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Ethan Neufeld

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Everything posted by Ethan Neufeld

  1. "Am I done yet?"
  2. Hi, Valenshay. Coming from someone with a lot of time in PBeM sims, STSF definitely has its advantages. See you around in the academies.
  3. Cyberchorus from Doctor Who: The Musical.
  4. "Mine," she said. "Your feet are too big." Ethan quietly snorted and smiled wryly, faintly shaking his head and shifting his gaze away. Pher was something else. And this, he thought as he glanced at the others and his smile faded; this may well be a bona fide suicide mission. They could have made more probes on the defensive systems. It would have been a relatively small delay in the expedition's schedule and well worth it if their risks were reduced. But Captain Manning was operating on a different timetable. Ethan had to admit there was no guarantee that they would have found a better way if they'd kept probing. Still, why try cheating the odds? He'd considered keeping silent and not volunteering for a second. Remaining on the Qob and letting the rest play like guinea pig commandos; then landing safely on Zoalus over the trail of their broken bodies. He had no reason to unnecessarily risk his life for them and every reason to survive. Courage in warfare was a companion of calculated risk, not recklessness. The argument really hadn't worked. Duality was a funny thing. With the same sense of distrust, he couldn't convince himself they were truly expendable. That was the risk of having a bit of humanity, a moral fortitude conditioned to service and self-sacrifice. He wasn't contented sitting around; he always ran straight toward the front lines of trouble when common sense said to run the other way. Wherever turmoil emerged in the galaxy, he instinctively wanted to be there to deal with it and protect others. And if today was the day that trouble finally killed him? Well, calculated risk rarely came cheap. Warfare was a costly business and sometimes, even with the best calculations, the enemy wasn't the only one who paid the high price. It'd been a relief when Captain Manning had announced that he wanted Ethan on this mission. Though he would have decided to go on his own, it'd ended his internal debate all the same and he didn't have to say a word. He was going. It was time to set his personal conflicts with them aside. They'd be committed to this plan soon. It'd have a better chance of succeeding if they were all on the same page. From his seat in the aft of the shuttle, with the unqualified eye of a grunt he glanced over the modifications that had been made. An airlock built on site in just twelve hours out of a force field and pumps from the head: imaginative. But it was untested and he wondered how well it would hold up underwater. Thinking of it, he disapprovingly smirked at himself. Why had he relied on them to secure the diving gear? Stupid. No fixing that now; they'd have to make do with what they had. There'd been a suggestion to use EVA suits and, on paper, it looked like a good idea. The problem was EVA suits were purpose-built for zero or low pressure environments. If filled to one standard atmosphere, expansion could make simple movements like bending a joint difficult and exhausting. As a result, EVA suits employed a layer that discouraged changes in volume and generally operated at only a third of the pressure found at sea level. But using lower pressure in the suit also required pure oxygen to promote the proper exchange of gasses in the body, and the extra step of pre-breathing before donning the suit to prevent decompression sickness. It was a higher pressure environment they were entering under 100 feet of water. That would necessitate higher pressures within the suit and an air mixture that contained less oxygen and included inert gasses. Underwater, too much oxygen could cause toxicity and pure oxygen generally wasn't used except to speed decompression from significant depth. Adjusting the internal environment of a suit wasn't a problem. It was easy to do in modern EVA suits. Ethan had done it numerous times. In fact, he'd adjusted his suit during the hostage situation on the Verbistul, given he hadn't had the time to pre-breathe. He'd compromised on the pressure as much as he safely could. The higher pressure had reduced his mobility while handling the bomb in Engineering, but it'd been better than becoming physically impaired. But the more a suit's pressure was increased, the more it worked against the wearer. Then there was the issue of floating. Given they were meant for low pressure environments that were also often zero-g, EVA suits didn't include ballasts to control buoyancy. Without weights, the suits would pop up and become trapped on the surface like soap bubbles. But, weighted or not, swimming in an intact EVA suit could be extremely tiring at best. There was the natural impedance of the water to overcome, clumsy boots and poor overall mobility caused by internal pressure. They could discard their helmets and boots once they reached the surface, but the suits would fill up with water and act like anchors for even the strongest swimmer. He'd hit that snag before - grace of a rock even if it did float. And if the internal pressure wasn't properly reduced before being opened, the sudden change, however small, could still contribute to decompression sickness. Unless someone made an executive decision or had another bright idea, it looked like they'd be freediving. He caught Pher's gaze again. She may have simplified it a bit for convenience, but she was right. 