Mordelain
10-10-14, 01:51 AM
Prologue
“Where am I?”
“Location unknown.”
“…when am I?”
“Star date unknown.”
Frustrated, the Traveller dredged his memory for the commands to lead him to answers. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat upright. The pod creaked its hydraulics drained by the reanimation process. Harmless gasses hissed from either end in the twilight.
“Chronograph recognition.”
“Time progressed since ignition is six thousand three hundred and thirty seven years,” the voice replied, "one hundred and thirty seven days, fourteen hours, two minutes. And seven seconds."
The Traveller’s eyes widened. Fear made sure he was alert, all hope lost. He pushed away from his bed and made for the door on uneasy feet. He reached for the access console and despite the long sleep, remembered the code on his first attempt.
“Current course analysis,” he enquired. His voice was hoarse.
He looked over his shoulder into his stasis pod. There were five pods in each unit. Each of the white pods was open, glass opaque, energy reserves long spent. The cushions inside were threadbare and dusty. It was clear nobody had occupied them in quite some time.
“Current course progression cannot be determined.”
“Shit.”
Advancing instinctively, the Traveller pieced together the last moments of his day prior to the stasis pod’s activation. His commanding officer, Celia Hawthorne, had given him a detailed debrief that surfaced to the front of his mind half-realised. He was part of a contingency plan, but he could not remember why. He replayed the scene as he remembered it repeatedly.
“Agent 492 to the forward command bridge.”
He got no answer. He could hear only his bare feet slap against the steel studded boardwalk of the service corridor. He tried again, and again, and again. Silence.
“Agent 492 to all channels, come in?” he asked. His comm device crackled. The static hinted at an answer, but swift fell dead. “Shit, shit, shit!” he shouted, growing frustrated. He grit his teeth as worry overcame his training.
He began to walk faster. Cold steel became carpet. Cupola out into cold space became wide bay viewing window. The infinite black was cold and uninviting, and to the Traveller alone, an ominous backdrop to a significant problem.
“Designate charter for crew on the Riven,” he commanded. The name of the Ark cut him, a sore point for unknown reasons. He figured something had gone wrong. Had he been responsible?
The computer’s response was immediate. The abruptness did little to soften the blow.
“One.”
The Traveller stopped. His heart raced. He examined his surroundings through blurring vision and saw nothing but bulkheads and girders. The corridor ended fifty feet ahead and double doors maintained the atmosphere of the room beyond. If memory served, it was the starboard command deck designated as the database mainframe. Red lights blinked around the frame, but the Traveller ignored them.
“Unlock command deck starboard-2. Authorisation 492-svi Gethsemane.” His unit name, security code, and project title overrode the lock. With a soft hiss, the doors gave away as he advanced militant into the rectangular room beyond. It was almost bare, safe for a thirty-foot long half-moon console of black, button less, polished glass.
The Ark was too big to function with a singular command bridge. Each side had three, centrally connected by the foreword command bridge on the radar hub. Each of the three auxiliary command posts was designated database, navigation, or logistics. This bridge linked to the vast repositories of information stored along the Ark’s core. It was a library and the black desk ahead it’s keeper.
“Welcome, Agent 492,” greeted the command AI in a familiar voice. The Traveller shivered, but he could not be sure, if it was due to the clean atmosphere, or old memories stirring.
“Confirm intelligence sync date and artificer.” He approached the command console, and paced it for a few minutes whilst the computer accessed data bank upon databank in a futile search.
“Data unknown,” it confirmed.
“Of course it is,” the Traveller moaned. He pressed his palm against the black glass. The imprint glowed phosphorescent orange as he moved it two inches right. The room burst into life, static crackled in the air and the panel initiated its start-up protocol.
“Artificer: intelligence sync with Fleet Admiral Celia Hawthorne. Authorisation,” the Traveller mouthed his code in tandem with the computer. He had been present to authorise his commanding officer’s suicide. He frowned.
