Oolite Bulletins

Ooo.. the plot thickens..

Rescue and Recovery didn't know about my connection to the Navy, other than the fact that I was in good standing with them--according to my ID anyway. And that was good enough for RRS to give me the go ahead to deliver the black box directly to them. They gave me the coordinates of the vessel it was to be delivered to and sent me on my merry way.

But it seemed like the day wouldn't be complete without some kind of additional coincidence thrown at me. As I went to the docking bay to get in my ship, a missionary vessel was just landing. And who should I see coming down the ramp other than Brother Mathias.

Of course it was. First Douchebag reappears in my life, then dad's back in the picture again, now this.

He was head of the order of monks who took care of me after I was killed. I never stuck around to ask many questions, and, come to think of it, even thank them. I'd just lost my Fer-de-lance, had been dead far longer than was socially acceptable, and was stuck with a crappy hunk of junk to fly away on and expected to be grateful.

It didn't help that I was even more of an ass then than I was now.

Brother Mathias didn't recognize me at first (I think it's mandatory for missionaries to have poncy sounding names. You never hear of Brother Billy-Bob or Sister Sue). I could have just walked on past, but, as I said, I never properly thanked him the last time we met. He was dressed pretty much the way you'd expect a missionary to be, or a Jedi. Only they don't have cool laser swords... I don't think.

"Brother Mathias," I said. "I just wanted to--"

"Oh bloody hell, it's you."

"--thank...you?"

Mathias shook himself. "I'm sorry. That was unprofessional of me." He huffed as he put on his game face. "What can I do for you, my son?"

"Not much, it seems. Look, I just wanted to apologize for leaving without thanking you, and being a general complaining jerk after you saved my life."

Mathias smiled. "We believe all life is sacred. I was in fact working for the RRS when I came across your wreck."

"Wait, you found me?"

Mathias nodded. "Many of my brothers and sisters work with Rescue and Recovery, particularly when lost pilots are involved. In exchange they provide maintenance for our vessels."

"Were you sent after me?" I'd thought it was one of those galactic coincidences, like the time Marilyn Monroe appeared in a bar for three seconds from shear quantum probability. Or so the story went.

"Of course. The odds of me finding you randomly would be like Marilyn Monroe appearing in a bar for three seconds... again. RRS picked up your ID when you were shot down and deployed the nearest rescue vessel, which happened to be me."

Since I had Mathias' ear, it occurred to me that one big mystery surrounding me might be cleared up.

"Brother Mathias, can you tell me something?"

"Of course."

"Where did you find that Adder you gave me?"

That puzzled him. "It was just one of our old missionary ships, barely serviceable. But you were so convinced you were still in danger we did not mind giving it to you."

"But the ident crystal in the ship..."

"...was yours, Mossfoot."

Okay, so that sound you just heard? That was my mind blowing.

"Sorry?"

"We used the identity crystal we found with you in the wreckage. Was something wrong with it? Was it damaged?"

"Are you sure that was my crystal? Is there any way you mixed it up with someone else's?"

Mathias shook his head. "Impossible. It was the only one we found on your person. It was in your pocket. We didn't find another."

That sound you just heard? That was my mind going supernova. The magic identity crystal that had gotten me this far, had been found on me when I died? The hell?

So, new question, where did I get it? I had a feeling I wasn't going to get much more out of the good missionary. I could tell he was playing it straight with me. Only one possibility presented itself, and I didn't like it.

I thanked Brother Mathias again, and meant it. Not just for saving my life, but for filling me in on this little tidbit, which answered some questions, only to raise a small fleet of others. As Mathias left to see the mission officer, robe flowing behind him, one more question came to mind.

"Hey, Mathy, do you guys carry laser swords?"

Mathias stopped and looked back, giving me a hint of a smile. "That would be telling."

The destination RRS had given me was only a few jumps away, back in Ceesxe. Of course. Everything seems to going in a big circle for me. I'd just left the damn place, but they keep pulling me back in. Maybe I could grab a drink with Redspear before I left again.

It seemed one of their Behemoth-class battleships was in system right now. Take a wild guess who was on board.

