Angela glanced at Hart quizzically, at which Hart nodded slightly. "That's fine, Lieutenant." Wight said.
Angela stepped back a step, and clipped the tripod into the scanner, holding it above the deck before keying a switch on the tripod. The three legs of the tripod extended down to the deck, and in a moment the scanner rested its weight on the tripod. She pointed the device at Doyle and swiveled it to bring the fighter into frame behind and slightly to the side of him. Not difficult due to the wideangle range of the scanner.
Angela peered down at the viewfinder and spoke; "Okay. Setting up a baseline scan.....the Lieutenant as Subject Alfa, and the ship as Subject Beta" She keyed a button, and a very faint hum emanated from the device, and then ceased. "There.Wait...There it is again." She said. She turned to Hart and said; "Setting for continuous scan." The R110 began to hum again.
Gwen Hart stepped over to a cart next to the fighter and began to work with the controls. "Alright. Initiating device interface.....scanfeed is up, storage nodes are receiving the data. Temp scans are up." Her manner was relaxed, as usual, and she calmly worked the controls with her left hand, her right still holding the steaming cup of coffee. "How about the partie scans Angela?" She set the coffee cup down on the cart.
"Okay." Angela glanced and Doyle and said; "You can relax a bit Lieutenant. We have our baseline scan." She walked over to the table and pulled one of the sensor paks from the case. She returned to the R110 and clipped the sensor pak into the scanner, then keyed another button. Angela glanced down into the viewfinder of the scanner and shook her head. She raised her head, looking at Doyle, and said softly; "Unbelievable."
She seemed to glance at the fighter for an instant, then abruptly walked over to Hart, and picked up the steaming coffee cup before continuing over towards the fighter.
"H-hey!." Hart exclaimed. "Go pour your own!"
Angela reached the fighter, and said, mostly to herself; "I wonder.." She set the cup on the edge of the wing.
[color=#FFFF00]Deck Two, Corridor "C"
Marcus Owens had finally reached the end of corridor C, and rounded the corner....
Denise Ellis slammed into him, nearly knocking Owens down, before Ellis caught him by the shoulders, steadying him. "Oh! Doctor, I'm sorry!" She blurted out. Without waiting for a response, she asked; "Did you just see a man come this way? Dark hair, about this tall?" She held out her hand in an approximation of Nickatellis' height.
"Ms Ellis, have you.."
"Did you see him!?" Ellis repeated, interrupting Owens question.
"Y-yes, He was..." Owens began to answer.
"Okay." Ellis moved around Owens and started walking quickly down the corridor.
"But Ms. Ellis!" Owens implored.
"Can't talk now Doctor." She continued down the corridor from where Owens had came.
Owens leaned against the wall, frowning. Now what was all that about?
Doyle watched her place the cup on the wing of his Minuteman. It didn't take the hot air distorting the roundel beyond to understand what she was aiming for.
[font=Arial]<span style="font-size:10pt;line-height:100%]Airlock A
Deck Two, Port Side
Nickatelli opened the outer door of the ships airlock, to find Captain Nathan Wells staring at him. "Couldn't leave gracefully, huh Elias?" Wells stepped into the corridor, forcing Nickatelli to take an uncomfortable step backwards. Keller and Crowley stepped out of the airlock behind Wells, flanking Nickatelli as he backed against the bulkhead.
"What?" Nickatelli asked ; "What now?'
"I think you have something that belongs to us." Wells' said. Keller pulled the bag out of Nickatellis hand, took two steps back, setting the bag on the deck. He knelt, and opened the bag to rifle thru it.
"What are you talking about? I don't have anything I didn't come on board with!" Nickatelli said to Wells.
Denise Ellis entered the corridor from a bend ahead, walking up to the trio, coming to a stop next to Wells. Denise eyed Nickatelli, her expression cold.
She must have called him. Always has a mouthful to say. Nickatelli thought darkly. Maybe I should have shut her up while I had her alone....
Denise saw the way he looked at her and she felt a chill. She wondered what he was thinking, but mostly why. What had set him off like this? Why not ask?
"What happened Elias?"
