#ensign trell

“They’re definitely panicked,” said Vince Flashman, checking the exterior camera.  “Something’s come up.  Their hijacked spaceship isn’t a priority anymore.”

“Great,” says Carmen.  “We might not have to blast our way out of here after all!”

“Observers: unseen: probability.”

“Good point,” said Vince.  “But from what little I can see, anyway… there’s confusion.  Some shouting… must’ve been some sort of accident elsewhere on the ship.”

“If there’s a moment when you can’t see anyone looking in our direction, let us know,” said Carmen.  She kept her hand on the emergency ramp control, a button located by a terminal with deactivated camera features, likely a parting gift from The Soul Survivor.  She wasn’t sure if the all-but robot was still locked in the bridge or had already made some sort of escape that didn’t rely on conventional exits, but she didn’t care.  Xorn’Tal waited by the emergency ramp itself, ready to literally leap over and through the exit as it opened.  While he was probably the most fragile of the three racers, he looked larger and intimidating, and bullets or lasers searing off his vines was likely to be more temporary than it was for the two humans, things he’d pointed out while volunteering for the most dangerous part of the plan.

“Are we still clear on how this goes down?” asked Carmen.

“Cessation requested: asking.”

“Sorry, Xorn’Tal.  Jumpy, I guess.”

“Same here,” said Vince, keeping his eyes on his functional terminal.  “Even if no one’s looking, the odds of us getting on unseen a-… no one’s looking, now, now!”

Carmen punched the control button and the ramp began to open, with its magnetic seals breaking and pneumatic machinery rapidly lowering a ramp and making a quick hole in the side of the small ship.  Xorn’Tal leapt over the dropping plates of hull while they were still articulating into a form acceptable for humans to disembark.  The plant-like creature marveled at the complete lack of eyes on the ship, with only a few guards and hangar technicians in a nearby shed-like control room, all frantically looking over a monitor that he couldn’t make out.  There were interior weapons trained on the ship, but none were activating, likely based on manual controls instead of computerized ones.  Xorn’Tal raised a signaling vine, and saw the hallway stretching away from the hangar, just alongside the control room.

Carmen and Vince jumped over the still-lowering ramp, and the three ran, Xorn’Tal only outpacing the two humans by virtue of a head start.  As they passed the control room, the sight of an ambulatory tangle of vines and leaves rolling by followed by two brightly dressed humans in professional racer garb caught the eye of two soldiers who gaped at the sight.  One lifted an arm to point just as they fell out of Carmen’s view.

“They saw us!” she said.  “Hurry, find a place to hide!”

“Juncture!” said Xorn’Tal.  “Path chosen: left: obfuscate!”

“Left, got it,” confirmed Vince.

The trio neared the branching path where the hallway was joined by another, but collided into two soldiers who were darting around the corner.  The five collided into each other, tripped, and sprawled across the ground, with only the multi-limbed Xorn’Tal maintaining some semblance of balance.

“Captain!” shouted one.

“Don’t worry about me, Trell, run!”

The two soldiers leapt to their feet quickly, with one of them racing down in the direction the racers had just come from.  Carmen noted the oddity of not being immediately apprehended or killed, as Vince shakily rose.

“Hey, lady, we don’t-”

The soldier identified as Captain pulled a rifle from the receptacle at her back and clubbed Vince in the skull, sending the racer back.

“I don’t know what moral transgression you committed in your past life to deserve getting in my way now, but know that I’ve neither the time nor inclination to let the one unsecured ship out of my clutches when a hull breach has-”

Xorn’Tal exploded toward the soldier.  Carmen expected the series of vines to rapidly overwhelm the humanoid, but the soldier easily bent her arm into a hook, swiped it forward to clear a massive section of vines, and head-butted the revealed root-like structure that comprised Xorn’Tal’s body.  Xorn’Tal tumbled back, rolling onto the floor instead of instantly righting itself due to the soldier’s tentacle-sweep.

“Wait,” said Carmen.  “Wait!  I think we’re on the same-”

The soldier turned, running back down the hall but stopped at the sight of the second soldier returning.

“They were already moving,” she said.  “Something tipped them off to-”

The captain held up a hand to silence the first, turned back to Carmen, and pointed.

“The same what?”

“Team,” said Carmen.  “We’re… I think we’re on the same team.”

“Doubtful,” said the captain.  “I’m Calen.  Captain Calen, of Morcala.”

“Morcala,” growled Vince, standing and massaging his skull.  “What are you-”

“That way!” shouted Trell, pointing down the hallway.  “Hurry!”

Captain Calen stood by the door to the computer terminal station, eyeing the few people who walked by without noticing her.  Each passing agent of the Dyson Empire reminded her that she was focusing on remaining hidden, and that vengeance needed to wait.

“This is curious, Captain.  If I’m reading the schematics properly, this ship is actually three vessels.”

“What?” said Calen, leaning in to look at Trell, sitting at the terminal that extended from the pillar in the center of the room along with the other five unoccupied stations.

“There are three ships, but they’re functioning as one.”

“Didn’t Ortega think that all of this technology came from other ships?  I’ve heard of many unusual vessels in my day Ensign, and personally discovered many others, but I’ve yet to see a ship like this, so clearly designed for humanity, that could function in that fashion, apart from the Astroguard’s experiments with saucer and nacelle integration.”