That's right, the president of the zero-grav cricket league and interplanetary karaoke star, Zal Kagen! I wondered if I could get his autograph while I was on board?

Oh, and my dad was there, too.

In fact, it was his ship, the Atomos. But just because I was going to his ship doesn't mean I was keen on a family reunion. While my space ninja theory had been thrown out in light of 4004 (and common sense), I was still pretty sure daddy-dearest had it in for me. I just wasn't sure in what capacity he cared anymore.

Pulling the same trick I had last time I docked on a Navy Carrier, I gave the ship my ident, told them my business, and waited for clearance.

It felt like I'd waited longer than I should, but that was just probably because of how my dad ran his ship. By the book. Even the slightest question probably required a requisition form being filled out, his XO being informed, general shouting, more forms. If it was important enough to get my dad involved, chances are I was screwed. But if it wasn't, then they would only end up doing what they knew they were going to do in the first place.

The comm officer on the Atomos clicked on. "Clearance granted."

Which was that.

After I docked, I looked down at Fleabag, who gave me his usual "attention will be permitted if you wish to lavish it on me" look.

"Alright, Fleabag. If I'm not back in an hour, fly off without me. Got it?"

Fleabag blinked.

"What's that? You're too loyal and won't leave? We all go home or nobody goes home? What a great cat you are. I knew I could count on you. Well, since I can't talk you out of it, just stay here, eat, sleep, and rub up against the legs of any Navy types that come in to look. Think you can handle that? Good."

I took a deep breath and prepared to pull off the bluff of a lifetime. If I was going to find answers anywhere, it would be here. The black box I'd retrieved had something important about 4004, I knew it. Problem was only a Navy ship had the ability to access it. And if my dad was somehow involved, then this ship no doubt had even more secrets.

Having been on this ship a number of times in the past, I was worried about being recognized. Not by many, but a few. My dad, of course. His XO, Adams, who never seemed to be far away from him. A couple of the lady officers (for reasons I'd rather not get into), and some of the enlisted men I'd lost money to in poker (and for other reasons I'd rather not get into).

I solved this by giving myself a cunning disguise. I'd cut off some of my cat's hair to create a mustache I could glue on. The bald spot would grow back soon enough, I assured Fleabag, who had given me a look pointing out I had more than enough of my own hair to do the same thing. Fleabag failed to notice that his idea wouldn't have been nearly as funny.

I also wore a hat.

The truth was, people don't always see who you are, they see what you are. As a security buddy once told me, "They don't see the face, they see the badge." So back when I was the spoiled brat son of their commander flying an expensive luxury ship, that's all they saw.

But in this ship? With this ID? Working for RRS? A mustache and hat would be more than enough to fool anyone. The trick wasn't to try and hide from them, it was not giving them a reason to remember me, and avoid the ones who would.

The ramp dropped and I stepped out. Two officers stood at the bottom of the ramp waiting for me.

The plan was like before--to take advantage of whatever clearance my "Section W" status granted me. Only this time I was gong to tour the ship, talk to some personnel, access come computers and see what my crystal could help me drag out of this bulk's memory. If I was around long enough for them to access the black box, I'd get a copy of that too. That was the plan.

The pair at the bottom or the ramp stood at attention. "In the name of Her Royal Majesty, you are under arrest."

Or I could come up with a new plan.

Under arrest.

Okay, so this didn't go as well as I'd planned.

This wasn't the violent takedown kind of arrest like you see on GalCOPS, where a guy in a wife-beater shirt is dragged out of his Krait at a docking bay with his face blurred out and every other word bleeped out. This was the polite kind of arrest, where the two officers didn't even unbutton the weapons on their holsters, let alone draw them on me.

After, all, I was in the heart of one of their biggest destroyers. Where was I going to go?

The officers didn't cuff me, but did take my hat and identity crystal, then cordially lead me away. One in front, one in back. As they lead me through the hanger the first thing I noticed was the most obvious sign I was on my father's ship - his personal collection.

Sigh... I know I've only alluded to my family in the past, but that was mostly for my own protection. As you might recall, even the Tionisla Chronicle couldn't confirm my identity for sure based on the information I'd provided. What can I say? Space is big, and no doubt many officers had daydreamed of getting rid of their good for nothing leeches of spoiled sons, and some had acted on it.