Nickatelli started to reply; "Why don't yo.."
"Here." Keller said, from his crouch next to the bag; He emptied a small bag from Nickatellis' belongings, three storage chips visible in the palm of his hand.
Nickatelli shouted; "You planted that! You son of a.....! He lept forward, surprising everyone but Crowley, who grabbed Nickatelli by the shoulders just as he reached Keller. Nickatelli shifted slightly, quickly striking at Crowley with his elbow, forcing Crowley to release his hold to block the blow. In an instant, Nickatelli brought his boot forward into swift contact with Kellers' face, knocking him to the deck, and moved to hit him again just as Wells threw a sharp kick to Nickatelli's knee, and he fell to the deck clutching the joint.
Denise shook her head as the men secured Nickatelli. She stooped to pick up the chips, gave one sad glance at Nickatelli, and started back towards the Hangar.
[color=#FFFF00]The Hangar
Gwen Hart keyed a holodisplay of the R110 scanner readout, projecting a small thermal image of the scanners targets over one of the smaller carts next to the fighter. The somewhat blurry image, after being washed through the computer, showed its' subjects as a set of multi-coloured shapes, and a floating bar at the side indicated the temperature range of the colours in the image.
"Look at that!" Hart exclaimed. She made an adjustment, and the holoimage enlarged somewhat.
The fighter, in contrast to the human subjects, was of a single temperature, its entire frame showing as a light blue, in the range of about 290 Kelvin. As Hart noted this, the blue turned a faint shade lighter, indicating a drop to 289K.
"What's the Hangar temp, Doctor?" Angela asked.
Hart consulted the panel, and replied; "Two hundred ninty-eight Kelvin."
Angela turned to Doyle and said; "It looks like it's happening again, like before."
Doyle set his jaw and nodded; he felt nothing, of course, but it wasn't difficult for him to pick up that there was something to do with temperature going on here. Evidently his little fighter turned into an ice cube when he wasn't around it, and heaven only knew why.
"Of course a good question would be why this is happening," he muttered, looking back at Angela. "Any ideas?"
<span style="font-size:10pt;line-height:100%][color=#FFFF00] Charisma's Coffee
Somewhere on Planet Manhattan
It wasn't one of those chain coffee shops. Doctor Owens had suggested the
establishment. A small family owned venture, one having survived the last twenty eight years against it's much larger competition, mostly due to an often varied, but loyal clientele, that was attracted for one reason or another to the relatively sleepy outskirts of the nearby metropolis. Advertised in no other way than by word of mouth, The business was located atop an office building,with a veranda outside the shop, the customers treated to views of both the city, and of the mountain ranges to the north. The veranda was decorated with a startling array of flora, the wide spectrum of colors and scents further enforcing the natural setting of the quiet refuge.
Denise Ellis sat towards the edge of the veranda, her chair one beautifully hand-carved, of some species of rich, dark wood, topped with a thick, soft cushion of a dark maroon colour. A welcome change from the sterile coldness of the Institutes' furnishings. Her dress, also, far different than the normal constraints of her profession. She wore a dark blue sundress, new, of a mid-thigh length presently in fashion on the planet. Her legs crossed beneath the small table, her feet resting within the shiny black heels she had purchased earlier in the morning. Her long, golden blonde hair rested on her shoulders, a few strands falling forward as she leaned slightly towards the table, reading the printed work spread out upon the table surface.
It was a collecting hobby to which she had first been exposed to by her mentor. An excentric portion of the populace, in paticular of the Academia, had first pioneered, then later became patron of, the archaic concept of the printed page, manifested by the reappearance of the bound book. In a generation often harmed by the advancement of technology, at least in the opinion of some, the bound book returned a tangible form to knowledge and the arts. Rather than read from the glare of a screen, or from what some considered the invasiveness of the neural net, there was a small number who practiced the reviving trade, in order to sell to the growing circle of buyers.
Most books she obtained after saving for weeks to purchase. This one, being more condensed then most she had gotten, She was able to order just prior to the start of her time off. It had been awaiting her when she'd made planetfall, and after picking it up, she'd eagerly taken a taxi to this place, in order she might read it without interruption.
