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Chapter Fifty Five
Striding
past the entry to the comm center of the Caspian, Commandar Silvas Orian can
hear the tremendous burst of static come from speakers of one unit and it draws
his attention towards the room. As he gets nearer the door, he can sense the
tension building the room, and as he catches sight of the communication crew
gathering around a single unit, he knows something grave is happening.
”SHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIISHHHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIISHHHHH
This is SHHHHHHHHHHHHh Reques-SSSSSSSSSSSTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTIIIIITETETETETE”
The
ranking officer takes the comm and begins to speak into the microphone as he
directs the ensign to isolate the broadcast, “Unidentified vessel. Please
secure your transceiver… We are not receiving you.” Reaching across the
terminal to adjust another dial before the next burst of static comes flying
over the airwaves.
SSHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTEEEEEEEE
Caspi-EEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSHHHHHHH Heavy fi-EEEEEEEESSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH Trans-AAAAAAAAHHHHHSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHH
Massive Dam-AAAAAAAASSSSSSSSHIIIIIIIIIIIIIII Need emer-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE Crash
ine-SSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Having heard
and seen enough to know what was going on, Commander Silvas Orian steps forward
and begins to order his men, “Open the outer landing pad, and prepare the
emergency crews…” Grabbing the microphone from the Lieutenant, “Pilot, you
have clearance to land on the outer pad, opening now. Repeat… Outer Pad One is
ready. Make your landing now… Acknowledge.”
There is a
brief moment of silence in the room, when the visual display shows the pilot
making a wild course correction, putting it on a direct approach for the open
pad. As soon as the maneuver is completed the comm comes alive with two distinct
clicks over the ambient speakers. The big man’s chest shows the slightest
heave of relief and he then turns back to the comm center crew. In his most
authoritative, yet soothing voice he instructs the men once more, “Bring him
home, lads. This pilot may have a tale to tell, that we may need to hear.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With reports of
the strife brewing on the streets and in the homes of Chandrila weighing heavily
upon Silvas Orian, receiving the debriefing holo of the young pilot who crash
landed on Outer Pad One just a few hours ago was the last thing he needed. As
the holo plays out, Silvas tries to piece together his next counter move in this
battle of wills and wits.
Knowing that
the Kuati fleet is making its move on Chandrillan space is not what he expected;
at least not this soon in the game. This move has only confirmed Silvas’
suspicion that the extremely cautious Kuati’s are not running this game; they
are merely the pawns in someone else’s grand scheme. If only he could figure
out who the player are, before it is too late, perhaps then he could calculate
the winning move.
As he
contemplates this dilemma, a comment made by the young pilot catches his
attention:
“Yes,
sir… When my squadron discovered that it was a Kuati snooper, we immediately
transmitted our coordinates, and a visual back to Caspian Control. It was only
when we tried to communicate with each other that we learned of the
communications disruption.”
“What
do you mean by disruption, Ensign?”
“Sir,
it was almost as though something was interfering with our transmitters. And
the closer we got to the Kuati vessel, the worse it became.”
Silvas
switches off the holo display, leans back in his chair and strokes his chin.
Turning over these statements in his mind over and over again, trying to put it
all together, but not liking what he was coming up with at all. It seems
the engine modifications aren’t the only thing they’ve got hidden under the
tapestries on Kuat. Silvas reaches for his comm
station, deciding another head might be needed to figure out this scenario.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seated at the
comm station in her Uncle’s chambers, Meesahran communicates across the
expanses of space. “Yeah, I can see where that would give this idea… I’ve
never really gone so far as to create such a thing, but I imagine it really
wouldn’t be that hard. Some microwave or pulse generators already can have
that effect, so if you just took the same principles to a larger scale, I guess
it wipes everything out.” She stops a moment to consider something else,
“But then that would take you out as well. You would need some kind of
frequency modulator to frazzle the other guy’s frequencies, while still
leaving you an open vector to communicate. If I had some time, I might be able
to figure out a countermeasure for it, but I’m just-“
Another voice
interrupts her train of thought, “S’cool, Mees. I just needed a theory to go
from. I think I can take it from there, but you’ll still get some of the
credit when the patent is registered at the Intergalactic Patent Registrars
Commission.”