100 feet was too deep. If they were freediving, the closer they could get to the surface, the better. Decompression sickness wasn't overly common, but it was worth taking steps to prevent it. Not necessarily a product of depth alone, it was a result of too rapid an ascent from depth or rapid changes in atmospheric pressures. Diving in water wasn't the only cause; the principles were the same between water and air or a sudden lack thereof. With higher pressures, inert gasses dissolved in the body. Change pressure too fast and the body couldn't dispel the inert gases through the lungs, causing them to become trapped in the tissues as bubbles. A number of scenarios contributed to DCS, but the cause was generally the same. Rising too quickly from a deep dive or climbing too quickly in an unpressurized aircraft; ascending and descending repeatedly and too often in a short amount of time; staying in a significantly low or high pressure environment for too long; using improper proper air mixes; moving to a low pressure environment too soon after exposure to higher pressures. There were also personal factors to contend with. Even with guidelines designed to reduce the chances of DCS, the same dive between two different people could produce different results. But that wasn't the only concern. They were ascending from underwater without air. A number of human divers had built incredible world records around freediving. Some had reached 100 meters or more in nearly 4 minutes on a single breath. The static apnea record on Earth had recently been broken by a woman at 12:05 minutes. But, overlooking cases where reaching those records had also caused medical issues, they'd had help and preparation: weights, time to pre-breathe special air mixtures before diving. Though remarkable, static apnea was conducted in shallow pools and didn't require movement or physical exertion. They were underprepared and didn't have those luxuries here. Their ascent from the shuttle was going to be relatively short. But, at sea level, the basic civilian recommendation was to ascend no more than 10 meters per minute when deeper than 6 meters, and pause for at least one minute at the last 6. Military dive tables were less conservative in some cases. But with inexperienced divers it was better to err on the cautious side. At 100 feet their total dive time would likely end up in excess of five minutes. Maybe some of the better swimmers on the team could take it a bit faster and hold their breaths long enough, but not all of them. Holding your breath for long periods wasn't a mental hurdle that could be overcome in a few minutes, Ethan knowingly reflected. Ethan had suffered from decompression sickness before and it was something he agreed they definitely wanted to avoid. The worst case for Ethan hadn't been caused by diving, ironically, but a zero pressure incident. He physically shuddered at the memory before he managed to stifle it. Explosive decompression wasn't quite the swift horror that science fiction liked to imagine. The effects of zero pressure on an unprotected body were mostly negligible. But it might have been better if it was like what everyone imagined. Maybe it was the fact that the human psyche was disposed to believe that anything 'black' was also super cold. But, in reality, the void didn't have a temperature. Your body didn't instantly freeze to death. Heat was lost through thermal radiation and evaporation as it sought for equilibrium; that took time and you'd still be 'warm' for some time after you were dead. Despite belief to the contrary, human skin was gas-tight. There was no over-inflation to Stay Puft Marshmellow proportions. Your skin expanded a bit without a compression suit, but it still maintained its form and the internal pressure of your body. That also meant your blood wouldn't boil. Boiling was a function of both temperature and pressure. So long as the skin wasn't compromised, everything stayed where it should and your blood still flowed like any other liquid. At most, your saliva boiled from exposure to zero pressure through your mouth and nose. Not at a temperature that could burn you, but it was an odd sensation like you were eating Pop Rocks. Your ears might hurt; in the rarest cases they ruptured. But more often than not your ears could still hear all the little sounds that vibrated through your body. There was a brief sound of the air rushing through your cavities until it was gone. You couldn't breathe. It happened swiftly, but unconsciousness was relatively long in coming; some lasted for a life-long fifteen seconds or more. During that short eternity was when the terror set in, but without air you couldn't hear yourself screaming. Eventually, you passed out and quietly suffocated to death. If you survived, you wouldn't forget the experience. If you survived, but hadn't pre-breathed pure oxygen before exposure, there was the potential for decompression sickness. You might develop air embolisms from those inert gases in your blood. But both were easily treated or prevented, respectively, in a hyperbaric chamber. The painful thing if you survived was the potential lung trauma. It was another one of those human dispositions: to hold your breath before entering an environment where there wasn't air. It was also the greatest mistake when exposed to zero pressure. Though your skin would keep you in one piece, the air pressure in your lungs instantly expanded with the sudden loss of external pressure. It got your attention. It burned like hell; it was like your guts were trying to explode through your face. Sort of like when a concussive explosion knocked the breath out of you, except that it felt like someone had stuffed you with more air than you could possibly hold and it all wanted to rush out of you at once. Combined with decompression sickness, it'd put Ethan in a world of pain and intensive care. He exhaled and leaned his head back, eyes on the shuttle's overhead. It'd become something inspiring to breathe after that. The nightmares had faded a long time ago, but there were times it still made his skin crawl with a chill. He pushed the unsettling recollection aside and glanced at his watch. They still had details to iron out for this ride. Nickles, Rosetto, Dracal, Pher, Macen: he would have preferred at least one person from the Verbistul's security department on their team, but the selection was up to Captain Manning.
