Recently I was browsing through my archieves (I'm one of those guys who archieve almost everything they grabbed from the net, and everything they made) and happened on a story fragment I wrote quite a while ago.
It was meant to be a fanfic set in the TVWP's world. That's no longer true though...or may be true to only some extent as both worlds (the fiction's and the campaign's) progressed ever since.
As I put more and more into the groundwork I eventually got bogged down in writting Freespacer; then my college duties caught up with me.
Anyway this is the fragment that started it all:
---------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Lost Fate
version 0.2
A fanfic by Zoltan Saintner
e-mail:
[email protected]---------------------------------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Legal disclaimer:
All rights reserved. This document can be copied and distributed by all means of electronic publication as long as its contents remain the same and this disclaimer is enclosed.
All Freespace concepts are owned by their respective owners Interplay or Volition inc.
Don't sue me it's not worth the effort, and beside I'm broke by American standards.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
2335 Januar 08th 21:37 - Antares System; GTFr Argo
---------------------------------------------------------------------
He was cold. Really cold. The vacuum of space provided little insulation and through radiation his body was loosing heat rapidly. The interior of the freighter would have calmed him, if not for the corpses that floated in zero-g. Corpses...he bitterly thought. Bodies that used to be his friends and colleagues minutes ago. It was pure luck he had the spacesuit on. It was little solace as he was only prolonging the inevitable. His back was already shivering.
His death. A small smile swept across his face...finally he would be at rest. The explosion tore open the hull like a can opener and the EM interference fried most of the unshielded electronic equipment - including his suit's DC.
His torture turned out to be his savior and still his downfall. Poker was a hard game - especially if you were loosing - and damn hard if you lost too much. Hard enough to go along with any stupid bet to save your hide. The boys wanted to see whether he could move around in a suit just as easily as he boosted...only in a little warmer situation. They were tinkering with the DC to raise the suits temperature - the irony of situation struck him with a full blow - when it happened, with its sealing removed the DC got fried too. He rather not checked his radometer - if things got fried he didn't even want to think about the dose he just received.
"Lucky bastards" he murmured. Decompression wasn't that bad - one lost their consciousness pretty fast. 'What the hack am I gone do?' As if to provide an answer sparks flew in all directions from a console on the opposite wall and the few remaining lights went off. The cold was scouring at his sides. "Figures." Still, bent on survival, or just out of habit, he finally decided to move to the front part of the Argo in hope that the pilots' cockpit was in better shape. The engineering was definitely a jumble of scrap, he didn't even bother looking there - even if he could see in the darkness. It was apparent from the lack of gravity, normally created by the subspace conducts running the entire length of the craft, that the reactor must have blown. He started to crawl forward sensing his surroundings with bare touch muted by the gloves, strengthened by the cold sipping through the fabric.
'Akio, you bastard! I never thought those trainings would ever be of any use' - he thought remembering the days as a cadet. The instructor was strict and unforgiving. In retrospect the staggeringly hard training proved to be quite useful. Using his arms more than his legs he slowly drifted along the long spherical chamber that was the main lounge for the pilots. He was lucky - Berger had his spotlight with him and it was pinned between table and a chair. He switched it on. The jolt of the impact made him realize that the ship must have started to spin , he was just too close to the center to notice it so far. It would harden the task - but would provide some much needed weightiness.
'What I hate most up to now us that you're always right! Damn ancient jap flight instructor!' As he approached the part of room where the hull gave away he noticed it was indeed bent like a tin can. The room disturbingly chaotic, bent at an angle around its third, raw and razor sharp metal encasing the little space between the two ends. Just like a smashed tin can.
'He made us writhe in pain as we had undergone various forms of torture in zero-g, zero-light, zero-time raids in the middle of night...' now he was grateful even if he knew his chances were less than slim. Vasudans rarely took prisoners - and even more rarely did they attempt recovery of any sort. Even if operation Thresher did succeed it would still take days to reach him - days he hadn't had - hours probably then it would be over, unless he managed to restart his suits DC. His feet felt numb along with his thighs. He wasn't concerned for the time being - it was disturbing although. Had the freezing already started?