“The… captain from the Astroguard did say this, yes,” said Trell.  “And for the smaller ships like Tan’s fighter, he was accurate.  The technology within this larger vessel, while also largely borrowed from other sources, has been customized, altered, or built from scratch where needed.  With the proper commands, we could cause this ship to break into two or three functional pieces that would act on their own as vessels.”

“I see,” said Calen, taking a step into the room.  “Trell, would this create piloting complications?  Flying a ship that was multiple ships?”

“It might, but I believe they would be negligible in a vacuum at most standard velocities.  The nature of the integration seems to be built with the avoidance of potential stress-fractures from inertia in mind.”

“How similar would it be to our trial exercises with the Scuttler?” asked Calen.  “We could have five ships working in tandem to force another vessel in another direction, and usher them to safer harbor with ease during the challenges set before us and the other Scuttlers.”

“I believe there would be similarities, but it would be even easier.  Our experience with Scuttlers might give us a piloting edge, though.  Especially considering the lack of training that we’ve seen in all of the Dyson Empire’s conscripts.”

“Oh, I like hearing that, I truly do.  How do you suppose the vessels connect?  Do they take the time to couple and decouple in space? What if they felt a need during the heat of battle?”

“I suppose they’d manage without unless they truly felt safe.  These are very intricate connections, and while separating could be done quickly, I don’t see combining being reasonable mid-combat.  Unless…”

Trell grew silent and began tapping the interface, quickly scrolling through commands and schematics in the screen of tangible electricity that sparkled in front of her eyes.

“Captain, do you remember the Phoenix Circuitry?”

“Of course.  That horrid secret technology was all that stood between me and destroying Tan’s vessel, a request made when you and Captain Ortega worked together to pacify me.”

“Unpleasant as the captain from the Astroguard may have been, the crash course it gave me on the Phoenix Circuitry was useful here… it’s laced through the connections of the ships.”

“So?  You said there were tracings of the circuitry throughout the entirety of Tan’s vessel.  Why would any Dyson empire ship be different, especially custom-built jobs like this that would differ from Tan’s?”

“Because the circuitry here is designed to move through the connections.  The Phoenix Circuitry can create a larger circuit pattern through all of the connected ships.”

“Wait… Trell, if we were able to bring the Scuttler through the teleportation by just clinging to the vessel with the Scuttler’s own machinery…”

“These vessels are built for coordinated receiverless teleportation, Captain.  They might even be able to teleport from a disconnected state to a connected one.  Ordinarily I’d assume that this wouldn’t be possible, but a lot of the coordinating instructions I’m seeing here look like they can teleport to a position in relation to their space within the phoenix circuit relative to all the other participants rather than to a specified distance or set of coordinates.”

Captain Calen fully turned her back from the doorway, and approached Trell’s screen, leaning over her ensign’s shoulder for a better look.

“It’s an incredible bounty you’ve found, then.  Tactical teleportation for rapid redeployment… like stuffing all the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle into its box, shaking it, and then pulling the assembled picture from within.  Trell, I see an armada of a dozen vessels, adeptly cutting through the Magellan Mine-Cloud without tripping a single security measure, and then reforming into a battleship capable of destroying any resistance on the opposite side!  Farthest Fleet, this is technology that can turn barbarians into emperors!”

“Wouldn’t the ships be able to simply teleport to the opposite side of the mines?”

The assembled guards looked from Captain Ortega to Alsafi, unsure of how to proceed in the face of his grave pronouncement.  Alsafi realized she had become the object of scrutiny and held up her hands.

“Whoa, hey now, why’s this my call?”

“You’re the highest ranking person here, ma’am,” said one of the soldiers.  “Captains outrank Lieutenants, especially Wraithstrike Captains.”

“One of the reasons I joined the Wraithstrike unit was to get out of the command chain, you know,” she said.  “Okay… Ortega, I’m gonna trust your reputation here.  We need to get people who can disarm these… generator bomb things.”

“I think I can handle this one,” said Ortega.  “You’ll want to get whatever engineers you can while you figure out where the other ones are.”

“Right… probably just the ones she would’ve passed between her cell block and here.  I’ll coordinate those efforts.  Four of you… actually, six of you, stay here with Ortega.  Captain Ortega, you will stop this generator overload and then remand yourself into the custody of these soldiers who will escort you back to your cell… back to a different cell, actually.  Is that how you use remand?”

“I hope so, that’s how I use it.”

“Great,” she said.  “Come with me, the rest of you.  Actually… I’ll take this alone, sorry.  All of you, watch Captain Ortega.”

Without even a flash of light, she vanished.  Ready for the spectacle this time, Ortega heard the faintest rush of air and felt a gentle breeze as she vanished.  The Wraithstrike method of teleportation didn’t mask itself from air displacement effects.  Probably not a big tactical advantage, but he filed the information away for his report on the situation later, if he survived long enough to file it.

“Get to work,” said the guard who’d spoken to Alsafi, pointedly aiming a rifle at Captain Ortega.  “One of you get his energy blaster.  And keep an eye on the other stunned prisoner.”

Ortega nodded, leaving the blaster on the ground and turning to the terminal.  Ensign Trell had been thorough, but there were only so many ways you could sabotage a power generator if you intended for it to generate enough power to cause malfunctions rather than just shutting it off entirely.  She’d probably built in some redundancies in the event of discovery.

Someone, somewhere, finally turned off the alarm, but a different alarm sounded, one with less urgency but more implied dread.

