"As a matter of fact I do," he started. "I need a guarantee that you're going to keep me and my ship off the record, lie about it, especially with the 'bureaucracy' you mentioned. I'm not a popular guy but these governments have it out for me. You can probably guess why."
He spared a glance around the hangar.
"Really you should probably leave as much clutter in here as you can; willing to bet they can scan right through this ship, and the less they see the better."
The Lieutenant looked back at the skipper and furrowed his brows. "I don't think I need to explain what kind of danger you're putting yourselves into by having me here. Honestly I'm waiting for a damned boarding party any minute now."
Wells rubbed his chin, considering Doyles' words; "Low profile...... I hear you." He turned to Robert Crowley and spoke; "Robert, when you're done helping out down here, I want you to work out some suggestions for making scans of our vessel more difficult, shielding, interference, whatever. Talk to Chief Irwin too, he might have some ideas."
Crowley nodded; "Yes sir."
Wells looked at Doyle. "Alright Lieutenant, nice meeting you. See you around."
Wells turned and started towards the hatch. He reached the main hatch, stopping to pick up the rifle lying against the bulkhead and sling it over his shoulder, and stepped out of the hangar. Tom Keller entered an instant later, walking over to Wight; he carried a large rectangular case. He spoke to Angela, his breath escaping as a visible white mist; "Ms. Ellis says to start setting up the data storage in the aft compartment. She's going to meet with Director Morris to ask for more equipment, and said she'll be down a little later." Keller continued across the deck, reaching the opposite hatch, locking it open. He disappeared through it.
Angela spoke, a little bit more calmly than before. "Okay, so a field outpost, right here on the ship. Robert, would you please go to Storage B, there is a large blue cart, with the label "Xts1" stenciled on the side. Please bri-bring it down here and take it to Tom."
"Yes ma'am" He replied. Nodding at Doyle, he turned and followed the path by which Wells had left.
Angela stood beside Doyle for a moment, fidgeting with the helmet in her hands. She spoke;
"It will probably be a couple of hours before the equipment is set up, you might want to rest awhile. I ah...I need to change out of this suit. I'll be right back." She turned and exited the hangar.
Doyle was left standing alone in the hangar, save for the faint curses emanating from the open hatch, as the cornerstone of the make-shift lab began to take shape.
[color=#FFFF00]Pryce.Research.N101
Cabin 12, Deck 2
New York System, Liberty Space
Denise Ellis entered her cabin and stood silently as the hatch slid shut behind her, and her eyes adjusted to the faint light of the room. Her pulse had finally slowed, and she forced herself to continue slow, deep breaths.
The cabin was fairly large for a ship of this class, and one of the largest on the ship. It had been weeks before Denise had learned Captain Wells had given her what was previously the Captains' quarters, Wells himself moving to a smaller cabin on the deck below. She had initially accepted Wells at face value, a simple and plain-speaking man, though honest and dependable. She had been slow to realize the simple appearance concealed a very complex mind. He reminded her of David.
Sweat dripped from her forehead. Damn suits she thought to herself. The suit would need changes to the design. She'd considered the need for cooling at the very start, and even Gwen had agreed with her, for once. They'd been overruled by Doctor Morris, his reasoning being the suit was intended for use in the controlled enviroment of a ship. No use wasting the time and material for it. Fine. He didn't have to wear the damn thing. Something to be done about the appearance too. Thinking of it now, she was amazed Doyle hadn't shot them dead walking into the hangar.
She made her way to the head at the other end of the cabin. The suits gloves came off. She frowned at the cracked and dry skin of her hands. Her fingernails were short and broken, as she tended to exhibit the nervous habit of nibbling them that way. Not very feminine Denise.
She looked into the mirror. She'd have to cut her hair soon. It was getting uncomfortable to get a helmet on. She was going to hate that. She was so proud of it, and David liked it so. Even in the dim light, it glistened with her movement. Hmph. Sweat, not "shine."