He attached the spotlight to his helmet with some duct tape from his pockets. He would need his hands for getting through the passage. The logo on the tape said "Hercules tapes. A pilot's most reliable company. It fixes anything!"- the slogan other times would had made him laugh. Right now it made him sick.
He got past the clog, although the spinning made it a bit complicated, he had to move against the spinning barely missing the edges as he passed. The front looked even worse. Just as he entered the part, something popped up in front of him - a face - Chernovsky flowing stiff as a corpse , he was. The sluice was open so he didn't have to force it open. Although it also meant that the front could have depressurized just like the main lounge. He floated through the main narrow corridor of the Argo passing the restrooms and the cargo room that was in the another end of the Y-fork from where he came. The spinning lightly pressed him against the floor - though the dent in the ship made it fell like being uphill. It was a spirit lifting feeling to see that the door to the cockpit was still alit by some status lights. The little green and red lights cast irregular patterns on the reinforced steel. The compartment was under lockdown - another good sign, though he still didn't permit himself hope. It was better not to daydream, one had to focus on the realities of the present.
After a little consideration he pulled the override lever behind a panel then pried open the door. Air rushed by and he cursed loud, since every cubic meter was life.
Once inside he tried to reseal the door with the controls inside. There was still enough power to shut the door. He checked his barometer - the only analog device of his wristpad, unaffected. It measured 480 millibars. Quite low, but he would still manage. If the air was contaminated he was out of his luck...He removed his helmet, and his ears popped painfully, and he was feeling nausea. Only than did he notice that the lighting was still on, even if in emergency mode. He turned around to survey the cabin. The sight of George greeted him - or what was left of him. He felt his barriers weakening - he was used to death, but he was not desensitized to tolerate it to an infinite amount. He was startled by a soft cry. The other pilot was still alive, the pressure drop must have knocked her out. She got transferred a to the Galatea a couple of days ago, so he didn't know her. That wasn't about to change if he didn't fix her bleeding fast. The cockpit was better off, it seemed the plasma conduct had blown up next to cabin filling it with debris - shrapnel in other words. Forgetting about the cold he rushed - or flew to be proper - to her side.
The girl - it was all he could call her, when facing her young features - 'too young to be drafted, and even younger to die' - had an ugly wound on her abdomen and another on her shoulder and thigh. The following two were serious but, not his concern - not fatal, for the time being. He hurriedly striped her out of the jumpsuit to have a better view - 'God if they ever find me dead like this they're gona write it off as me being a nihilist psycho' - and to apply whatever little medical help he could.
The wound indeed was ugly - the shard still etched into it. Still it avoided all the organs and the ventral arias. He was no doctor but he knew a ruptured spleen is not a thing he or anyone could take care of. The shard was etched just below her sternum - and he didn't know whether it was in the heart or not. "****...If it's in pulling it out will kill her...if it's not it's damn close to still puncture her heart..." He finally decided and with light fingers tried to gently grab the splinter. He had to wrangle his legs around her torso and push his other hand against her sternum to get a hold. "Here goes nothing..." He pulled with all his might and with a sickening sound the shard left the body. The girl cried out once again, probably due the pain. Blood was pouring out through the wound floating in little bubbles. He held it and begged it was not one of the coronaries. The bleeding lessened after a couple of anguish filled seconds.
With the shard taken care of he attained the rest of the wounds, and finally patched them up. It wouldn't be until quite a while when she would come around, the blood loss was severe.
All things taken care of - or out of options in other words, his senses returned to him, with pain sparking throughout his body. He had almost frozen during his passage from the aft into the forward cockpit. The circulation returned with a painful sting to remind him.
'Great suffocation instead freezing...I wonder where the heat comes from.' He checked around the cabin, and noticed the wall next to the plasma duct was still hot. So it was only temporary...