“All available engineers near the cell blocks, report to the nearest power generator stations,” said Alsafi’s voice over an intercom.  “Ship destruction imminent if you don’t comply.  …the two of you looking stunned in the break room, put away your card game and start moving, we really don’t have the time for this.  All of you, get going.”

Ortega went over what he saw Trell’s hands do in his mind, and thought about all the similar overload count-downs he’d dealt with before.  Ideally an engineer would be along soon to fix anything he did wrong.  He glanced at the capacitor readout display.

Alsafi’s energy blaster built its charge, taking only moments but feeling much longer to Captain Ortega. Just before the discharge, he heard a clack, as if from two blunt objects colliding. The ominous hum stopped, Alsafi shouted “Hey!” and Ortega heard the distinctive sound of an energy blaster hitting the floor. He opened his eyes, already moving to stand.

Ensign Trell swung a steel pipe at Alsafi, who was stumbling back over her own feet. She tripped and hit the ground, reaching for the blaster that was well out of reach. Trell jumped toward her fallen enemy. She pulled the pipe over her head and brought it down, only for Alsafi to vanish an instant before impact. Trell’s pipe hit the ground and she instantly entered a defensive stance, slowly turning in a circle to look around.

“She has some sort of short-range teleportation technology,” said Ortega, stepping out from behind the power generator.

“I can see that,” said Trell, still looking. “If she didn’t, she’d be dead right now. I hate it when people run from a fight.”

“Trell, I don’t think you had to try to kill her.”

“No, YOU don’t have to try to kill her,” said Trell, stopping and looking directly at Ortega. “You’re a statistical outlier. Anyone else with your ideals would have been killed dozens of times by now. I’m not going to rely on your methods when they increase our risk of recapture. Right now, someone knows we’re out of our cells and we have to stop her before it complicates things.”

A high pitched-tone sounded, receded, and sounded again. In the distance, voices could be heard responding to the sound.

“I think we’re too late for that,” said Ortega. “She must’ve transported to some place where she could raise the alarm.”

“We’ll need to move fast, then,” she said.

Ortega nodded and ran to the hall as Trell ran to the power generator. Ortega ran back.

“Trell? We’ll have Dyson conscripts heading this way soon, and we need to save Captain Calen.”

“No time,” she said. “But there’s still time to destroy this ship.”

“What? How?”

“I’ll create a feedback loop through this generator.”

“That generator doesn’t have the power to do that,” said Ortega. “Believe me, I’ve seen my fair share of ship sabotages. I’ve CAUSED my fair share of ship sabotages. This generator has neither the output nor the lack of safeguards to-”

“Put all generators like this together, though, and?”

“It… still wouldn’t be enough, would it? At best you’d disable most ship systems, and likely none of the ones meant for core operations.”

“Yes, but then you wind up with excess power,” said Trell, ripping off a hatch on the side of the generator. “It all has to be shunted somewhere. These generators can help to mitigate such problems when working together, but if someone knows what they’re doing and spends some time operating on them…”

“That’s why you took so long getting here!” said Ortega. “I thought you were caught or lost. But… you still couldn’t have gotten to them all.”

“I should only need the five I’ve been able to get to,” she said. “With any luck, this ship and everyone on it will be dead in less than three minutes.”

“Trell, we can’t do that. Most of these conscripts aren’t themselves right now.”

Trell continued to cross wires and move circuitry. She looked over her shoulder, only slowing her work rather than stopping it.

“And who’s going to stop me?”

Much earlier, on another world…

Zack entered the Azar’s suite, and saw his client staring out the window, staring at Ravelar’s sunset. The blue and orange glow of Ravelar’s late afternoon sun made Azar’s tan more noticeable than it might have been on a world with a Sun that humans thought of as more “traditional.” Zack’s tan would have been visible anywhere without needing unconventional light sources, but he was naturally quiet enough that Azar hadn’t heard him enter.

Zack reopened the door and closed it again, louder, and Azar turned around.

“Zack!” he said. “Good to see you. Sorry for interrupting your dinner.”

“No problem,” said Zack. “The live show isn’t great tonight.”

“Really? The fire juggler? I saw the show last night, and thought it was good.”

“Juggling’s not my style,” said Zack. “How can I help you?”

“I received some information from Harry today. He informed me that there might have been an oversight in our operations. A conflict of interest.”

“Did he now?” said Zack. He tossed his hat onto a cushion on one of the two sofas in Azar’s room and sat next to it. “Well, I’m sure whatever he’s done is fine if we just clear it up. Unless you’re talking about me, of course.”

“Oh, you’re aware, then?”

“No, but I assume Zamona wouldn’t care about it if he’d found dirt on himself, and I know he didn’t find anything on Barris. I looked. I’m the only one left.”

“Zack, your work for me has been… amazing. I don’t know if I’d still be alive if not for you.”

Zack shrugged.

“I do what I can. BristleCorp might’ve settled for putting you in the poorhouse, though.”

“And they still might. Zack, were you aware that the Desperate Measures Agency is a subsidiary of BristleCorp?”

Zack leaned back in the sofa and narrowed his eyes, giving the question a lot of thought.

“Yes,” he finally said. “I knew it was relevant, but I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I see,” said Azar. “Zack, finding out about it from Harry wasn’t exactly calming.”

“Sorry. The Desperate Measures Agency is good about keeping agents from interfering with cases. I felt the conflict of interest would actually help you. The DMA wouldn’t hire any assassins or detectives to look for you since I was on the case.”