She released the fittings on the suit, and she peeled it off. A breath; Better. Much better. A wedding band, an
ancient but persistent practice, hung on a thin silver chain around her neck. A clear violation of safety protocol. She didn't care. She carefully removed it, and set it on the side of the sink.
She showered, and wrapping herself in a towel, returned to the main cabin space. Selecting an outfit from her meager assortment, she began to dress. Matching bra and panties, in a mellow shade of bluish-green, over which she wore a pair of black pants, then a dark grey sweater. She frowned at her shoes, rather boring-looking black flats. Not that she really cared to wear anything else in the work space. She absently reached for one of her white labcoats, when she paused. White labcoat. The universal symbol of sterile, unfeeling science. Or as she figured someone like their guest doorstairs might think. She instead selected a blue labcoat, its soothing hue having been appealing to her the moment she'd seen it. She returned to the head,to the mirror, toying briefly with her hair. She wished she'd had time to braid it, but knew it would take too long. She placed the silver chain back around her neck, carefully tucking it and the ring beneath the sweater. A final glance into the mirror. Hmph At least she looked human instead of an insect with a human face. Dark circles under her eyes. It had been a very long day and night; And she has going to have to keep going for another day. Normally abstaining from much makeup, she managed to quickly produce a slightly more pleasant appearance.
She brewed a cup of coffee, strong as she had gotten accustomed to, and left her cabin, considering the next steps. More equipment. Need to move the ship off the traveled path. Maybe ask Nathan to move Nickatelli to the N102. She walked down the hall. Need someone with a grounding in quantum mechanics, and someone who could interpet what she had seen in her scanner earlier.
Hopefully Doctor Morris would be in one of his rare cooperative moods.
A short while later and she reached the hatch to the conference room. Morris was waiting inside. She needed to make this short, Doyle was waiting for her to return.
He knew what happened when he stayed away from his fighter for too long. He didn't know why, or how, which of course was one of the many reasons he was here. Nevertheless, the choice was almost redundant: stick by it for as long as possible. "Recharge and keep charged" so to speak.
Still, they'd offered him some accommodations. Couldn't imagine it being much worse than a bench on a Freeport, let alone the barracks back on Pluto...
If Pluto was still intact by now. Didn't Rockford say something about implosion..?
He shook his head and sat down on the nose of the Minuteman; more important things to consider right about now. Course of action.
They seemed nice enough... most of them... Could easily be a farce, a vile facade which would be stripped away at the worst possible moment. But what kind of thinking was that? The paranoid delusions of a man born in, brought up in, and tossed around in a world of persistent warfare, suddenly put in a place so far out of his native element he was surprised people spoke anything close to English? Sounded about right.
But he needed to break that thought. It would only continue a cycle of avoidance, would get him nowhere. It wouldn't let him complete his mission.
... His mission?
The one he was sent on by those...
Doyle winced a bit; even the memory had a tinge of mental anguish pinned along with it. He was sent here to do... what?
Couldn't remember. Or did he just not understand? God only knew.
He only knew. Very little, that is.
Right thing to worry about right now?
With people like that bodyguard hanging around? Not likely.
He'd check out the things they'd set up. Common courtesy, right? Diplomatic relations from humanity's Stone Age. The amusing thought of being a primitive ambassador from the past occurred to him as he stood up and walked along the length of the cargo bay.
[color=#FFFF00]Pryce.Research.N101
Main Conference Room, Deck 2
New York System, Liberty Space
The door to the conference room slid open and Denise stepped through it.
".............over to the Navy, or perhaps the LSF would be more appropriate in this case." Doctor Ulysses Morris was saying, and he looked up from the conference table as she entered. He frowned. "There you are. You're late." He had a sour look on his face.
Great Denise thought to herself. "I'm sorry Doctor Morris, I had to get out of the enviroment suit. We really need t.."
She paused. The table has half-full of science staff. Doctor Hart was sitting next to Morris, Doctor Ross next to Doctor Owens, Doctor Donovan next to Doctor Graham. Nickatelli was sitting at the end of the table.