"In that part of the book of my memory, before which little can be read, there is a heading, which says:Here begins a new life."
Words of a man, having been written over six hundred years before mankind first began his efforts to leave the surface of Terra; And still this mans' words survived. The authors work, in his own words, had been to "Write that which has never been written of any woman." As she read, she became convinced the author had completed that task.
As she read the words, she grew more and more deeply touched. She could feel his love for the woman as he had, the joy her mere presence caused him; and then the anguish, the deepest sadness at his loves' death.
She suddenly became aware that some while had passed. She leaned back from the table, realizing that her eyes were damp. She was a little unsettled by how deeply the work had affected her. That a mans words could have such power after so long. Was that not a glorious reward for ones life? She frowned. Technology, by its own nature, would always become old, become obsolete. The greatest inventors were marveled at, for a time, but at some point no longer relevant. She realized how much respect she had for this author, who had done nothing more than preserve that which he had felt in his life.
[color=#33CC00]Incoming Transmission: Open channel?
"Hello?"
"Hello Mrs. Ellis, it's Brenda at the Institute." Brenda was one of the few at the Institute who still addressed her as "Mrs.", apparently unconcerned with whatever had made others switch to "Ms".
Maybe if she could finally get her doctorate, she could settle that...matter.
"Oh, hi Brenda!"
"I'm afraid I have some unpleasant news."
A chill ran down Densies' spine. Is it David?
"What's happened?" She asked cautiously.
"Captain Wells' ship was attacked outside of Los Angeles. Apparently fairly severely damaged. He managed to get back to the planet, and landed hard at a port some distance from the Institute."
Denise fought back a wave of emotion she heard the news. Has someone else been....
"Was anyone hurt?"
"We don't know yet, Mrs. Ellis.We haven't been able to get back into contact with the ship. Doctor Altura and some of the other staff are taking a transport out there to see what the situation is.
"Alright. Contact all the staff still here on Manhattan, and see if you can arrange a transport for California." I'm going to take an express right away."
"Understood Mrs Ellis."
Denise closed the channel and rose from the chair. After thanking the waitress, she paid her bill and stepped out towards the edge of the veranda, and looked towards the horizon.
So many friends, old and new, are on that ship. Have I lost any?
The sky told her nothing, and she saw only the growing overcast of a coming storm....
The jump over, Captain Nathan Wells relaxed slightly in his Bridge chair, the forward viewport revealing the fluffy-looking white haze of the Roatan Ice Cloud.
"Jump sequence complete. Holding position." The words were delivered flatly, with a vague aura of boredom, by the new helmsman, Jayden Bardel. A young, but reputedly capable pilot they'd hired on at Manhattan the last time through. Their previous helm had suddenly quit, after learning of Wells' decision to continue their mission, despite the earlier damage to the ship.
Wells frowned. The man had really tried to convince Wells to change his mind. Should have taken his advice. He thought absently. Unbidden, the man sitting at the operations console spoke; "No damage from the jump." Ordinarily he would had said something to the effect of "All systems green." This time that wasn't the case.
"Continue on through Mr. Bardel, initiate trade lane protocols."
"Yes sir." The helmsman replied, and preceded to push the ship towards the closest trade ring. The movement was handled somewhat awkwardly, more indication the pilot might have been stretching the truth regarding his prior experience. Wells had noticed this, and so far had said nothing. He admitted to himself that he had something of a soft spot for any new kid just starting out. He remembered times early in life , when all he'd wanted was a chance, and how few had given him one. Still, it wouldn't do if his sentiments resulted in the ship splattering against the nearest rock. He'd have to intervene if the kid didn't improve soon.
"Entering lane."
The usual wave of light as they began travel to the next waypoint.
Wells frowned again. So much for that business back in Bretonia. He'd let that lead doc, Samantha Ross, talk him into taking the ship way out to New London. He shook his head slowly. He'd overcompensated for that mess with Nickatelli by playing too much to the docs' wishes. He'd compromised his better judgement, and that had been bothering him something fierce most of the day. If they'd needed something picked up out there, they ought to have had Adam Russ' Firefly, of one of the other DL transports handle it. Ross had expressed an urgency in handling it directly, so he'd folded.