The length of the console became an array of holographic models, screens, and access points. At the east end, a full model of the behemoth ark slowly rotated. On the right, a servo arm formed to tend to the repairs of the desk and the ship’s internal repair drone network.
“Identify the core matrix of AI system Command Bridge starboard 2.” He scrolled through the panel’s previous activity in search of answers. His mind raced as fast as his heart. Though animated, the stasis drugs still purged themselves from his system.
“AI intelligence identified as Fleet Admiral Celia Hawthorne.”
The Traveller did not respond immediately. He located the log of the intelligence uplink and read it. He read it again, just to be sure of himself.
“Celia?” he asked hesitant after a long, silent pause.
“Clarify,” the computer responded.
“Are you Fleet Admiral Celia Hawthorne?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow. He jettisoned the log from the archives and approached the schematic of the ark with a worried expression on his face.
“Intelligence uplinked designated with that name present.”
The Traveller touched the hologram. It responded. He smiled, remembering his training as he touched it again to magnify the model and close in on the command bridge. A segment loomed, replacing the full schematic with a miniature of his current location.
“Access uplink command. Access code Gethsemane.”
Celia responded with a single beep, a ream of rapidly spoken binary, and a scratch of static. A voice recording boomed into the command bridge as the Traveller manipulated the schematic. He examined the command bridge for damaged systems whilst he listened intently.
“Intelligence uplink command signatory log.” The recording broke off fleetingly. He static signified its age.
“Come on, come on…,” he erred.
“My name is Celia Hawthorne. I am acting Fleet Admiral of the Earth Expeditionary Force enroute to the Sassari Sector of the Artois galaxy. Jackson McCredie, Captain of the Nebulas, presiding.”
“Status confirmed,” added a gruff Scottish voice. The Traveller did not recognise the man from his briefing, nor from the ship’s records.
“Two days ago, a meteor shower struck the fleet as it emerged from an interstellar jump three lighters polar of the Andromeda galaxy. The damage to the fleet was catastrophic.”
With every new piece of information, the Traveller examined the relevant data in the databanks. He found no damage to the forward command structure of the Ark, but when he scrolled back to the full schematic, he noticed gaping holes peppered across the behemoth hull.
“Three of six Arks were able to power the three final interstellar jumps using our hyper drive coils. Two made jump jumps, and set their beacons for the final normal space leg of their journeys at sub light speed.”
The Traveller breathed a sigh of relief. Though he appeared alone, he was thankful that the exodus had not been a disaster.
“Riven will travel at sub light speed the full remaining distance. Alyssa has estimated this journey will take a length of time the command of this vessel has decided is…,” she understandably paused to take care with her words, but the Traveller could detect the fear in her voice. “Untenable,” was the word she chose.
“No!” he cried. He clenched his fist.
“Non-essential crew will return to stasis to limit further losses amongst the population. The damage cannot be repaired so much of the ship will be sealed using nexus fields to prevent the atmospheric decompression from pulling the ship apart in deep space.”
“That explains the lack of life-signs,” the Traveller mused, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
“Project Gethsemane agents will be set to wake once every century so long as ship functionality allows. This may afford some crew the opportunity to one day see our new home.”
“End log,” the Traveller barked. He waved his hand through the schematic and it disintegrated in a maelstrom of light back into the panel. “Identify Gethsemane stasis units.”
The panel reformed a two-dimensional image that listed the locations and occupants of seven stasis units across the Ark’s three-mile length. His own was the first. There were then three units with military designations all male. The final three were civilian contractors, two female, and one male. NO information asides name, role, and gender was available.
“Gethsemane unit status?”
“Previous pilot activations are currently in command 3-s.”
The Traveller blinked.
“Designate protocol for Gethsemane life sign detection.” He wondered why the ship AI had hidden this information.
“Protocol Gethsemane.”
That meant only project administrators and unit members could access the data. The reason for Celia, the project coordinator for the feet did not appear to be a coincidence.