  5. Hi, Rosie Posie. Glad you found STSF. Hope to catch you in the academies and good luck!
  6. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! What was he doing here? The provoked question caught Ethan's train-of-thought off-guard and he snapped a well-read copy of Sun Tzu's The Art of War closed. Truth was he was feeling a bit spooked. Doing? He was doing a lot of things, except he couldn't explain his actual purpose on the Qob. He didn't have a place or connection with them. As often as he had reassured and argued with himself that he should, he couldn't trust them. When Ethan signed on to the expedition as Dr. Phantos's Security Adviser, it had astonished him to learn that not one of the previous expeditions had managed to gather any useful tactical data. Nothing they could effectively analyze, use to characterize what they were up against and weigh the probabilities. How was it possible to land on a defended planet, retrieve artifacts, and not return with anything useful? That had to be a unique skill. Still, there was always a starting point. Everything started out from nothing or near enough before curiosity or suspicion brought the intelligence. It just happened that they were venturing out on nothing this time. That obstacle was easily surmounted by succeeding where others failed; gathering the information they needed. They were filling in that information at the current moment. Ethan would have preferred to divide their operations. Send a force to exhaustively probe the planet's defenses. Then reevaluate and send the main expedition. They might have reduced unnecessary supplies, secured precisely what they did need and prevented wasting resources, time or, worse, rushing to get results and putting people in a dangerous position. But much of the expedition was already underway when Ethan arrived and couldn't spare the added expense. That might have been a result of lacking foresight, plans, inexperience or institutional impatience. But it was a small stumbling block. That was why Ethan had been hired – to devise their strategy and tactics and advise accordingly; to provide the experience and foresight. Or so he had thought and he'd thought wrong. It was a stumbling block he never managed to overcome. He'd met with resistance from Dr. Phantos. He was accustomed to close collaboration; making plans with and seeking out the input of every specialist or team member. He had expected to hold consultations with the entire expedition. He'd wanted to collectively discuss their tactics and strategies; foster cooperation and focus before the last of them left Xorax. He'd intended to comprehensively plan each possible maneuver, simplify and condense what they could and create a shared list of needed equipment. It didn't happen. The Denobulan Scientist had a simple philosophy: let the Mercs deal with the details as they see fit. That was, after all, why they were being paid. That philosophy hadn't gone very far for teamwork between the Qob and Lucky Hand when they were first attacked by the Raiders. But, for whatever reason, they had Dr. Phantos's faith where Ethan did not. Generally, Ethan had been reduced to acting as a personal secretary more than a security adviser. It was that resistance to planning that triggered Ethan's first doubts toward the outcome. His time on the Qob had led to unease. It was the method of their distinctive madness. All of Bull's Head seemed to have contracted it - this disturbing penchant for ad hoc ad libs. They had objectives, a few points of interest, but no plotted pencil marks on their maps. The fact that they were jerry-rigging equipment in orbit of their target didn't bother him. But these were modifications that could have been planned and made before they left Xorax. Whatever advice he'd provided had obviously gone ignored. They could have secured equipment specifically made for this. Did they even have diving gear? He honestly wasn't sure what they had in their cargo hold. This sort of play-by-ear wasn't flexibility – flexibility implied plans had been made, but left open to deviations when favorable. Ethan was comfortable with flexibility. This was plain disorganized and fundamentally unprepared; it was the pure extemporization that spooked him. The fact that they were coming to the some of the same conclusions and had the skill to carry them out was a very small consolation. It seemed like they were rushing things. Appearances led Ethan to believe they'd abandoned exploring other options further. They were already making preparations for a submerged insertion and they didn't know if they'd make it up the beach. And what about the sea itself? If this civilization had the proficiency to design and build surface-to-air and ground defenses, why not in the sea? What surprises waited in those depths; would a manned craft be the lucky one to find out? The Qob was on facile ground, ready to advance on difficult ground and their aim was hemmed-in ground that promised to become desperate ground. A fight was inevitable; ability to retreat questionable. After he'd gotten word that preparations were being made for a sub-like insertion, the picture of a shuttle 'driving' up the