Why is he here?
"Never mind that Ms. Ellis." Morris said, interrupting her thoughts. "What of the subject? Is he what he's claiming to be?"
She answered, carefully, suddenly feeling the need to be on guard;
"I haven't yet reached a definitive conclusion Doctor Morris. I'll need more time to perform an analysis of Mr. Doyle and his craft."
Doctor Hart spoke; "Elias said that there is a strange temperature variance around the man and his vessel?"
Denise hesitated. "Yes. The hangar maintains a colder temperature than the enviromental controls should allow. I haven't removed the possibility that the enviromental systems in the hangar might be
malfunctioning an.."
Nickatelli cut in; "That's not exactly what it is, is it? Angela said the man himself was far below freezing at one point, and the ship he came in on keeps getting colder and colder."
The group looked at Denise, who was still standing next to the hatch. She saw Morris and Nickatelli share a look. Morris asked; "Is that true?"
Denise flushed , being caught in the lie; "I haven't seen all the scans yet, I need more time to enter the data into the computers. I just think we need to proceed slowl.."
"No." Morris interrupted. "We need information quickly." He frowned. "Very sloppy work Ellis. I had expected more from you." The comment cut her, and with so many sets of eyes on her, and she wished she could sink down into the carpet. Morris continued;"You are no longer in charge of this project. Doctor Ross is better suited to this type of work anyway. I want you back on the N102, on the Farsite project."
Densie protested; "Doctor Morris, please don't! I can handle this! I promised him that I would help him." She looked at Samantha Ross, a pleading in her eyes."
Nickatelli watched her from across the table. He was smiling faintly. Doctor Ross, an astute woman, noticed Nickatellis' expression, and realized there was more going on than met the eye. She turned to Morris and spoke, her voice calm and soothing, with a faint Bretonian accent;
"If you would permit, Doctor Morris, I believe Ms. Ellis is vital to this project. We may have difficulty maintaining the subjects' cooperation if the one that brought him in is sent away. I think it would be wise to keep her here."
Morris frowned again. Ross was a personal friend of Doctor Pryce. If Ross and the girl went to Pryce, the decision would be overturned anyway. Hmph "Very well. Ms Ellis may remain, however, Doctor Ross will still direct this project. I want a status report every six hours. Get to work."
The smile on Nickatellis' face faded. and Denise glanced at Ross with a look that said Thank you Ross nodded slightly.
The staff got up from their chairs, and began to leave the room.
He clicked his jaw; this was an opportunity he'd thus far lacked. Of all the places he'd stopped by, none of them had any open, public computers tapped into any networks. It was as if these people didn't need these computers, like they were there for backup or antiquity's sake.
Well he was antiquated.
Doyle sat down at the table and examined the terminal's controls. A typing interface, nothing like what he was accustomed to, and a single, tiny card slot were all to be seen. Frowning, he did his level best at tapping through menus and found his way to a generalized search engine.
Now what to look up.
... were these inquiries being recorded? Most likely. Would they possibly leave access to anything so important that it would warrant their concern? Not likely.
First thing's first, he thought, punching in the letters.
"Liberty Armed Forces"
The screen responded with a question. "Did you mean: Liberty National Guard? Liberty Navy? Liberty Marine Corps? Liberty Security Force? Liberty Police Inc.?"
Navy, quaint.
He re-typed the command and was presented with a simplified encyclopedic description of the "Liberty Navy", its history, its chain of command, its bases, its equipment...
"BDR-804"
The description his jaw drop; despite lacking a formal knowledge in the intricacies of fusion engines and high powered lasers, the tremendous discrepancy in numbers was telling enough.
These things can eat my fighter for breakfast, lunch, and dinner... A squadron of these could've won the goddamn war...
It was time to catch up on a thousand year's worth of military history and technology. It was his life, and his death, after all.