But from this point on I'm sure most will reporters will probably figure it out. Not many naval officers have their personal antique ship collection on board the destroyer they command.

Man, that collection. He'd had most of them for as long as I could remember. I come from a rich family, not that you'd know it from looking at me this days, and dad has a collection of ships before he was twenty. So guess how I reacted when I got a single brand new Fer-de-lance for my eighteenth birthday? Oh, I loved it, but I felt ripped off, too. I thought I was owed one of the beauties from his collection.

I thought I was owed a lot of things, but I'll be damned if I could give you a reason why.

First we passed a Krait that was once owned by the Dread Pirate Svengali over seventy years ago. Next to it was a Sidewinder owned by the assassin Mr. Shush, who retired rich and alive (a rare combination) and claimed he never needed anything more powerful. There were a couple others, all lined up along the unused side of the launch deck, but perhaps his most prized ship was right at the very back. A bright red beauty that was quite literally one of a kind...

"This way," said the front officer, nodding to the exit on the opposite side of the flight deck. I followed, looking now at the functioning fighters. Vipers, mostly. A single wing of Viper Interceptors for Delta Wing, if I recall correctly, the Atomos' Elite pilots. And... holy crap.

"Is that... is that a Constrictor?" It had to be. I'd been following the Constrictor's development ever since I'd heard of it. A black-ops vessels, about the size of a beefed up Viper. It didn't have the sleek angles of a Viper, though, because of its radar-repellent hull.

On the rare days I'd visit here, there were a few members of the crew I considered cool enough to hang out with. Most of them claimed to have heard things about this ship. To hear them tell it, the Constrictor could fly at Torus-level speeds on regular engines and shoot laser beams and missiles in every direction by spinning around rapidly in something they called a "death blossom" maneuver. Yeah, it was all bollocks, but it still kicked in your imagination. Who didn't want to get their hands on a uber-death-ship?

"Eyes front, civilian," said the front officer. "You didn't see anything."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I said. Civilian, huh? Well that hinted at what they knew about me. Namely that I wasn't Mossfoot. "So, where are we going?"

"The brig. You will be bought to interrogation when Commander Adams is ready."

Adams, the XO. So dad wasn't even going to deal with me personally, huh? Typical.

Once we'd left the flight deck it was your standard boring cut and past naval regulation corridors until we reached the brig. The brig was all bars and no sense of class, not even giving prisoners privacy from one another, let alone the guards. Thankfully it was almost empty, except for one person curled up in a cot on the cell next to mine.

"Now, about room service?" I said as they shut the door.

The officer smirked and left before I could ask for the lobster bisque.

The body in the other cell stirred, a pair of eyes looked at me over a military grey blanket, and then I heard the words I never thought I'd hear again in this lifetime.

"Hello there, flyboy."

Intreguing! Keep it up, good stuff!

BBD

I don't care how many people you recycle back into this plot.....

I'M KEEPING THE SEXY CAT LADY!

Just so you know.

Same thing goes for politics. Megadodo Publications, for example, used to put out a travel guide you might have heard of, and not wanting to be bogged down by things like accuracy, decided to lump the governments of the various planets into nice and neat and completely inaccurate categories. Corporate State, Democracy, Confederacy, Communist, Dictatorship, Multigovernment, Feudal, and Anarchy. These became so popular that all guides took them on, and galactic maps use them as a shorthand for pilots to reference.

As general indicators of stability, they are okay, but consider the range of species and cultures I mentioned before and tell me if you think two Communist states are the same?

Actually, it turns out, closer than you think. Since all nav systems started using these for reference, and have for well over a hundred years now, you've had the strangest cases of conformity I think the galaxy has ever seen. Alien worlds classified as "Feudal" for example, looked to the ancient Earth culture to understand what these hairless apes were talking about. And they found that they liked what they saw.

Now you find these places adopting their own variations of titles like "Lord" or "Baron" (often with strange misspellings), arranging for duels and jousts (in hundred ton spaceships with frickin laser beams) and organizing "hunting lodges" where six legged reptilians can admire their collection of enemy heads (sometimes human), while smoking a pipe filled with Megaweed and saying things like "pip pip" for no discernable reason.