beach had seemed funny. But the amusement was brief; their plans were real. Where had that joke come from? He'd realized with rising consternation that it was a byproduct of that spooky companion called no-confidence. He didn't trust them; they didn't trust him. He wasn't sure what they were going to do from one moment to the next and it was evoking incredible theories. He didn't like feeling underprepared. He didn't like the lack of team cohesion or camaraderie; the apparent pseudo-anarchy and haphazard way in which they operated. He didn't like feeling that he didn't know his place, wasn't given room to do his job or that he was running without backup. They all were heading for desperate ground in one way or another; secretly, tactically. All the better that he hadn't revealed his objectives to Joe, his reasons for coming to Zoalus. He'd made plans and his movements were concealed from both ally and foe. Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting. -Sun Tzu, The Art of War
  7. Nice. Thanks, Joe; definitely helps. Thanks for the schem., Zaphod! And, obviously, I've a lot to learn about Klingon vessels. Not that that's much of a surprise really.
  8. "Whoever suggested touching down on the ocean and approaching land from there gets Bourbon Points. We may just have managed to overcome obstacle #1." Ethan briefly glanced at Pher with a faint, ambiguous smirk. Is that what she'd meant on Xorax by suggesting they make their approach 'over water'? He dismissively tipped his head in a private shrug and turned his full attention back to his flying. He hadn't been on the bridge during the first probe of the planetary defenses and had obviously missed the discussion – maybe she'd altered her idea or someone else had suggested the underwater approach. But over, under; didn't really matter if it worked and it looked like the Orion might earn her way toward a bottle in the process. Ethan, meanwhile, was remotely flying one of the dummy probes several dozen kilometers above and to the north of Site Five. It was the same probe that he'd launched for the second test, but flying one at a time was the extent of his capability as a remote pilot. Others had taken up flying the second dummy and the submersible. Shuttles had become like the old wheeled vehicles and were a 'dime a dozen'. But Ethan, like most, had only earned the most basic certification to fly. More training had been unnecessary. He hadn't enlisted in Starfleet to become a pilot nor was he interested, and better pilots had always taken care of the technical flying that needed to be done. It was the start of a solidifying plan – better than the blank skeleton Ethan had turned out while lacking any decent tactical data. Not that the concept of inserting into an AO from the sea was unfamiliar to Ethan or had gone unconsidered. He'd recommended several possibilities as Dr. Phantos's Security Advisor; insertion by sea had been just one. But complications had persuaded him to consider insertion by sea an 'advance-scout' option only and second to insertion by low or vertical flying aircraft. For a non-maritime force, there were two methods on the sea: boat or submerged. A boat was generally straight-forward; inserting submerged more involved. They would've needed good diving equipment to carry it out as he'd intended – standard environmental suits weren't meant for swimming - and probably extra training to use it. Also, shuttles that were specially modified beyond basic seaworthiness or incorporated fully-functional and self-contained airlocks to keep sea water out of the cabin during their exit. But more critical given the presence of sentry drones: any team that inserted by sea would be completely cut-off from support and extraction, except by sea or until the surface-to-air batteries had been disabled or destroyed. If they'd been able to insert by air, support and extraction could have also come from the air and that was a better option in Ethan's opinion. A test of the planetary defenses proved so far that air wasn't viable. They hadn't yet considered dropping and testing a boat on the ocean's surface – there was evidence it was monitored. Short of using orbital bombardment to destroy the defenses, only submersion in the sea was left or had been successful. But their underwater idea seemed like it might add an unexpected twist that Ethan hadn't imagined. It was still a possibility that they'd attempt to exit the shuttle while submerged; he hadn't heard one way or the other yet. But Ethan couldn't help picturing that they really intended to ride the shuttle all the way to the beach. To submerge a shuttle and then 'drive' it up the beach like James Bond's submersible car – that would be unique. In Ethan's mind, insertion by sea would either happen by boat or diving, but not a simultaneous mix of the two. If that was their plan, he obviously hadn't thought far enough outside the box. But even as he gave uncertain credit to the idea, he had to wonder: what made them confident that the batteries wouldn't open fire once they reached the beach? They were conducting tests of the planetary defense system; they evidently knew nothing about it in spite of previous