“Identify the outgoing pilot.”
The list of names shortened to one. The Traveller read it aloud, but it was not familiar. The only connection appeared to be involvement with the project and an intricate fascination with pre-collapse surnames.
“Tom Sefter,” he mused. “Occupation engineer.” He stepped away from the panel, deflated, and just as confused now as when he had awoken. “Riveting…Upload route data and data bank node from intelligence transfer to Ark device.”
“Command confirmed. Processing request.”
At the centre of the console, a plinth rose from the panel. Two lasers converged and burnt a circular halo in orange neon light. With each sweep, it become less schematic and more real. The Traveller watched with fond recollection for all the technology and wonder they had left behind after the catastrophe. Survival was all they needed now, and the Gethsemane, it appeared, were crucial to that.
“Process complete.”
The plinth descended. The lasers ceased. The black band, with a singular interface node and orange trim rotated slowly. The Traveller approached, slipped his wrist through the loop, and clenched his teeth. The band shrunk to fit, and detected a genetic match with a sweep of its internal sensors. The node formed teeth, and dug into his skin. It tethered him to the ship’s computer.
“Activate ARIA uplink.”
The dormant cybernetic systems came to life in the Traveller’s tired, pallid, and gaunt frame. Bone augmentations and muscle clamps strengthened him. Adrenaline and kinetic energy cells began to store electricity from mitochondria reactions, and ocular and intelligence processing circuits made him drink in the monochrome silence of the chamber with keen and deep analysis.
“Sonar route display.”
A holographic overlay formed, half-real, half-visual. Arrows flickered to life and readouts of environmental features trailed down over his eyepiece. Blood ran down his fingers, warm and lingering.
“Shipside broadcast,” he said. He walked brazen out into the corridor and the start of the journey west through the ship.
“Channel open.”
“My name is Oliver Knox,” he began. “I am the last of the Gethsemane agents to be awoken from stasis, and we need to talk.”
“Where am I?”
“Location unknown.”
“…when am I?”
“Star date unknown.”
Frustrated, the Traveller dredged his memory for the commands to lead him to answers. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat upright. The pod creaked its hydraulics drained by the reanimation process. Harmless gasses hissed from either end in the twilight.
“Chronograph recognition.”
“Time progressed since ignition is six thousand three hundred and thirty seven years,” the voice replied, "one hundred and thirty seven days, fourteen hours, two minutes. And seven seconds."
The Traveller’s eyes widened. Fear made sure he was alert, all hope lost. He pushed away from his bed and made for the door on uneasy feet. He reached for the access console and despite the long sleep, remembered the code on his first attempt.
“Current course analysis,” he enquired. His voice was hoarse.
He looked over his shoulder into his stasis pod. There were five pods in each unit. Each of the white pods was open, glass opaque, energy reserves long spent. The cushions inside were threadbare and dusty. It was clear nobody had occupied them in quite some time.
“Current course progression cannot be determined.”
“Shit.”
Advancing instinctively, the Traveller pieced together the last moments of his day prior to the stasis pod’s activation. His commanding officer, Celia Hawthorne, had given him a detailed debrief that surfaced to the front of his mind half-realised. He was part of a contingency plan, but he could not remember why. He replayed the scene as he remembered it repeatedly.
“Agent 492 to the forward command bridge.”
He got no answer. He could hear only his bare feet slap against the steel studded boardwalk of the service corridor. He tried again, and again, and again. Silence.
“Agent 492 to all channels, come in?” he asked. His comm device crackled. The static hinted at an answer, but swift fell dead. “Shit, shit, shit!” he shouted, growing frustrated. He grit his teeth as worry overcame his training.
He began to walk faster. Cold steel became carpet. Cupola out into cold space became wide bay viewing window. The infinite black was cold and uninviting, and to the Traveller alone, an ominous backdrop to a significant problem.