If these worlds weren't so dangerous they'd be amusing.

Same goes for Communism. You'd think that they'd take one look at how that worked out on Earth and decide to either go to war with us for the insult, or get their act together and try something with less oppression. But nope. They start putting up posters celebrating the glorious worker, go all minimalist and "efficient" in their ship and station design (other than what GalCop imposes for intergalactic trade purposes) and start hitting the vodka heavily.

Okay, so the last bit I can get behind, but the rest? I mean, most even use the hammer and sickle logo or red star.

This is such an excellent summary of Commies and Feudal States that it makes me itch to grab them. 4 more days without Oolite, however.

Fun fact about modern spaceships. A lot of it is automated. I mean, a LOT. I've seen people who don't know better complain about the physics of videos they see. Stuff in space does not seem to operate the way the laws of physics would dictate. And it's true, but that's because operating in a ship under true Newtonian physics is harder than you'd like to imagine. So most of it is handled by computers, thrusters, compensators, all kinds of stuff that is behind the scenes and so innocuous that you don't really know it's there. It's gotten to the point where every ship (except perhaps the Thargoids) use this same technology because it makes manual piloting that much easier for us.

And one of those things is a lack of going in reverse. A ship can go to a dead stop (in relative terms to the nearest planet-like mass) but not backwards. It simplifies things for everyone. Sure, there are some jocks out there who rip out those safeties so they can do unbelievable stunts, but they're by far the exception. For the rest of us, there is Ship Physics, which runs on rules that would piss Newton off to no end.

Ship Physics, brilliant!

"GalCop Regulation 14.7 section B: No vessel shall have a ship registration that is considered profane by any of the major sentient species."

I looked at the name I'd just spraypainted on the hull. That was profane? "Get the fuck out of town."

"Mr... Foot, is it?"

"This guy really doesn't get the idea of single word names, does he?"

"I don't know. I could get used to calling you Moss," said Redspear.

"Moss works. It's actually derived from Moses, I think," I said. "Does that mean I can call you Red? Or how about Spearmint?"

"I get called worse."

"A-HEM!" Officer Davis huffed. "If you two are finished."

"I got more," said Redspear.

"I could write a book," I added.

"Your ship will not be allowed to leave with its current registration. I'm here to request you provide an acceptable name or allow a random hexadecimal reference code to be used."

ROTFL.

Zireael wrote:

Ship Physics, brilliant!

I majored in Handwavium back in university

Only one person in the universe called me flyboy in that tone.

"Brandi?"

She stretched out on the prison cot and sat up. "Was that my name? Oh yeah, the airhead groupie persona, right." Her hair was jet black now, but it was still her.

I'd like to describe soft curves and deep colored eyes and all that sexy stuff you guys are no doubt expecting, but really I'd be giving you the wrong impression. She sat on the cot covered up by the grey blanket as if she hadn't had her morning coffee and cigarette and was damned pissed about it.

"Christ, you look terrible. How long have you been here?" I asked.

She shrugged. "Few weeks. Since we're playing quid pro quo, what has you held at Her Majesty's pleasure?"

"Just being me. Or being someone, maybe. Or not being someone. Not quite sure yet, to be honest. And how'd you end up on their naughty list?"

"Trying to get paid."

So a few weeks ago would mean... "This would be the job you took on me? The one that was going to buy you a new ship? The one where you kinda but didn't actually kill me because of a loophole in your contract?"

"That's the one. Turns out my employer wasn't big on loopholes. I didn't think you'd make any noise before I got paid. Turns out you couldn't wait to blab on the hyperradio again. Next thing you know instead of meeting with him, I get ratted out and a squad of soldiers are waiting for me instead." She waved around her cell. "So thanks, for all this."

I could have said something snarky, but the last thing I wanted to do was reinforce the lesson that the correct thing to have done would have been to kill me. "Sorry."

She shrugged. "Eh, I've had worse. I got caught smuggling narcotics to a communist factory once. Compared to their gulags, this is the Ritz."

"How'd you get out of that one?"

"The usual."

"Seduction?"