He picked the co-pilot up and carried her to the wall, then settled next to her. With his arms circling his knees, huddled next to the still warm steel he started to wonder where it all begun...or when he had screwed up for sure...'Was it a mistake to go on the Argo's test run?' It was supposed to be a babysitting job. 'No...things started to get nasty a lot earlier...even before the Vega Engagement...maybe the Unification War? Or was it the cadet school...?'
Without noticing tiredness took the better of him and he drifted off to sleep. His watch bleeped, signing another hour has begun.
Two hours have passed since he woke up after the explosion...
---------------------------------------------------------------------
2318 August 04th - Sol System; Inner Sphere; JCD-Sun Tzu
---------------------------------------------------------------------
The hangar walls of the Reliant class destroyer were covered with dust and grime. Next to his Angel a Falcoln was being shredded to parts and reconstructed by an unrelenting tech handling an ominous looking blowtorch. If this was supposed to be the place of endless possibilities, then looks merely shrouded the nature of things. For the ship was in a vast disarray and everything just seem to be on the verge of collapsing.
The Martian waded off the landing zone and took a final look at his scout. The craft was relatively old and battered, but he still took pride in it.
An intricate maze of lines and highlights covered the floor more or less visibly. He tried to find his destination - first of all he should have figured out what that would be...So he merely gazed at the various signs indicating different parts of the ship, sometimes telling contradicting facts or referring to protocols long ago abandoned.
"Hey watch it loony boy! It's ain't no circus, ye're in the way.." the bulky man proclaimed. The guy was in an olive jumpsuit equally greasy and grime as everything else, and was riding on top a fighter seemingly floating in mid air. The smell of sweat could be felt even this fare away. Justin didn't mind though.
"Sorry!" he replied as the navy's pride an Mustang Alpha was transferred to an arming scaffold. He dodged the engine reaching ahead from the fighters belly. "I was looking for the officer in charge. I just got transferred."
"Well that's me Master Sergeant John Bishop." the guy proclaimed. "I'm the officer in charge of the bay. So whether it's paintjob or major overhaul, I'm the man who's gona fix it...or not." the later was said in a mocking tone.
"Ensign Justin Kurohoshi, fresh form the academy."
The sergeant whooped down onto the deck and seemed to get involved.
"Kurohoshi eh? The real thing...?" the officer asked with a queer look.
"Well sir it's..."
"I've never known a noble before, especially a Martian, so I'll keep my wits about it for now." interrupted Bishop. "But mind ya we take no exceptions here boy, do I make myself clear?"
"Certainly sir. I was going to ask for it anyway." - The pilot eased as his partner seemed to drop the issue.
"Ask for it? Ha! That's a good one...not that it matters. By the way, welcome to hell."
"Huh?"
"Well there are couple of things you can call the mess we're in the middle of, but that sums it up the most appropriately."
"I heard the fights around The Belt were fierce, but nothing like that."
"That's true, but we aren't going anywhere near the Jupiter system. Our destination is the Moon. We're gona be in the midst of the battle."
"..."
"That one caught ya. Well...enjoy your stay, and if you need something or...-he glanced around- someone to cheer you up, just tell me." - With a smile he turned around to attain what he did before.
"Um sire?"
"Ya?" - the sergeant glanced behind.
"Whom should I report to?"
"You already checked in with me. Ask around for Lt. Peters, he will show you to your quarter."
"Lieutenant?"
"Captain Benjamin was killed in during our last battle, so we have no quartermaster."-the officer quietly remarked.
Justin turned toward the nearest airlock.
"By the way kid..." - only to stop in a second. Bishop was already crawling on or rather inside a fighter bossing the tech crews.
"...this is gona be your fighter."
It was a Shrike one of the JCD Sun Tzu's interceptors, providing the destroyer it's much needed fighter cover. The craft was covered with several burns and scorches where the lasers have touched it. The cockpit was a mess, and seemed to be covered with red paint.