expeditions. They had traveled to Zoalus without any guarantee that they'd be able to touch it, much less breathe the air. Was it safe to assume if the defensive systems hadn't caught the probe before splashdown that batteries would still ignore it once it reached land? Some of the best anti-tank weapons in Earth's WWII had begun life as 88mm anti-aircraft flak guns, he privately reflected. And what of adaptive capabilities; could the defenses be fooled twice? Maybe their greatest advantage would be in the batteries' effective range, but Ethan doubted he'd heard the engineer correctly. A one-kilometer range for artillery was significantly short if one considered that an average M-class planet hosted roughly 100 kilometers of atmosphere before the Kármán line and 'outer space'. Not to mention the astronomical number of batteries that would be required to interlock their fields of fire and effectively defend an average, large landmass from all possible vectors - one every one to two kilometers at most. And these were lasers; they weren't dependent on the same physical principles as projectile-based weapons. It didn't make sense. But Troy Parson had repeatedly expressed reservations about attracting attention to the Qob while in orbit. If Troy believed the batteries could reach the Qob in orbit, Ethan must have heard wrong. Or maybe he had missed something altogether. There were a lot of things in the way they operated that had Ethan questioning the outcome; a lot of details remained. But he wouldn't offer his thoughts or advice until asked or until it was stupid not to say anything. He'd given all of his security and tactical recommendations to Pher; he wasn't to blame if she didn't use them. Who was he to assume they were wrong; to assume they didn't have the skills? Trust in the team. Shouldn't he be concerned that he kept coming to that reassurance? 'Don't worry'; he reminded himself that's what she'd said.
  9. I agree, it's a nice cross-section. Words can yield to a dozen little inconsistencies between interpretations, but an image can help keep things consistent. 'One picture, ten thousand words', right? But, personally, I'd like to know what Joe thinks before I'd use it.
  10. Don't know that I'd limit yourself to the interpretations you'll find on the web. I'll offer my interpretation, though: The B'rel's beam looks like it's 20-30 meters wider than its length. 100m is a few yards longer than a football field; that fishing trawler looks like it's maybe 100-200 feet at most - trawlers usually aren't very large. Just eyeballing it, I'd say the dimensions of that BoP hovering over the trawler are close to the Qob's, if not possibly larger.
  11. "Permission to enter the bridge, Captain?" Ethan stood tall in the aft entrance to the bridge, patiently waiting. Several weeks ago he'd assumed an identity and the Qob had first come to know him as the Vulcan Selek, but this didn't read like Vulcan deference. On Xorax he'd carried himself in a detached, stately manner, like one might imagine an ancient Roman senator. This was noticeably different. A mistaken glance and it seemed he was at attention; a longer look, his stance was casual and his left hand stuffed into a pocket. But it was revealing to anyone that preserved an ounce of Starfleet in his blood. His bearing, professionalism, decision-making, dialect, weapons and choice of clothing, even haircut: these were the threads of strong naval, martial discipline. It was clear: why, unlike those who were accustomed to informal command styles, Ethan hadn't yet inserted himself into ship's operations but when requested and in emergencies. Why he'd responded swiftly to directions and without objection or unnecessary commentary. Why he was friendly but remained steadfastly distant with an Orion like Pher, when others would have jumped in at the first opening. It was tradition. It was Starfleet. He was doing it unconsciously; giving into his habits now that he'd given up masquerading as something he wasn't. The lifestyle was obviously still a deeply rooted part of him. It was easy to imagine him standing there in a uniform, waiting to report to his superiors; perhaps too easy. The image of a man molded by the military did not put Joe off. The Starfleet castoff was a common enough archetype in Bull's Head, especially the taverns where mercenary Captains turned for new recruits. There was even a sort of comfort to be found in the knowledge that a few members of the crew would always defer to the commander, trained as they were to recognize (even seek) the one in charge and do their duty without question. Joe had always tried to foster an atmosphere of freedom and individualism on his ship, but such an atmosphere was not without cost -- loyalty had to be worked on diligently, and disloyalty had to be guarded against carefully. Wild cards like Byblos and Shane could bring levels of productivity and expression that would be stifled on a Guardian ship; just the same, they could allow disagreements to descend to violence or even act on a desire to claim the ship or its cargo for themselves. Loyal hands with military mentality were a useful planned contingency, one of many, in