The hair on the back of his neck had started to rise, when their mining contact had asked to meet away from New London, away from the lanes. Ross had pushed him, again, and he gave in, and pulled into the South Hampton field. He'd kept the crew pretty wary as they'd waited in the field for a spell. It was a complete surprise when their contact, not them, got intercepted by hostile ships. The load they'd come out to buy being taken in the process. Wells had finally came to his senses, and started the ship back home as fast as she'd go. Ross had gotten pretty snippy with him for that call, but he wasn't up to trading lives for a little bit of metal.
Soon enough the ship popped out of the lane, and the vast beauty of Planet Curacao became visible on their port side. Wells studied it for a moment. He'd passed by a few times, never been. Well, that was for the rich folks anyway. Someday maybe.
"Keep us on the next lane Mr. Bardel, 'fraid this ain't our stop."
Angela Wight walked down the corridor, followed by Doctor Marcus Owens beside her. "Do you think we'll be waking him up?" Angela said, somewhat distantly. "If I were him, I think I'd like to sleep in today. Flying that little thing around must be exhausting."
After the rather odd incidents in the hangar, Doyle had expressed a desire to leave the ship. The staffs opinion on the matter had been split, Ross, Graham, and Donovan worried he would disappear completely, or be seized by someone with less peaceful intentions. Doctors Owen, Hart, and Angela herself had been swayed by Denises' case of giving Doyle his proper freedoms. They'd let him go. Denise and Doctor Hart had gotten off on Planet Manhattan , along with a notable portion of the crew, for scheduled leave. Something Angela wished could have waited abit. With Doyles' main defender off the ship, Angela was a little worried how things might go in Denises' absence. But sure enough, Doyle had gone off, and had come back in his own time, apparently none the worse for wear.
"I do suppose we shall find out." Owens said, replying to her question.
"I hope we don't end up having to move that stuff aound *all* the time." Angela continued, Referring to the clearing of the hangar that had taken place prior to Doyles departure, and the return of part of it at his return."
"Indeed, I've sent a message to Doctor Altura about that, and I do believe it shall be addressed soon."
"Oh! Good!" Angela replied. How, I wonder? Walking through the adjoining equipment room, The two of them had reached the hangar entry hatch.
"Has he been sleeping in that ship of his, or in the room behind the hangar?" Owens asked. A question that would not been necessary had they been keeping him under constant observation.
Angela shugged, though she had wondered about the same. He needs that fighter. She knew that much.
As Owens keyed the unlock of the hangar hatch. Angela asked; "It that really needed?"
He frowned, and didn't answer. The hatch slid open , and Angela stepped softly inside. They'd given him control of the lights, after dimming it abit from the usual harsh glare. Another of Ellis' considerations.
[color=#FFCC00]Pryce.Research.N101
Cortez System A little better...I guess. Wells wondered if maybe the thought was a product of wishful-thinking. Still, the transport had eased into the lane without any major corrections, the viewport again a cascade of light as they ran the lane to the California gate.
He'd really blown it this trip. Or had he? Hmph. He wasn't the one that *wanted* to go out to Bretonia. The whole thing had been kinda strange. Doc Ross had pretty suddenly taken on this need to obtain damn near a full hold of gold ore and the odd need to be extra quiet about where and who she got it from. Wells didn't know much about the gold trade, 'cept it was kinda yellow and he thought it looked good on womenfolk; but even he knew that a damn good portion of Bretonian gold ore came straight into Liberty, hell, straight to New York, to be sold. Stranger still, even when she had been pushing for her way, that doc Ross had acted like she knew better; he'd seen it in her facial expressions.
"Damn strange." Wells said aloud.
"Sir?" Phillip Eldridge, a calm, softspoken man with an attention to detail and a tendency towards compulsive behavior, all of which made him quite suited to the operations console. He had entered the employ of the Institute after a tenure as a docking traffic controller on Planet Manhattan; After such a hectic enviroment, there weren't many things in life that could frazzle him. His continually disinterested manner had resulted in his being tested for illegal narcotics, far more often than others in his profession, the tests always coming back negative. Both facts something he was considerably proud of.