“Designate charter for crew on the Riven,” he commanded. The name of the Ark cut him, a sore point for unknown reasons. He figured something had gone wrong. Had he been responsible?
The computer’s response was immediate. The abruptness did little to soften the blow.
“One.”
The Traveller stopped. His heart raced. He examined his surroundings through blurring vision and saw nothing but bulkheads and girders. The corridor ended fifty feet ahead and double doors maintained the atmosphere of the room beyond. If memory served, it was the starboard command deck designated as the database mainframe. Red lights blinked around the frame, but the Traveller ignored them.
“Unlock command deck starboard-2. Authorisation 492-svi Gethsemane.” His unit name, security code, and project title overrode the lock. With a soft hiss, the doors gave away as he advanced militant into the rectangular room beyond. It was almost bare, safe for a thirty-foot long half-moon console of black, button less, polished glass.
The Ark was too big to function with a singular command bridge. Each side had three, centrally connected by the foreword command bridge on the radar hub. Each of the three auxiliary command posts was designated database, navigation, or logistics. This bridge linked to the vast repositories of information stored along the Ark’s core. It was a library and the black desk ahead it’s keeper.
“Welcome, Agent 492,” greeted the command AI in a familiar voice. The Traveller shivered, but he could not be sure, if it was due to the clean atmosphere, or old memories stirring.
“Confirm intelligence sync date and artificer.” He approached the command console, and paced it for a few minutes whilst the computer accessed data bank upon databank in a futile search.
“Data unknown,” it confirmed.
“Of course it is,” the Traveller moaned. He pressed his palm against the black glass. The imprint glowed phosphorescent orange as he moved it two inches right. The room burst into life, static crackled in the air and the panel initiated its start-up protocol.
“Artificer: intelligence sync with Fleet Admiral Celia Hawthorne. Authorisation,” the Traveller mouthed his code in tandem with the computer. He had been present to authorise his commanding officer’s suicide. He frowned.
The length of the console became an array of holographic models, screens, and access points. At the east end, a full model of the behemoth ark slowly rotated. On the right, a servo arm formed to tend to the repairs of the desk and the ship’s internal repair drone network.
“Identify the core matrix of AI system Command Bridge starboard 2.” He scrolled through the panel’s previous activity in search of answers. His mind raced as fast as his heart. Though animated, the stasis drugs still purged themselves from his system.
“AI intelligence identified as Fleet Admiral Celia Hawthorne.”
The Traveller did not respond immediately. He located the log of the intelligence uplink and read it. He read it again, just to be sure of himself.
“Celia?” he asked hesitant after a long, silent pause.
“Clarify,” the computer responded.
“Are you Fleet Admiral Celia Hawthorne?” he repeated with a raised eyebrow. He jettisoned the log from the archives and approached the schematic of the ark with a worried expression on his face.
“Intelligence uplinked designated with that name present.”
The Traveller touched the hologram. It responded. He smiled, remembering his training as he touched it again to magnify the model and close in on the command bridge. A segment loomed, replacing the full schematic with a miniature of his current location.
“Access uplink command. Access code Gethsemane.”
Celia responded with a single beep, a ream of rapidly spoken binary, and a scratch of static. A voice recording boomed into the command bridge as the Traveller manipulated the schematic. He examined the command bridge for damaged systems whilst he listened intently.
“Intelligence uplink command signatory log.” The recording broke off fleetingly. He static signified its age.
“Come on, come on…,” he erred.
“My name is Celia Hawthorne. I am acting Fleet Admiral of the Earth Expeditionary Force enroute to the Sassari Sector of the Artois galaxy. Jackson McCredie, Captain of the Nebulas, presiding.”
“Status confirmed,” added a gruff Scottish voice. The Traveller did not recognise the man from his briefing, nor from the ship’s records.
“Two days ago, a meteor shower struck the fleet as it emerged from an interstellar jump three lighters polar of the Andromeda galaxy. The damage to the fleet was catastrophic.”