“And it’s certainly worked out that way. Zack, I would have liked to know this sooner. There won’t be any more surprises like this, will there?”

“I doubt it,” said Zack. “I’m always gonna have secrets though, Azar. I can’t think of any that’d matter to you, but secrets keep me working.”

“That makes sense. Still… if the Desperate Measures Agency takes too close of a look at you here on Ravelar, it may tip my location to them. Even with me as an unlisted client.”

“I doubt anyone’d pay that much attention to me, but it’s always possible.”

“Have you considered taking on any other assignments here on Ravelar?”

Zack smiled and nodded.

Pilot Tan entered the course corrections as he moved through the mists, grateful that the Soul Survivor’s alterations to The Signal no longer made it toxic for any computer hooked up to sensors.  The Cypulchral Cloud was now no more dangerous than your standard nebula, and at only the size of a large planet it was easier to navigate.  He wondered if, at some point, the planet might normalize in both its consistency and orbit enough to become an outlying gas giant of sorts, but that level of science was outside his general expertise.

An alarm sounded, suggesting that someone was trying to board the ship from one of the airlocks, using an entrance code.  This confused him, but suggested good news; he wanted to help The Soul Survivor, of course, but it seemed strange that the Survivor’s plans would require marooning everyone at the remains of the space station.  Perhaps some of them had made it back after all.  He input commands that would allow the boarders access, after the airlock had time to cycle.

Minutes later, he heard the sound of the airlock door preparing to open.  He double checked that he was in a safe patch of the cloud, and walked back to see who was entering.  The airlock door spun open, and he smiled at the sight of Captain Ortega, carrying his helmet in one hand and holding up an Astroguard pistol with the other.

“Captain!” shouted Tan.  “I mean… Ortega!  Andrew? Can I call you Andrew?  What’s… with the gun?”

Captain Ortega quickly holstered his pistol.

“Sorry.  Wasn’t sure if I’d be welcomed when I got here.”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“Long story,” he said.  “Didn’t think I was gonna make it here in time.”

“Yeah, shame about that,” said Tan.  “But the Soul Survivor’s got his plans.”

“I’m sure,” said Ortega.  “What’re you working on now?”

“Just piloting out of here.”

“Can I see?”

“Absolutely!”

Tan turned around to walk to the bridge, but stopped short when Ortega slammed the space helmet over his head.  Moments later, there was a bright flash of light.

***

Captain Ortega sat in the tiny galley of Captain Calen’s scuttler.  Flight suits were bulky and generally didn’t allow room for personal effects in their limited storage capacity, but Ortega had found ways to smuggle a few things over the years.  One of the oddest was the box of cereal and flash-frosted milk he kept along with a shallow bowl and spoon.

With Calen back in command and the Soul Survivor’s body locked in a crate and Pilot Tan secured in the medical bay whether he wanted to be there or not, Ortega felt like he had the first moments of genuine relaxation since before he’d started climbing the volcanic fortress that Doctor Rogers had hidden away on Morcala days earlier.  He took a few deep breaths and started eating the cereal.

“You’ve smuggled in your own meals?” asked Ensign Trell, entering and walking to the tanks where chilled water was kept.  “I wouldn’t have thought a seasoned soldier like you would risk the extra weight.”

“The flight suit carries the weight, not me,” said Ortega.  “Besides, I take out a set of rations to make it fit.  The two cereal boxes and milk are small enough to weigh less.”

“I never did like milk on cereal,” said Trell, filling a glass.

“I eat it dry if I have to,” said Ortega.  “I always liked this cereal a kid.  Deliciously puffed wheat and rice, the only cereal shot with a ray gun.”

“Are you quoting something?”

“One of the commercials.  I was thinking about it after getting back to the ship, and got really nostalgic after everything calmed down.  Not sure why.  How’s the captain?”

“Better now that she’s back in command,” said Trell.  “She’s approved your suggestion to go back to Tan’s ship and investigate the phoenix circuitry.  And since it looks like The Signal isn’t a danger anymore, we may see if we can pick up anything on its sensors from the Dyson fleet that we couldn’t pick up on our own, just in case there’s some high end encryption that would allow their transmissions to go undetected.  In half an hour we should be about ready to start a more thorough search if you can tear yourself away from your cereal.”

“Absolutely,” said Ortega.  “It’ll interrupt the day of classic adventure programs that I’d been planning on, but I can get ready.  Where should I throw this?”

He held up the box of puffed wheat and rice, and Trell raised an eyebrow at the outdated appearance of a man in a stylized Astroguard uniform who seemed to be giving a thumbs up to anyone who looked at the box.

“The Astroguard has its own cereal?”

“No, that’s Captain Mayday,” said Ortega.  “I watched it every day when I was a kid.  There was always some new interstellar danger or space pirate or unexplored planet for him to triumph against.  The cereal was one of the show’s primary sponsors.  He’s the reason I joined the Astroguard.”

Trell nodded and tapped a slot on the wall that opened, revealing a standard waste receptacle.

“It’s nice to see that at least some propaganda works,” she said, returning her glass and walking out of the galley.

“It wasn’t propaganda,” said Ortega, throwing away the box and following after.  “It was actually critical of the Astroguard in a lot of ways.”