such mutinous circumstances. The trouble with Ethan was that Ethan was Selek. Selek was the image of a military man behind a deceptive mask, complete with prosthetically pointed ears, and it was the mask that put Joe off. Loyalty could not be guaranteed from a human pretending to be Vulcan, possibly in an effort to dodge the bounty that had been placed on his head. Joe knew that Selek was Ethan. Joe knew that Ethan knew that he knew. And so an unspoken mutual understanding of both the deception and its ineffectiveness hung between them. What Ethan's presence on the expedition meant, Joe could not say. Was he simply doing the job that Dr. Phantos had assigned him, providing security escort for Xorax colony's assets? Or did he maneuver himself onto this expedition (by himself or with the backing of others) for his own purposes? Joe's primary concern was ensuring that Qob would not be swept up in whatever schemes surrounded the faux-Vulcan; that his ship, his crew, and his current job would not be threatened either by Ethan's plans or the plans of those who had placed the bounty. His secondary concern was determining how said schemes might be turned to his and his crew's advantage. So he extended the welcoming hand. Even as he held out a distancing one. "Permission granted, Mr. Selek," he said with his warmest smile. No use giving his 'no permission needed speech'; a military man would be more comfortable with the asking and receiving of permission, and Joe had no reason to believe that Ethan would be on the ship any longer than the next month. "You missed the light show on the planet, but a second probe is being readied as we speak. Maybe you can give Pher a hand." Stepping from the hatchway as Joe spoke, Ethan's eyes briefly scrutinized before his gaze locked confidently on Joe's. His expression was set in neither a frown nor a smile, merely focused and alert. The hint of potential camaraderie he had gained with some of Joe's subordinates wasn't here. Neither of them felt they could simply come out and say what he was thinking. Neither desired to unilaterally change his strategy; the stalemate continued, neither trusting in the other more than he must as he searched for the advantage. Equilibrium built on mutually assured distrust. If there was a different way, they weren't seeing it. Ethan sharply nodded and then wordlessly proceeded toward the station at which Pher was seated with Byblos nearby. Joe glanced at the Orion and Nausicaan, still engrossed in discussion. Joe knew that Pher would be keeping half an eye on Ethan even if she appeared otherwise; Joe, after all, had instructed her to. Her proximity was the reason he could give Ethan access to a Bridge station without wondering if his mind was truly slipping. "I haven't had a chance to thank you yet, Selek," Joe offered with his same warm smile. Mistrust didn't exclude a little gratitude. "I know you were doing your job back there, keeping the Verbistul crew safe. But still, you had my people's backs in a very dangerous situation. Duty or no, puttin' it on the line for my crew will earn you points around here." Inches from Pher's station, Ethan paused and shifted obliquely to look across his shoulder. His body language faintly wavered as he considered Joe's smiling gratitude. Then after a moment he replied, "Yeah, no problem;" blasé like he had performed the same duty a thousand times before but sincere. A turn of his head and that was it; he was back to the present task, perusing Pher's station as he moved to stand behind her.
  12. Ethan patiently spent some time waiting for Alex Macen on the bridge of the Qob, casually listening as the two scientists, engineer and pilot compared what they knew and shared their expectations for Zoalus. Then, as the hour grew late, he learned that Rosetto had been assigned to the liaison. Rosetto would show Macen to his berth and Ethan didn't need to loiter around the cramped bridge anymore. Ethan merely shrugged, unperturbed by the correction. Captain Manning had directed him to show Macen to the bridge and introduce him to Sal; the rest Ethan had assumed upon himself out of politeness when Macen asked about quarters. He'd obviously assumed beyond what others had planned and it was his mistake. He quietly left the bridge, wishing only for a split second that he'd been told earlier but glad he was relieved. Maybe he would have known if he'd been an actual member of the crew. He traversed the central passageway, a hand stuffed in his left pocket and walking more leisurely than before. The Qob was small compared to many Starfleet ships, but silence pervaded and no one passed him in the time it took to reach the hatchway. Ethan climbed down the ladder and walked to his berth. His mind was heavily occupied. Filled with reflections on the raiders, their motives, understanding their desperation; his unwavering training and mindset, regret for other's actions but not his own; Zaphod and his close encounter with death at Ethan's hand, concern for the half-Caitian's recovery; the Verbistul's impulsive Security Chief, Alex, and her desire to tagalong after Zoalus; Zoalus itself, the expedition and his objective. For the second