"Ah, nothing. " Wells briefly considered going down to confront Ross more privately, but he realized that Ross was probably back down in one of the science labs, still trying to decypher that business about their hangar guest. That was something that needed attention, sure enough. His curiosity could wait, he supposed.
"We're at the gate Captain." Bardel said.
Wells straightened in his chair. "Alright, secure all systems, begin jump sequence. Take us through to California Mr. Bardel."
He'd needed time to think about this one. He needed a lot of time, although a millennium wasn't what he'd had in mind. In any case he'd left the ship earlier, refusing to go into the details of what was on his mind without his apparent benefactor, Denise, around.
What was on his mind? It was what was replaying on one of the MFDs in his cockpit right now.
Sensor logs. Nightmares.
It felt like it had only been yesterday; there in Pluto's orbit, surging up to meet the Coalition's waiting funeral detail, only to be abruptly halted by none other than mankind's first extra-terrestrial contact.
Right there. A mix of conflicting signals his Minuteman's sensors were barely able to interpret. A clearly defined, yet somehow amorphous, shape. A pulsating mass of blue tendrils and wild electricity.
Them.
Oh yes, his ship had recorded it all. It had recorded plenty of flights, and battles, in the past. But that last log, the last one he'd taken in the Solar System, haunted him even to this very moment.
"Lieutenant?"
Doyle jolted upright; his nightmares would have to wait.
He quickly shut the fighter's systems off and scrambled out of the cockpit. The hangar was dimmed to a state of near darkness, enough to allow casual movement without aggravating sleep. Only he hadn't done much sleeping last night.
"Right here," he called out, shielding his eyes from the shaft of light that spilled out of the doorway.
Funny, he thought, They still refer to me as Lieutenant. Lieutenant of what...?
He hasn't slept. Angela thought. She noted the circles under his eyes, and his overall haggard appearance. I guess I wouldn't either. She took another step towards Doyle, and she felt the usual tension that she always felt when around people she didn't know well. The visceral need to avert her eyes, to hide, to melt into the floor. Even as she felt it, she knew that after a few minutes, she'd be more or less "normal". Whatever that was. A certain time seemed needed before the deeply set social anxiety faded to the background. Her private education from a series of tutors had kept her from any real chance to experience a "normal" girls' social life; and a jealous father had kept her from the attentions of men. She'd finally struck out on her own, drawing the wrath of her father, the disappointment of her mother, and the certain loss of a comfortable, if pointless, life on New London. She would often lie awake, and wonder if it had been worth it.
Well, where else I am going to meet someone like this? A time traveler certainly beats another day of yawny parties and viola lessons. Time Traveler. She'd thought it. She managed a faint smile; hesitant at first, as if she might be punished for it, and opened her mouth to speak..
"Good morning Lieutenant!" Doctor Owens said. He glanced around the hangar briefly before adding; "Or evening if that should be the case for you. I can never get the different crew schedules sorted, I'm afraid." He seemed to shake the thought off, and took a few steps forward, albeit with the trace limp always present in his gait. "Doctors Ross, Graham, and Myself, have reviewed some of the scan data we took shortly after your arrival, and we've encountered certain details which may prove important to our study here." He glanced at Angela before returning to Doyle, and continued; " Now I've spoken to Captain Wells, and he has consented to allow us to bring you out of this....hangar, and over to the medbay, one deck above us. With your permission, we would like to conduct a small number of medical tests, each of a non-invasive nature, which might help us better interpet some of the scan data we recorded."
[color=#FFCC00]Pryce.Research.N101
Main Hangar Bay
His brow furrowed on its own.
Tests?
It wouldn't have been new, or interesting, were it not for the fact that they wanted to drag him to a sickbay for it. The kind of place full of pointy objects which didn't sit well with most living creatures.
"Right... I hope the skipper also included my insurance policy as part of that consent?" Doyle replied, patting the sidearm on his thigh holster.