ounce of the traits that make anyone or any thing human could have done what it did. Intellectually, she understood that the tragedy was due to profoundly flawed engineering and not the work of a living malevolent force. Still, la pute set forth a tragic chain of events that Bissett had vainly tried to stop. Events that continued to haunt her in dreams. On those nights, she wakes up crying, her body shaking violently in fear and despair, desperately wishing she could somehow go back and save her crew. Perhaps she could talk Emerson into letting her rig the reactor to blow once they were done? After all, it was an older station. Equipment breaks down, accidents happen.
C’est la vie…
Ambie had noticed the quick, private exchange between them. Is there something wrong? Did they sense some sort of trap? He felt trickles of sweat creeping down his neck, the patchy beard that he had recently grown in to make himself look more mature was starting to itch. Whatever the conversation, it ended abruptly and was, most likely, not important. Get a hold of yourself! To take his mind off the burgeoning fear, he glanced down at his utility belt to make sure his modified DatScroll was still there. Check. VPC sidearm (something Emerson had told him to use only if ordered to)? Check. Extra magazines? Check. Checklists and routine had always calmed him, this time was no exception.