[color=#FFFF00]Pryce.Research.N101
Main Conference Room, Deck 2
New York System, Liberty Space
"Wait!" Denise said. "We need more equipment."
Morris was already outside the hatch.
Samantha Ross walked up her. "It's already being taken care of, Denise. Doctor Morris is having us transfer off of the N102, along with our departments' equipment inventory. We might need a few more things, but what we have shall certainly get us started."
Denise eyed the hatch where the other staff had exited. "You mean?......"
"The rest of the department will be joining you, in addition to myself." Ross replied. She smiled faintly.
Denise frowned. "Doctor Morris already decided all this before I even entered the room."
"Yes."
Denise sighed. "Well, you might as well come down to the hangar with me, I'll introduce you to Him."
[color=#FFFF00]Main Hangar bay
Angela Wight stepped into the hangar, a small electronics case at her side. The chill of the hangar hit her once again, and she shivered. She wore her normal lab clothes, topped by a standard white lab coat, hardly enough to block the chill. Even so, it seemed not quite as cold as before. The hangar was deserted. The Minuteman fighter sat quietly alone, seeming to be asking for company. She snorted at the thought, and walked slowly towards it, her pumps clicking lightly on the deck. "Hello?" She said softly, far too softly to register very far. She glanced at the hatch on the other side of the hangar. Their guest must have taken the offer of the bunk.
She kneeled, setting the case down on the deck. She opened it and removed a small thermal scanner, an improved model over what was installed in their helmets. She rose, and walked the last few steps to the fighter. She activated it, pointing it at th..
"Where do you....."
Angela jumped, dropping the scanner, shattering the sensor node as it hit the deck. She whipped around, turning to face Robert Crowley. He was cringing. "Sorry." he said. "I was going to ask where you wanted the cart." He pointed back towards the equipment cart, setting next to the entry hatch.
Denise led the way into the hangar, and with the new assistance, finally felt like she could get to work. Even if she wasn't "officially" in charge anymore. She was so pleased Samantha was here; her grounding in particle theory could certainly help, and she had always been fun to work with, in the few times they'd shared a project.
Angela and Robert had brought the Xts1 cart into the hangar, and set it up beside the fighter. Angela watched as the group came in. As Denise approached, Angela sneezed. "Excuse me." She said. Seeing the others enter the room, she glanced back at Ellis, a question in her eyes, which Denise answered; "Doctor Ross and her staff will be joining us now Angela, Doctor Ross will be heading the project from now on."
Angela hesitated, and then moved on, asking; "Is this where you want the Xts1?" pointing at the cart.
Samantha Ross nodded. "That's fine, Miss Wight." She shivered. "Certainly right about the cold." She looked around the hangar. "And the subject?"
Angela replied; "I think he's in the cabin rearward."
Denise elaborated; "His name is James Doyle. We gave him a small cabin with a bunk. It's through that hatch." She said, pointing across the room.
Ross raised an eyebrow. "Down here in the hangar? Surely it's not that crowded above. Somewhere a bit warmer perhaps?"
"I believe he prefers it down here. He expressed a desire, or rather a requirement, that he stay near his craft." Denise replied.
"Why?" The question came from Doctor Marcus Owens. He stared at the fighter, his grey eyebrows furrowed in thought.
Denise shook her head. "I don't know."
Angela Wight spoke; "Do you remember how he looked right after Tom and Robert almost shot him? And then he went bac..."
The five newcomers all turned to stare at Crowley.
He frowned. "At least it was only *almost*." He shifted uncomfortably.
Denise went on to briefly explain Doyles welcome. The staff each showed their own reactions of shock and disbelief. Angela looked frustrated, her point unfinished.
Samantha Ross spoke; "One thing is for certain. There will no longer be room for such nonsense on this project. We can't have our subject getting shot. It is bad form, and it simply won't do. Agreed?" Her voice, a faint Cambridge pronunciation, was a mix of sarcasm and seriousness. She stood solidly, despite her thin and graceful frame, and projected a certain aura of command, of aristocracy, though not of arrogance. She got a few smiles and nods in response.