With every new piece of information, the Traveller examined the relevant data in the databanks. He found no damage to the forward command structure of the Ark, but when he scrolled back to the full schematic, he noticed gaping holes peppered across the behemoth hull.
“Three of six Arks were able to power the three final interstellar jumps using our hyper drive coils. Two made jump jumps, and set their beacons for the final normal space leg of their journeys at sub light speed.”
The Traveller breathed a sigh of relief. Though he appeared alone, he was thankful that the exodus had not been a disaster.
“Riven will travel at sub light speed the full remaining distance. Alyssa has estimated this journey will take a length of time the command of this vessel has decided is…,” she understandably paused to take care with her words, but the Traveller could detect the fear in her voice. “Untenable,” was the word she chose.
“No!” he cried. He clenched his fist.
“Non-essential crew will return to stasis to limit further losses amongst the population. The damage cannot be repaired so much of the ship will be sealed using nexus fields to prevent the atmospheric decompression from pulling the ship apart in deep space.”
“That explains the lack of life-signs,” the Traveller mused, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
“Project Gethsemane agents will be set to wake once every century so long as ship functionality allows. This may afford some crew the opportunity to one day see our new home.”
“End log,” the Traveller barked. He waved his hand through the schematic and it disintegrated in a maelstrom of light back into the panel. “Identify Gethsemane stasis units.”
The panel reformed a two-dimensional image that listed the locations and occupants of seven stasis units across the Ark’s three-mile length. His own was the first. There were then three units with military designations all male. The final three were civilian contractors, two female, and one male. NO information asides name, role, and gender was available.
“Gethsemane unit status?”
“Previous pilot activations are currently in command 3-s.”
The Traveller blinked.
“Designate protocol for Gethsemane life sign detection.” He wondered why the ship AI had hidden this information.
“Protocol Gethsemane.”
That meant only project administrators and unit members could access the data. The reason for Celia, the project coordinator for the feet did not appear to be a coincidence.
“Identify the outgoing pilot.”
The list of names shortened to one. The Traveller read it aloud, but it was not familiar. The only connection appeared to be involvement with the project and an intricate fascination with pre-collapse surnames.
“Tom Sefter,” he mused. “Occupation engineer.” He stepped away from the panel, deflated, and just as confused now as when he had awoken. “Riveting…Upload route data and data bank node from intelligence transfer to Ark device.”
“Command confirmed. Processing request.”
At the centre of the console, a plinth rose from the panel. Two lasers converged and burnt a circular halo in orange neon light. With each sweep, it become less schematic and more real. The Traveller watched with fond recollection for all the technology and wonder they had left behind after the catastrophe. Survival was all they needed now, and the Gethsemane, it appeared, were crucial to that.
“Process complete.”
The plinth descended. The lasers ceased. The black band, with a singular interface node and orange trim rotated slowly. The Traveller approached, slipped his wrist through the loop, and clenched his teeth. The band shrunk to fit, and detected a genetic match with a sweep of its internal sensors. The node formed teeth, and dug into his skin. It tethered him to the ship’s computer.
“Activate ARIA uplink.”
The dormant cybernetic systems came to life in the Traveller’s tired, pallid, and gaunt frame. Bone augmentations and muscle clamps strengthened him. Adrenaline and kinetic energy cells began to store electricity from mitochondria reactions, and ocular and intelligence processing circuits made him drink in the monochrome silence of the chamber with keen and deep analysis.
“Sonar route display.”
A holographic overlay formed, half-real, half-visual. Arrows flickered to life and readouts of environmental features trailed down over his eyepiece. Blood ran down his fingers, warm and lingering.
“Shipside broadcast,” he said. He walked brazen out into the corridor and the start of the journey west through the ship.
“Channel open.”
“My name is Oliver Knox,” he began. “I am the last of the Gethsemane agents to be awoken from stasis, and we need to talk.”