The room was filled with strange, glowing crystals that shimmered with neon-bright rainbows of energy.  The shadows outside the colorful lights were untarnished by borders of dimmer light, remaining as black as any void that Captain Ortega had ever seen.  Doctor Rogers carried Ortega’s stiff space suit over his shoulder until he finally deposited his recurring enemy onto a plinth of marble.  Ortega watched the display on the inside of his helmet as it tracked the progress of the suit’s repairs.  Thousands of nanoswitches and hundreds of servos needed to realign, as Rogers’ energy blast had somehow triggered the flight suit’s reboot process, something that would ordinarily only be possible with several dedicated minutes of intentional work.  The fact that Rogers had discovered a secret vulnerability of the Astroguard’s flight suit was just another worrying tidbit that Ortega would have to add to his report about his mission when he escaped.

“What does the Dyson pilot know, Andrew?” asked Rogers, moving to a cracked geode.  Ortega couldn’t see much of the interior of the crystal, but based on how Rogers was interacting with it it was probably a monitor or control terminal of some sort.

“Why do you care?” asked Ortega.  “I thought that you didn’t think the Dyson empire was a long term threat.”

“Not for the long term, no,” said Rogers, tapping a crystalline protrusion.  “But the Cypulchral Cloud lies within Morcalan space, and the Dyson Empire is what passes for a ruling government just at the moment.”

“He knows nothing, but his ship had some interesting data,” said Ortega.  “I was examining it on our way here.  Some of it might be useful to you.”

Ortega waited, but Rogers had nothing to add to that.  He thought about his next words carefully.  They had passed the need to trick each other into revealing plans dozens of altercations previously, and had moved to an unspoken barter system of sorts.

“I admit that I’m a little unsure of what’s happening here,” said Ortega.  “You’re not needlessly violent or even remorseless, and you’re not greedy.  Well… not unless you count being power hungry and megalomaniacal.”

“What does this glowing review of my character have to do with anything?”

“I’m trying to see your motive here.  A lesser criminal would be here with the plan to finish what the alleged Terranda Xol started just to gain the energy without a follow-up.  You also said that you were here to learn about yourself or something.  What do you gain by coming here apart from the energy?  What’s the next step?”

Doctor Rogers turned from the geode to look at Captain Ortega.  He stepped closer to the plinth.

“The mechanisms that drive me have much in common with Pyrhian technology.  But not modern Pyrhian technology.  Their culture is older and far more varied than human civilization, and many alternate routes that their technology might have taken are lost to the ages.  The pipes and electronics cobbled together within me are much like the Pyrhian technology that was said to exist during the age of Terranda Xol.  And this station, this… mobile fortress of destruction, this temple dedicated to the fires of change and life and death, was their greatest accomplishment.  I can learn more about why my soul was imprinted onto that original robotic shell so long ago, and remove the guesswork from transferring myself to future upgrades.  I may even discover amazing secrets of mortality that could eliminate it from human life.”

“Noble,” said Ortega.  “It really is.”

“So you see the value in my work?”

“I’ve always seen the value in the results you’re trying to achieve,” said Ortega.  “But it never justifies the means you use to reach them.”

“Typical,” said Rogers, turning back to the geode.  “Millions, possibly billions, are constantly dying, many in pain.  Every moment my research delays hurts humanity, Andrew.”

“Assuming you’re correct,” said Ortega.  “If you’re wrong, then you’re hurting people needlessly and adding to that total.  You need to return with me to the Astroguard.  I’ll speak on your behalf.  Perhaps your research can continue as part of your sentence, without a Morcalan genocide.”

“Cretinous fool,” said Rogers.  “The Astroguard’s leaders are not made up of people like you.”

“Not entirely, no.”

“Not in the majority,” said Rogers.  “How many would side with me? How many ever side with you?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“We find the proposition laughable,” said Rogers, though in a voice that was not his usual sonorous tone.  Ortega recognized it as the voice of Admiral August Tachyon.  “Basing this research on the baseless myths of another culture does nothing to justify the belief that The Soul Survivor’s research would medically benefit anyone.”

“Admiral Tachyon is hard to convince of anything, yes,” said Ortega.  “But-”

“The Frankensteinian goals of this plan suggest what we’ve already known,” said Rogers, this time in the voice of Admiral Gloria Vines.  “Effectively, it reinforces The Soul Survivor’s madness, and his belief in grandiose goals that have more to do with flights of imagination than with grounded science.”

“Rogers,…”

“The best case scenario from allowing this research to continue is that it would reveal the folly of The Soul Survivor’s plans,” said Rogers in the voice of Admiral Susan Planck.  “The worst case scenario is that some other scheme is at work, and that allowing Rogers to research it would give him exactly what he wanted, thereby revealing our own folly, not to mention terminating all life in the Morcalan system if even a fragment of what he suggests is possible.”

“Your impersonations are impressive,” said Ortega.  “You know that the admirals aren’t the only ones who would decide your fate, though.  Return with me, and let’s undo this all.  Hopefully we can leave in time to warn people about the Dyson Empire’s forces.  People need to know how much more capable their invasion fleet is.”

“I’m not convinced,” said Rogers.  “Tell me, how long do you have until that suit of yours repairs?”

“About five minutes,” said Ortega.  “I’m hoping that I can convince you to not blast me again in four and a half minutes.”

“I’ll make it three, just to be sure that you’re not trying to give yourself some extra time to escape,” said Rogers.  “Tell me, how did you avoid the hypnotic flash?”

“I didn’t,” said Ortega.  “But my helmet was designed with a sort of counter-flash after this happened before.  Five minutes after being on your side, my helmet flipped down and flashed its own pattern.  It won’t be too long before it becomes standard issue.”