Doctor Ian Graham was standing next to the fighter. "He actually flys this contraption?"
Denise nodded. "He landed it in here himself. Doctor Cook first encountered him not very far from here, and I saw him in California. We know he's been as far as Ontario, and possibly farther."
Graham shook his head. "This thing is a fossil. And look here; Alliance insignia."
Doctor Donovan snorted. "Anyone with access to a historical database could produce such designs." He looked the fighter over before adding; "And I don't see anything fossil-like about this craft. It appears fairly recently built to me."
Angela said softly; "Perhaps you might try touching it."
Only Owens seemed to hear her. He glanced at her, then at the fighter. Extending his hand, he bought his fingers closer, and closer, stopping only a few centimeters from the metal, not needing to touch it. He finally connected the temperature of the hangar with the fighter. "It must be below freezing! What's the cause?"
Doctor Ross spoke; "That's why we're here. Let's get started, shall we?"
"Wait!" Doctor Gwen Hart said. "First , we must set up the most valuable and important piece of equipment we have."
Doyle grimaced. He'd already picked up on this little fact a while ago, but it was sickening nonetheless. He knew the Alliance was no haven of peace and freedom, contrary to all the propaganda he was fed. At least, that's the way it seemed, what with all the bickering among the leadership, and several attempted coups. But the thought that everything he'd fought for, everything his fellow soldiers fought for, amounted to repeating the same mistakes of warfare and injustice, was simply pathetic.
At least the Coalition was gone.
Mostly.
According to this datalog entry he'd found, some group claiming to be the descendants of the Coalition had sprung up, and had a reputation for precise guerrilla-style warfare, akin to the pirates the Alliance had to deal with only much more motivated. The funny part was that apparently they were vocal about things like Communist-style ideology, "revolutions", and junk to that effect.
At that point Doyle couldn't help but let out a little snort; as if the Coalition he knew had anything to do with that. Where he came from, both sides were simply fighting because they should. It was a war of extermination between arbitrarily-defined sides, "red versus blue" so to speak. The only ideology either side had was "We're the good guys, they're the bad guys, so kill the bad guys so the good guys can win."
Still, nostalgia aside, he found he rather preferred this new "Coalition". It was comparatively harmless, and was in no position to undertake the same horrifying acts against humanity that nations often do when locked in total war.
Like butchering everybody.
In any case, this terminal had been instructive enough. These colonists seemed to be mostly detached from the past, seemingly caught up in their own modern affairs rather than remembering their common history and staying united. As far as he could tell, there wasn't even a "United Nations", not that that particular body had done any good back on Earth. And the information available from the "pre-settlement era" was sparse to say the least; there was hardly anything describing the political intrigue, the chaos, the massacres, that had preceded the launching of the Sleeper Ships. Just basic little facts, the names of battles not properly divulged upon, an imposing list of names, each one representing a life like his snuffed out and forgotten.
He frowned. Maybe they didn't want to remember. He sure as Hell wouldn't were he given the chance. Could he blame them for their ignorance? Even though it cost them unity, and a chance at sustainable peace?
His head started to get swimmy again.
That time again, huh? Figures.
Bracing his arms against the terminal, Lieutenant James Doyle, serial number AF012989701 of the defunct Alliance Navy, 92nd International Volunteers Squadron, got to his feet and plodded back towards the cargo bay.
Thomas Keller emerged from the aft hatchway, and left the hangar, to retrieve more equipment from an upper deck.
Samantha Ross caught Denises' attention; "This vessel has an identical deck plan to the R201?"
Denise nodded. "Yes, there are power conduits behind the bulkhead here, and also along that bulkhead there." She replied, pointing across the hangar as she spoke.