"An Shrike?" Justin asked. It was too sudden to be trusted with an expensive craft like that.
"It was Echus' bird, the poor fellow just managed to land it before he bleeded to death. He was a good guy, with a good record, and yeah he was Martian too. He just pulled a bad card last time...we all did." With a smile the sergeant waved him off, and arranged the fighters repairs with the a group of mechanics that followed him everywhere like moths in love with a spotlight.
Justin checked the plane once again - red paint...
He needed a washroom right about now.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
2335 Januar 09th 02:16 - Antares System; GTFr Argo
---------------------------------------------------------------------
He awoke to the cold aching in his back. Soon he realized it was only part of the thing. It was the heat from his chest that made the painful contrast.
Especially the contrast between the curves of the body in his lap and the shards of the broken wall behind. The girl was waking up...or already has woken up. She was curled into a ball and hugging him closely for heat. At least the insulated fabric of the spacesuit protected her side.
She was stirring in her shallow dream.
"I guess you made it."
The female co-pilot woke perplexed and disorientated. Finally she looked at him. Grey orbs of a soul gazed into his venomous green.
"What...?"
"Stay still. You lost much blood. They're going to rescue us" - he lied. It was no use telling her the truth. Even if she's managed so far he doubted she would make it.
"What happened to George...I mean...Lieutenant..." the girl struggled.
"Don't talk. He's dead." she took it uncomprehendingly. He checked his barometer 420 millibars. So the air was leaking. Not too fast, but it was.
"Dead?" she seemed to taste the word. Unreal, that's what it felt like. Well, that's how it felt like for him the first time.
"Why..."
"I told you, don't talk. You exhaust yourself." Another look at the wristpad 380 millibars, not so slow. It must have started recently. So it wasn't the cold or the female that woke him up.
They had five to fifteen minutes.
"We need to get in suits. You have a spare one?"
"...."
"DO YOU HAVE A SPARE SUIT?" - he yelled, when she seemed dazed.
"The se-seat...it should" - she quietly stammered.
The seat was blasted. The spare suit must have been in the back compartment. It was worth a look though - at least he could fix his DC.
The suit was trashed in Harris' seat - but the DC was in good shape, with a little tinkering he could start it up. With time...
The other suit was punctured as well. At least it was her size. It's gona be a hair pulling job to patch all the scratches.
"Put this on."
"..."
"Put this on. The air's leaking."
"Uh" - With faltering movements she started to take off her previous suit, even more ravaged than the other since it hadn't had the slightest protection when the ship was attacked. It was obvious however that she wasn't going to do it fast enough.
"Let me help." - with moves trained and engraved by the routine of ages and savage training, he unlocked the several clasps and clips that secured the protective get-up, then proceeded to pull her free of it. They were silent the entire time, the task consuming all their attention or energy.
Then came the tricky part - sealing the other suit. By the time she was exhausted.
"A wad of duct tape - always carry one." - with a grim smile he started the repair, and within minutes some parts of the high-tech garment resembled a mummy rather than a spacesuit.
"320 millibars. Better hurry."
Thank god the helmets were both in good condition. It was one of those occasions when the hard steel casing was a benefit instead of handicap. With a flip of a switch the DCs came on-line and a soothing, but never the less annoying female voice announced: "Power levels nominal. Mechanical components functional."
He already figured that one out, if they weren't he would have suffocated. The next part was less reassuring.
"You have enough O2 for the next six hours. Calculating maximal capacity - eleven hours. It's ill advised to use this suit beyond a ten hours safety limit."
"You okay?" he asked his companion. She looked perplexed. She told something but he didn't hear it. A look on the wristpad - 120 millibars. So it was leaking indeed. With the helmets on they aren't going to hear each other. He tapped the side of his helmet to indicate his radio.
She responded by switching her on.
"I guess." she answered. He was not so sure. In space injuries were both easier to bare, but also harder to care for.
"By the way what's your name?"
"Irene. Irene Adams."