“They felt you were an effective field tester?”

“They had this crazy notion that I might get in a situation where it would be useful before anyone else,” said Ortega.  “Unfortunately for me, they were right.  Thanks for helping the field test, by the way.”

“I’m glad to assist,” said Rogers.  “I’m surprised that you didn’t use the helmet to…”

Doctor Rogers trailed off and looked at the door.  He looked back down at Ortega.

“You weren’t lying about how long you had,” said Rogers.  “You didn’t think you’d need to lie.”

“True,” said Ortega.

The door to the crystalline chamber shattered, destroyed by Captain Calen’s Maelstrom Ray.  The two Morcalan soldiers stepped through the door, their weapons lowered at Rogers.

“Time’s up,” said Calen.

“I’d surrender now,” said Ortega.

Pilot William Tan was thrown from the airlock onto the floor of Captain Calen’s ship.  A helmet obscured his face, and his hands were fastened behind his back by a set of the Astroguard’s magnetic manacles.  Calen lowered her Maelstrom Ray as Captain Ortega stepped in, just behind his prisoner.

“I wouldn’t expect you to treat war criminals so roughly, Ortega.”

“When in Rome,” said Ortega, removing his helmet.  “Didn’t want to risk you thinking he was loose.  Pushing him down meant he would be clear of any weaponry aimed his way.”

“You’ve a poor opinion of my senses if you think I can’t tell a prisoner from a boarder, Captain, and an even poorer opinion of my aim if you think you could protect him that way.  Is our prisoner much use to us, or is he what passes for ballast in this cursed place?”

“He knows how to interpret the information I was able to pull off his computer,” said Ortega, removing a black cube from a compartment near his belt.  “An active interpreter is more useful than a quick information grab, especially since the Cypulchral Cloud does things to sensors.  He said he wasn’t able to shut his sensors off after The Signal took hold of his ship, so I’m hoping that they were thorough.”

Calen saw the black cube in Ortega’s hand and took a step back, eyeing it warily.

“What possessed you to bring something from that ship back here?  I don’t want to risk my scuttler becoming infected with whatever spoils you’ve brought back.  More than one tale of salvage ends horribly.”

“This is an Astroguard device, Captain,” said Ortega.  “It was made with those kinds of situations in mind.  All I need is a monitoring device, and I can use this to examine the data from his computer in isolation from your ship’s systems.”

Calen nodded, still looking over the cube from a distance.

“Permission granted,” she said.  “You’ll do this under the supervision of Ensign Trell, though.  Not to cast doubts on your techniques, Ortega, but I’ll trust a Morcalan engineer with field experience before I’ll trust the work of a team of technicians working from the safety of their own labs.  Trell!  Get in here!”

Moments later, the Ensign stepped out of the bridge.

“Trell, the good Captain’s got some information from the Dyson vessel.  Help him to get to it so that there’s no chance of the data coming into contact with our systems.  We’re playing with fire, today, and I’ll take no chances.”

“Understood, Captain.” Said Trell.

“Meanwhile, I’ve got a prisoner to interrogate,” said Calen.  Before Ortega could react, her hand shot down, circled around the pilot’s neck, and slammed him into the wall.

“Wait!” said Ortega.

“No,” said Calen.  “I’m sure you think you’ve gotten everything you can out of him, Ortega, and he may even believe he’s told you everything of value, but I insist on wringing our guest dry.”

“Can you at least wait until after Trell and I have more data from his computer?”

“What’s your name, boy?” Calen asked, ignoring Ortega.  “I don’t like having strangers on my ship.”

A muffled response came from inside his helmet.

“Why’s he traveling without external speakers?” asked Calen.

“I turned them off during the flight over,” said Ortega.  “Didn’t want him interrupting things before you’d had your say.”

“I thought he was being a little too polite for one of Dyson’s mongrels,” said Calen.

“Is that just a basic flight suit?” said Trell, looking at the prisoner’s outfit.  “Those things barely have any insulation.  Or heating.  Captain Ortega, people can die from even brief exposure to space travel if this is all they’re wearing.”

“He’s fine,” said Ortega.  “On the way over, my suit measured the temperature and pressure, and at this spot in the cloud it’s actually not bad.  A little worse than the top of a standard planet’s highest mountains, maybe.  He’s probably cold, but he wasn’t going to die.”

“That’s incredible,” said Trell, reaching over to the prisoner’s helmet and reactivating its external communications.  “Pressure like that shouldn’t be possible in a gas cloud this size.  Especially this close to the exterior.  If only our sensors were working right now, I’m sure the data would be valuable.”

“-old, cold, cold, cold,” said William as the speaker on his helmet crackled to life.  “Stop saying I’m fine, I’m cold, I’m cold.”

“We can hear you, Pilot Tan,” said Ortega.

“Good, then you know I need to warm up,” said the prisoner.  “I went through blizzard training that was better than this.”

“You’ll warm up soon enough,” said Ortega.  He looked up to see Calen nodding in surprised approval.

“What?” he asked.

“There’s a mean streak in you,” said Calen.  “You hide it well.  That’s a bit reassuring.”

“It can get the job done sometimes,” said Ortega.  He walked closer and lowered his voice to a whisper.

“I don’t want you to sacrifice your technique here,” said Ortega.  “I really don’t.  But there’s something not right about this.  Go easy on him during the interrogation.”

“Don’t go soft just when I’m starting to believe there’s hope for you, Ortega.”