time that day, after entering, he found his bunk and fell asleep quicker than he'd intended and fully dressed. Ethan didn't dream that night, not anything that he could remember. Fatigue was only a small part of it. He had learned years ago that he would experience troubling circumstances that were not his fault. The only control and security life gave him was choosing the consistency of his decisions, his actions; choosing what to dwell on and what to let go. He woke sometime around 0400 by habit, the dial of his watch glowing blue and green in the dark on his left wrist. He didn't have an ODRI or 'Audrey' in his possession and was probably one of the few who didn't. His watch was a conventional analogue Luminox. His radio was a conventional, handheld subspace transceiver with tactical mic and earpiece. Conventional but not obsolete. He wasn't a technophobe; he simply didn't need anything extra. He embraced technology where and when it was useful, but resisted allowing it to replace the human element or exceed what he needed. In spite of ODRI marketing strategies, with a CIRAS and sound training, retention and mishandling equipment wasn't much of a concern. Ethan rolled to his side and glanced at the other bunk, half-expecting to see the shadowy lump of a sleeping person. It was empty and undisturbed. There were no signs that anyone else had been in the compartment. So he hadn't slept through any entrances like he'd thought he might. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head and neck. Stretching off his bleariness, he made his way to the galley, briefly wondering where Macen had been berthed as he walked a passageway of closed crew doors. He might have been amused to learn Macen had slept on the deck and see the marks on his face, but Ethan wouldn't have contact with him that morning. He didn't know much of Rosetto's and Macen's sensor work had been done while he was sleeping. No call had been made for their deployment and his morning unfolded like the empty bunk in his quarters: no sight or word from the crew around him. He ate breakfast alone, exercised alone, showered; and then began reviewing what little sensor data he could access, comparing it to the tactical plans he had made weeks earlier. By the time Ethan heard anything of the Qob's crew, Macen or Zoalus, they'd found a new and mysterious snake-like, delta-eating creature. But that didn't interested him as much as the fact that Site 8 was being considered for their first landing zone and Captain Manning had ordered a probe launch. Ethan signed to no one but himself. He'd suspected that he wouldn't be included in their tactical decisions, at least not at first or until after things had gone terribly wrong. He'd known from the beginning that few would be inclined to take him seriously as Selek; maybe not even as Ethan Neufeld. When he'd talked to Pher about his suggestions, he'd wondered how much of it would make it to their final planning stages. Even Pher had known caution would lose to scientific curiosity. 'Get the scientists somewhere they think they'll be happy, then adlib', he recalled her saying. ''Don't worry about it. Everything's the Captain's fault in the end.' Obviously he couldn't just blame the Captain and leave it at that if things fell apart. He had an interest in how they conducted the expedition; he couldn't let their problems become his obstacles. But as long as there was a ship and a way, their lives weren't supposed to be his problem either. It wasn't cold-bloodedness. He didn't like seeing people suffer or die and always would have done what he could to prevent unnecessary losses. But he didn't have the resources or time to make their lives a full priority. Still, not giving everything he could to their protection was beginning to bother him and for reasons that he'd been trying to convince himself shouldn't have been considered. He was losing his objectivity. It was more than just ensuring that he could successfully secure his objective and had solid transportation off of Zoalus. It was more than impersonal humanism. He'd begun to care about what happened to the Qob on a personal level. Ironically, he just wasn't sure if they'd let him lend his expertise or trust him, an outsider, to make those decisions. Would he be reduced to simply reacting or salvaging in the crisis? It won't come to that, he thought and stared all his hope at the data slate in his hand. Survival means having trust in your teammates and their abilities...even when you're not sure what they are?
  13. Needing a stretch and a drink, Ethan left his berth for a walk and paused as he crossed an open door. The half-Caitian, Zaphod, stood inside with his back to the passageway; the only member of the Qob he'd seen that morning. Ethan briefly considered what he wanted to say and then stepped forward, stopping just shy of the threshold. "Hey, Zaphod," he greeted casually, trying his best to sound friendly. "Settling in okay?" Zaphod turned to Ethan as he grabbed his jacket. "Hey, I'm a bit late for my first shift. Maybe we can talk later." Zaphod smiled as he headed down the corridor towards the engine room. Friendly crew. I'm going to like this job.