She gave me a glare, and the finger. "Bribery. But that won't work in a spit-and-polish place like this." She ran a finger down the wall, checking for non-existent dust. "I mean, look at the crew. Even their haircuts have haircuts."

That was true for most of the crew, for sure. But there were exceptions.

I huffed and dropped on my cot. "Well, if they have me, then that's proof you didn't kill me, so they can't really arrest you for not committing a hit."

"Thanks, but I got a feeling loopholes mean even less to these guys. I'd accepted a contract and destroyed your ship and your escape pod. Plenty of felonies they can line up there. Why did you tape cat hair under your lip, anyway?"

I felt my face. I'd forgotten about my disguise. "I'm trying to start a new fashion trend. Figured it'll be big among the early teens at raves."

The entrance to the brig opened and two armed guards came in. So I'd been upgraded from polite detainment to armed escort. I figured I'd start worrying when the arm-to-leg manacles came out.

"Well, I guess your dance card is filled," said whatever-her-name-really-was. "See you later, flyboy."

The guard led me down the hall, and I passed by number of people en route. Most of them didn't give me a second glance, but one guy in an enlisted man's uniform looked at me and said, "Hey, buddy, you got something on your face there," pointing to cat-stash as he passed by. I looked back and smirked. Yeah, I knew that joker. Worked in the quartermaster's office. I think I owed him money.

At last I was brought to an interrogation room. I'd seen these before. Dad tried using them once or twice when admonishing me for my behavior, hoping it would help intimidate me. I thought it was cool, like on those cop shows, plus I got to check how my hair looked in the two-way mirror.

Commander Adams was waiting for me inside. I'd known him almost as long as my dad. While dad was tall, had a fierce mustache (all the better to bluster in) and a slightly rotund midsection, Adams was short, in excellent shape, and was bald as a full moon. I suppose the best way to summarize his personality was this: he was efficient.

I sat down across from Adams, the guards waiting outside. Just me and him.

"Is that supposed to fool anyone?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, right." I pulled off the cat hair mustache. Funny, if it had been dad I'd have left it on for kicks. But like I said, Adams was efficient. And that included making me do what he wanted without having to say or do much of anything.

Adams folded his hands on the table. "Well, the prodigal son returns. From the dead if I have heard correctly."

"Still working on the water to wine bit," I said. "You'd think I'd have figured that part out first, amiright? Huh? Huh?" I raised my hand for a fist-bump I knew would never arrive, and set my hand back down.

"Interesting, don't you think, that you had to die to learn a life lesson. You've more or less raised yourself up by your own bootstraps since then, something your father had always hoped you'd do, but the rest...? I honestly don't know if the Captain would be disappointed, or proud of what you've done with your life."

"Given that you're here instead of him, I think the answer is pretty obvious."

Adams smiled, which was unnerving. That was not something he ever did around me.

He reached into his uniform's breast pocket and pulled out an identity crystal. Given the spot of curry that still stained a bit of the top, I knew it was mine. They'd confiscated it from me as I was lead away.

"He doesn't know that you're here. Only a renegade pilot with forged identification that's being held for questioning. So... questions. Let's start with the obvious, shall we? How did you end up with one of my men's identity crystals?"

I thought about what my dad might say in a situation like this, and one phrase felt particularly appropriate.

"Oh Bugger."

mossfoot wrote:

Zireael wrote:

Ship Physics, brilliant!

I majored in Handwavium back in university

LOL.

Mind if I use something similar to Ship Physics in Mara's ship log?

Zireael wrote:

mossfoot wrote:

Zireael wrote:

Ship Physics, brilliant!

I majored in Handwavium back in university

LOL.

Mind if I use something similar to Ship Physics in Mara's ship log?

Feel free. Anything I come up with here is meant to help create a kind of "comic book logic" consistency to the Elite/Oolite-verse and mechanics. So if it works for you, use it.

mossfoot wrote:

Adams folded his hands on the table. "Well, the prodigal son returns. From the dead if I have heard correctly."

"Still working on the water to wine bit," I said...

Love that part! LOL!