“I’m serious,” he said.  “There’s something off about him.  Too calm.  He’s practically a civilian, the way he acts.  You might get something useful out of him, but I don’t think he’s worth getting blood on your hands.”

Captain Ortega watched Ensign Trell filling the crystal carafe with chilled water from the ship's hydromill. Calen had ordered him shackled to the door on the opposite side of the ship's medical bay. He had agreed to it on the condition that Doctor Rogers' robotic body be similarly shackled to the medical chamber's single bed.

The medical chamber was a small room, and built with the assumption that only one of the ship's standard set of two crew members would be injured at a time, since any disaster large enough to incapacitate two Morcalan's at once would probably be severe enough that everyone on the ship would probably be dead anyway. Ortega wasn't close enough to the bed to interfere with the procedings, but he was close enough to see that Trell had enough sense to shackle Doctor Rogers' body more securely than he had been.

"Is it true that the two of you are destined foes?"

"Excuse me?" said Ortega, turning from Doctor Rogers' body. Ensign Trell was standing away from the robotic shell, holding the carafe.

"Destined foes," said Trell. "It's... I don't know if other humans have a word for it. An enemy that you can share your life with. A foe who's destiny is so entwined with yours that you can rely on their presence more than you can count on your closest friends."

"I wouldn't say that, no," said Ortega. "Though it is true that Rogers is a greater repeat offender than any other I've arrested. I've discovered his plots dozens of times."

Trell nodded, looking at the metal body on the bed.

"So you've... never hated someone so much that you can't imagine your life without them?"

Ortega laughed and shook his head.

"No, no I can't say that I have. I've never heard of that before."

"So it's true, then," she said. "I thought it was just xenophobia, or maybe planetary pride."

"What's true?"

"The emotions of Morcalans are said to run deeper and fiercer than that of any other human," said Trell. "Great poets speak of how our love and hate are stronger, and how our laughter and tears have more meaning and purpose. Other humans experience emotions, but we live them."

"I don't think that's true, actually," said Ortega. "I never met a human who didn't have great emotions. Some just don't express them. I will say, though, that your people do seem to live more... theatrical lives."

"Only a great fool mistakes our lives for theater," said Captain Calen from the door, stepping around Ortega as she entered the room. "We're not actors on a screen, going through our daily motions. You get enough of that from other societies. I've set our course through the Egression Belt. With luck we'll avoid attention. There aren't enough asteroids to cause a steady cover... there aren't even enough to cause any real danger, I'm sad to say. But I found three rocks large enough and with trajectories steady enough that we shouldn't be seen even if the Dyson Forces look for us. Not that they'll have much reason to."

"I'm ready to revive The Soul Survivor on your order, captain," said Trell.

"I still say this is a horrible idea," said Ortega. "It's a move of desperation that will add to our problems instead of alleviating them."

"Captain Ortega, you are my insurance against that," said Calen. "Your people may live lives bereft of the great antagonisms known to mine, but you still represent a great familiarity with this monster. If anyone can spot the Survivor's deception, it will be you. Now, will I have your cooperation or will I have your tongue to keep you from speaking up further? This chamber is capable of acquiring either, and it's your choice which it will be."

Ortega recognized the look of determination in Calen's eyes. It was a look he had seen... and, he was sure, a look he had displayed...whenever the final point of desperation had been reached with an uncooperative crew member. Knowing the reputations of the Morcalan people, he was sure that the threat wasn't empty. He knew it was a bad idea, but it was going to happen no matter what he said or did.

He opened his mouth to agree, but Calen had already seen it in his eyes. She turned toward Trell.

"I'm ready," said Calen. "My Maelstrom Ray is charged, and I've not faced nearly enough death today. Pour the water into his dome, and wake this monster. Be he robot or soul, he lives again on our ship!"

Trell tipped the crystal carafe into a hydraulic opening at the robot's shoulder. She took the container, moist with condensation, back to the hydromill as Ortega heard the all-too familiar sound of the machine beginning to pump the cold fluid. Slowly, the dome at the top of the robot begin to fill with water as Trell filled the caraffe a second time. She poured the water into the machine again and began to return to the hydromill.

"That should be enough," said Ortega.

Calen glared at Ortega who shrugged.

"It doesn't take as much water as it looks like, and it doesn't need to be full for him to be at full capacity. Believe me, you've got more than enough in there already."

Trell looked at Calen, who eventually nodded. She set the carafe onto a medical counter as more and more water began to pump into the dome. In less than a minute, the noise from the hydraulics changed and the water beneath the dome began to churn.

The robotic body lurched forward with a speed that seemed impossible given its bulky frame, but the restraints on the medical bed held Doctor Rogers in place. After struggling for a few moments, he settled down. Even without eyes, Ortega could tell that Doctor Rogers was staring at him.

"Am I addressing The Soul Survivor?" asked Captain Calen. "Are you awake?"

Ortega heard the crackle of speakers activating within the robotic body. A cheerful, likeable voice crackled to life, one that Ortega could tell had been selected to make Doctor Rogers appear reasonable and nonthreatening.

"Yes, I'm awake, thank you!" said Doctor Rogers. "I see you've got Captain Ortega as well. Do we have you to thank for rescuing us?"

"You and the Captain broke onto my ship," she said. "We decided not to cast you out into the void again."

"Deciding to go with a friendly Alto instead of your usual commanding Barritone, Rogers?" asked Ortega. "It's an interesting voice that you've picked for yourself."