Meesahran
laughs at the joke, “Anytime, Niija… Just remember, it’s spelled with two
L’s, right?” The diminutive woman on the other end laughs as she backs away
from the holocam. “Okay, if that’s all you need, I have to be getting to the
ceremony before it starts... Sanctuary Out.”
As she stands
up from the seat in front of the comm station, Meesahran tucks her amber tunic
in on the side once more and straightens the scarf that is draping down in front
of her in a delicate arc, while the tail ends are thrown over her shoulders. She
stops a moment to gaze at her reflection when the light catches the golden
flecks scattered throughout the burnt sienna colored, silken scarf. The wispy
trimmings of the scarf sway with her every movement. Hypnotized by their little
dance, Meesahran thinks back to the day she received this scarf. The fingers of
her left hand tenderly run across the trim as she remembers that day.
Tucking
in her amber colored tunic on the side once more, Meesahran finds herself
fidgeting with her formal attire for yet another advancement ceremony that is
not hers. Frustrated at herself, everyone and everything else she pulls on the
bottom of the tunic once more as she gazes upon her reflection. Lowering her
head, she is shamed by the anger she sees there on her face, Meesahran is then
surprised by the sudden feeling of fabric brushing across her nose. Opening her
eyes to see a beautiful, silken scarf with tiny flecks of gold strewn amongst
the rich, dark, burnt sienna fabric. As she brings her left hand up to touch the
apparition, her fingers find a delicate trim with even more strands of the
precious gold fibers.
“They
come from a rare spider that weaves them for its web. There’s a millinery on
Malaastare that sells the stuff.” A younger, less hardened, and almost serene
Vic Orion lays a gentle hand upon Meesahran’s shoulder, “When I saw it in
the Valley District yesterday, I thought of how nice it would look when you wore
your hair down like this…” Gazing at her reflection, he lowers his mouth to
her ear, “And I was right.”
Meesahran
turns around to face him, but before she finishes reaching up to him for a kiss,
her uncle walks into the room, calling to her to “Hurry, child… Or we’re
gonna be late.” Stopping only when he suddenly realizes Orion is in the room.
“Orion, didn’t hear you come in… Are you both ready?” The two face the
man and nod, “Good, then let’s go. The last thing I need is another lecture
from Maji about timeliness.” The man rumbles a short laugh at his own joke and
the two follow him out the doorway.
Her thoughts
are soon given voice when she is broken from her daydream by the resonating
voice of her uncle, “Thinking about Orion again?”
Her face
becomes flush at the mention of his name by her uncle, but she quickly recovers,
“Why do you ask?”
“Far away
look in your eye, that scarf, and we share the same blood, child. I do have an
idea of how you think.” He places a caring hand upon her shoulder, “I know
that you still feel for him, but you have to know that he can never return those
feelings… Not in a way that you deserve, Sahran.”
Her uncle’s
words pain her deeply, not because she knows they are true, but because she
knows that Vic has returned those feelings, but that neither of them are capable
of dealing with them on that level. She and Vic are cut from the same cloth, so
much so that their combined demons make a life together all but impossible. Her
gaze lowers to floor, so that her uncle cannot see the pain held within her
eyes.
“I’m sorry,
child. I don’t mean to hurt you, but I can’t speak anything but the truth.
Orion is a man with many secrets, and many more terrors hiding within his steely
composure. I tried to reach him, but he simply turned away from anything I could
offer him. Peace was not his ally.” Sensing her great pain, Bowen puts his
arms around his niece to comfort her, as only he has been able. “I didn’t
mean to bring this up now, but-“ He is interrupted by her pulling away from
him.
“Uncle Bowen,
thank you, but this is not something you understand, and I’d rather not get
into it right now…” She turns to walk towards the doorway, “We’re going
to be late if we don’t hurry. Aunt Shiiru and Maji will lecture us if we
don’t get there before the ceremony starts."
He nods his
head and walks just behind his niece, hoping that her melancholy will not last
long this time. There is something about that Orion; he just never seems to
leave her mind… Thinking back to his message from the dark and brooding
man, Or she, his…
Creator:
PtrsonsZOO
(Jennifer)
*SPECIAL
NOTE: Due to circumstances
beyond our control, the rest of the story will be written by PtrsonsZOO
(Jennifer)
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©2003 Rocky
Mountain Fan Force
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