Good stuff! Keep it up

BBD

I'll be writing more soon, it's just that I've got an OXP mission project I'm coordinating with several people right now Look forward to some test-players when it's ready

The truth was, I knew how I ended up with the crystal.

You see, the thing about difficult father and son relationships is the more one side remains calm during disputes, the more likely the other will find different ways to lash out. My father was great at staying irritatingly calm when it suited him.

I took stuff. At first it was deliberate. A rare book on my dad's shelf. A document he left on his desk. A pen. A credit chit. But in time I kind of became a small scale kleptomaniac. I would just pocket anything that looked like it might honk somebody off if it was missed.

And then there was the day I went into the wrong room. I'd been invited to hang out with some of the less respectable members of dad's crew for a friendly game of cards (that may or may not end up in profit or a fight--or both). But instead of the quartermaster's office I ended up in an R&D area on the same deck.

Technically I wasn't supposed to have clearance to places like this, but my pal in the quartermaster's office, Paradox, fixed me up for an all-access pass some time before. I didn't even know I was in the wrong room. They all looked alike to me. This one just had more computer monitors in it.

I spent five minutes quietly waiting as the tech nerds typed away on computers, watching various computer simulations on screens. Flight formations, combat maneuvers, evasive maneuvers. The usual. They ran this kind of thing all the time, analyzing past engagements, learning how their pilots might perform better next time.

But this was different. I quickly figured out they were in fact monitoring pilots in the sim chambers, and they were running A.I. script, but it wasn't the usual Us-vs-Thargoid practice going on. It was all pilot against pilot, but with A.I. constantly updating and advising the maneuvers on both sides, and constantly adapting whenever they deviated. This caught my interest, and I got closer to two of the pencil necked geeks to see what was going on.

What I was looking at, as you might recall, were the fledgling stages of A.I. Management. The techies were irritated with the results, though, saying it would be years before the system was any good.

That was when they noticed me and told me to get lost. Suitably fraked off, I did what I always did. I grabbed something nearby without them noticing and stuffed it in my pocket as they shooed me away. A crystal. I figured it would give one of the two guys a headache when he couldn't access his room that night.

One week later I was shot down.

"I will ask you again," said Commander Adams, hands folded and calm as ever. "How did you end up with one of my men's identity crystals?"

So... how was I supposed to handle this? You see, Adams had overplayed his hand straight off the bat. Had he simply said something like "How did you come across this unusual crystal" I could have come up with a number of stories, each more complicated than the last. He could have caught me in a lie each time, and eventually wheedle his way to the truth.

My men. My men.

Those two words said so much. This crystal was in the lab developing A.I.M. technology, the same tech that somehow ended up in the hands of every damn pirate in this part of the galaxy. I was shot down a week after taking it, but I wasn't exactly an easy pilot to kill. I may not be a combat fighter, but running away? I knew a thousand ways to do that.

I was shot down by standard Navy Vipers using A.I.M., but not the Elites of Delta Squad in their Interceptors. Why? The pilots sent after me needed to be loyal. But who could be more loyal on this ship to Her Majesty's Navy than Delta Squad?

Not loyal to Her, then...

So I'm dead for a while. Then I start flying around broadcasting my problems to the universe without even realizing it. It's only a matter of time before word gets back here.

But instead of more Vipers hunting me down, assassins such as Miss-what's-her-name in the brig and who knows how many others are hired to track me down. Why? Because the Navy was pulling out to face a massive Thargoid threat. And shortly after they've all left the region? 4004. Coincidence, or perfect timing?

When things settle down a bit I board a Navy carrier. No problems, no red flags. I learn my ident has Section W clearance. Whatever the heck that was, it meant that most people didn't ask me questions.

It turns out a Navy surveillance cutter had been destroyed a week before 4004, and this very ship is the one who requested RRS to retrieve the black box. What had that cutter seen?

Then I land on the Atomos, and BOOM, instant arrest. And dad...?

He doesn't know that you're here. Only a renegade pilot with forged identification that's being held for questioning.

Adams already knew how I got the crystal. This wasn't a simple "What did you swipe from your dad's desk this time?" situation. He wanted to see how much more I knew, and who else knew it.

And by tipping his hand the way he did, it meant that he had no intention of seeing me leave this ship alive.