"I'm glad you like it," said Rogers. "Am I to assume that we're going to be taken somewhere secure? Or at least, somewhere on the way that you can drop us off?"

"You're going to be helping us," said Calen. "Emperor Dyson's forces have conquered Morcalan space and are planning to move on from here very soon. We need your legendary mind to formulate a scheme capable of retaking the entire system before he becomes too well entrenched."

"That's a tall order," said Rogers. "The strength of Dyson's forces are traditionally defensive."

"That's what I told them," said Ortega.

"Did you also tell them that Dyson's forces tend to provide their own superstructure over societies, leaving the preexisting cultures and infrastructures largely in place?"

"No," said Ortega. "How is that relevant?"

"It means that for all of the would-be Emperor's strengths, he fails at integration and assimilation. ...or succeeds at it, depending on your point of view. Alien technologies that don't mesh with his own miraculous wonders are not useful on his timescale. He's trying to conquer as much as he can before he's noticed, and then as much as he can before he's stopped. Most of the circles I listen to are of the opinion that after the war ends, business will resume as normal."

"You haven't made any contingency plans for him?" asked Trell.

"I can operate in a post-Dyson society just as easily as in a pre-Dyson society. And I doubt that I'll need to... in my professional opinion as a working megalomanic, he lacks staying power. He'll have to rely on preexisting soldiers and police forces to maintain his order. I don't know how many non-automated troops he actually has in his army, but it can't be nearly as many as it appears to be. It's a well executed ruse, but a ruse is all it is. Hmm... Captain, it's wonderful that you've added extra security measures on top of the standard Morcalan military security suite, but they don't add much. Well, not much to me."

"What?" asked Calen.

"He's trying to access the ship's network!" shouted Ortega. "Shut down the network!"

Trell spun in place and reached the nearest terminal. Captain Calen simiply activated her Maelstrom Ray. The mighty weapon launched a barrage of tightly focused plasma, electricity and light, impacting Rogers' body. The robotics and hydraulics sputtered and sizzled before a painful noise heralded the final, grinding halt of the essential moving parts within the form. Most of the water in the dome-shaped helmet vaporized. The dome itself cracked and water spilled out of it, onto the floor.

"I apologize for killing your great enemy, Captain Ortega," said Calen. "That right should have been yours. Still, I'm glad we attempted to deal with this devil. A weak one though he may have been."

"He's not dead," said Ortega. "You just broke his dome."

"He needs the dome to live," said Calen. "And judging by the sound of it, his internal robotics suffered soundly."

"This isn't his first body," said Ortega. "He can transfer. And even if he couldn't... his bodies tend to be miracles of engineering. The last three bodies he's used could repair themselves even after facing severe mechanical failures. The last one replaced the reinforced glass of his dome with a sort of shatter-resistant, self-repairing crystal. I imagine the dome's already regrowing if this body's anything like the last one."

"Are you saying that he lives again and again as long as he eventually repairs and gets moisture into that dome?" asked Calen. "And he might well attack the ship's network as soon as he comes back online. Trell, let's take Captain Ortega's advice and keep his dome free of any contaminating moisture for the rest of this escapade."

"Yes, Captain," said Trell, though she didn't move from her position at the terminal. She tapped the screen and the keyboard curiously, trying to work through something strange.

"Is there a problem, Trell? This corpse won't move itself."

"Sorry, Captain," she said. "The computer is reacting strangely. Any functions that require my clearance are denying me access."

"We can reset your clearance after we make sure the ghost is buried and not coming back, Ensign."

"I think it's too late for that, Captain," said Ortega. Calen turned to yell at the Astroguard captain but stopped when she saw him. He looked like he was on a battlefield instead of chained to a door. His eyes were quickly covering the room, like a tactician reevaluating a situation.

"What are you getting at?" she asked.

The loudspeakers in the room crackled to life and Ortega tensed.

"He's already worked out my move," said the voice of Doctor Rogers, speaking in the richer tones that Ortega knew so well. The speakers of the ship crackled as the voice adjusted to account for unexpected differences in the wiring and continued. "Captain Ortega is a great fool, but his experience on a battlefield is second to none! He knew I was already attacking the ship's network, and that I had already cracked the security. He knew that I would not have announced such a thing unless it was almost certainly too late for you. This Morcalan Scuttler, Captain, is an ideal vessel for myself. Everything seems to be designed for rerouting, custom repairs, and cross-system cooperation. The water system on this ship was configurable enough that my autonomous virus was able to fashion a crude imitation of my usual robotic form. Not just a primitive copy of my mind, Captain, but my soul itself will live within your ship... which, ultimately, has become my ship."

"Access Code Toten Toten Gamma Seventeen!" shouted Calen.

"Access Denied, Captain," said the voice of Doctor Rogers. "I've been working in the Morcalan system long enough to know that I needed to disable the self destruct functionality before I did anything else. You people love a dramatic death more than life itself!"

"You're delusional, Rogers," said Ortega. "There's nothing in the water systems that can hold your mind. Something about your software allows a complete transference of your mind. It's a miracle of software and technology at work, but it would have functioned without changing the ship's water system. And there's no way that you'll keep hold of this ship for long."

"The science behind the transference of my life force would, of couse, be difficult to explain to one such as you," said Rogers. "Perhaps I could begin if you sat through a number of lectures I have on mathematics, biology, physics, and psychology first to give you the grounding necessary to understand my work. Unfortunately, you don't have the time."