Ross nodded. She walked along one of the bulkheads, the other staff trailing behind her. She stopped near the large hangar doors leading to space, frowning . She continued along the doors, reaching the opposite bulkhead a moment later, now on the same side of the hangar leading to the smaller set of rooms aft. She considered the deckplan for a moment, then spoke; "Very well then. Let us place workstations along this wall, perhaps six tables, and the data processors in the room aft. We'll set most of the instruments along that wall, opposite of the hangar doors. We'll use the particle survey scanner from the N102, and place it here, and the Xts1 is quite alright where it is." As she began giving directions, she had begun to speak slightly louder, her manner indicative of her years giving scientific lectures; her voice carried firmly, clearly in the hangar, not quite conscious that she was doing so.
Ross continued slowly along the wall, her every step placed with such a delicate grace, that she seemed almost to float across the deck. Stopping near the smaller aft hatch, and indicating the center of the hangar, She continued to speak; "Doctor Hart, before we commence operations, please calculate our projected power expenditures from the equipment, and review it with Captain Wells, and also the Engineering staff. I'm a little concerned a vessel this size may not be able to sustain the equipment, and we cannot afford interruptions. Please let me know if we need to arrange a supplement to the power supply."
Doctor Gwen Hart answered. "Sure." She sniffed the air. "Mmmm. Coffees' ready. That's about all the power I'm gonna need."
Ross continued;
"We shall plan this project to consist of three primary phases, and make further adjustments as needed."
"Phase one shall be an analysis of the subject and his craft as they exist presently, to determine how or if they are different from the surrounding enviroment. Once we...."
Angela Wight muttered; "I think we got that already." She immediately wished she hadn't.
Ross directed a look at Wight that showed her clear displeasure at being interrupted. Additional words were not needed, and Angela felt as if she'd just been assigned extra homework.
Ross continued; "Once we have completed our Phase one, and determined the subject and his nature are consistent with his story, we''ll move to Phase two, the formation of a likely hypothesis for the phenomenon. Phase three shall be construction of an experiment to prove the hypothesis."
"I think the best way to proceed with Phase one is to divide into two teams. The first shall consist of Doctors Graham, Owens, and Myself, and we shall conduct the analysis of the craft. the second team, composed of the remainder, shall study the subject, Mr. Doyle." She glanced around the room again. "A shame we have such limited room. What idiot commissioned the N102 to be built without proper hangar facilities I'll never know. To be forced to use this smaller workspace is..undesirable. We'll have to move all this to The Institute as soon as possible."
"I don't think Lieutenant Doyle will consent to that." Denise said. "He's shown a considerable degree of aversion to losing his independence, and I think we should respect that."
Ross placed a hand on Denises arm. "Then it will be your job to obtain that consent. If this case is what it is said to be, then the work will become very important to the Institute, to all of us. Personal feelings cannot be permitted to stand in the way of that. Do not lose your objectivity."
Denise Ellis stepped away from the bulkhead, and faced the group. "And don't lose your humanity. Look; I know this is a fascinating case.There's so much to learn here, and I feel it too. None of us has ever seen anything like this. It's amazing, and His very presence here changes so much of what we know to be possible, and might add endless data to the advancement of human knowledge. History could be changed, history could be made. Perhaps hew technology, or maybe just new answers to old questions. Everlasting fame for each of us. Excitement. I feel it too."
She brushed a hand throught her hair.
"And as far as I know, he's completely alone. He has no one. Have any of you stopped to consider what that would be like? I have. He's gotten nothing but hostility and cold detachment from everyone he's met. Well, he won't get that from me."
"Please. Stop thinking about your careers , and think about how each of you can help this man. He's not a *subject*, he's a man that needs answers, and we can help him by finding those answers. We have to show him that we are worthy of his trust, and to do that our intentions *must* be pure. We can't be planning his future for him. He has to want to be here."
Ross blinked, and Denise knew she'd reached her. There
Suddenly she noticed the movement of a shadow in the open hatchway behind the group and realized that Doyle had been standing just inside the hatch.
Embarassed, she wondered how long he had been there.