  14. Honestly, at another time or place I would have made the same argument, but I have to side with my crewmate here. It's sci-if; the unusual and realization of the impossible make it interesting. And, personally, I like the grittiness it adds to the pristine Federation.
  15. A few steps away, Sal Rosetto and Alex Macen were passionately conversing over the Zoalus data on a science console. Ethan shifted where he leaned on the unoccupied bridge station, reflecting as he waited to show Macen to his quarters. He was still fatigued. He hadn't found much sleep in the end; an hour after dozing off he'd received a call from Captain Manning. His crew was returning to the Qob and the ships were decoupling for the last leg of their flight. Manning had negotiated for the custody of the half-Caitian raider, Zaphod Dracal, but he was still recovering in the Verbistul's sickbay. He wanted Neufeld to return to the Verbistul to keep an eye on Zaphod and stand ready to escort him and a liaison to the Qob once they arrived at Zoalus. Ethan was fully dressed, armed and there within five minutes of the call. Then, without ceremony, the ships separated and Ethan was figuratively alone on decks more foreign to him than the Qob had become. The lone Federal Marshal sent into a town deep in the Wild West to take a prisoner from the local sheriff and transport him back to a Federal Penitentiary. In spite of all that had happened and his presence, the atmosphere on the Verbistul had calmed back into routine. The last hours to Zoalus were long and uneventful, but Ethan wouldn't have a chance to relax. He was occupied by the tedium of standing guard and sorting out the administrative bits, and carrying out his task as dutifully as any other without a word or sign of complaint. "Okay, Dracal, Zaphod." The Verbistul's Security Chief visually scanned a row of boxes stacked in a corner of the improvised security office. The compartment looked like a small, unused auxiliary lab, cut down the center by a long table complete with built-in sinks and valves. Chromed, magnetic-footed stools surrounded the table. Plain cabinetry and a counter, on which the boxes had been placed, covered the width of one bulkhead from deck to overhead. At one end of the table sat another security officer, quietly recording logs from the recent hijacking into a shared mobile data terminal. Ethan curiously noticed that both Alex and the security officer were no longer armed. Finding the box she was looking for, Alex slipped it from the counter and carried it to the table. "Let's see what we've got," she said as she set it down. The sides were marked up with thick black lines that crossed out its original label. "Is that a used food container?" Ethan wryly asked. She made a face. "It's a private science ship, not a trillion dollar customs cutter," she retorted and turned to consult a property sheet. Like any prisoner, Zaphod's belongings had been confiscated, catalogued and stored in a box until they could be returned or destroyed. Ethan opened it and glanced inside to find that, unsurprisingly, Zaphod hadn't brought much with him. "Okay," Alex hummed. She began listing and checking off the contents as Ethan removed each item and neatly packed them in a duffel bag. The bag had been donated by the Verbistul's crew; more out of their relief that the terrorist was departing than goodwill. Packing Zaphod within a few seconds, Alex sighed. "Okay, next we pick up his phaser and blades from the armory. Oh, and I think you'll like his phaser." She grinned at him. Ethan's brow rose in open surprise. "We're returning his weapons?" "Orders from Captain Maxwell. He said if your Captain—" He cut her off with a pointed finger. "Not my Captain," he reminded dispassionately. He may have been working with them in the interest of Zoalus and taking orders from Manning, but he had no intention of remaining on or with the Qob once his own objective was completed. "If Captain Manning," Alex amended, "wanted Zaphod, he could have all of him, including his weapons. I think he's still upset with how things were handled." She shifted her weight. "Speaking of which, Maxwell's not happy that you brought your rifle back with you," she said, stabbing a finger back at him and the carbine that was slung over his left shoulder. "He says you upset his scientists and told me under no uncertain terms are you to 'harass Zaphod or make a scene'." The new grin on her face said she was amused with the circumstances and not much of a devoted messenger. She turned from the table and strolled for the door. Ethan grunted, tightly smiled an incredulous expression and grabbed the duffel by its nylon straps, pulling it off the table. He returned a nod to the security officer still seated at the end of the table as he passed and exited behind Alex into the corridor. For nearly a minute they walked in silence and then Alex abruptly spoke. "What happens after Zoalus?" Ethan regarded the young woman as she walked to his left. Her eyes barely passed his shoulder and she was slender but fierce and reveled in the heightening effects of conflict. Her face was shrouded by short, platinum-streaked strawberry blonde hair that didn't touch her shoulders. Alexsha Vi Dantinamede was her full name, but she preferred the simple human nickname Alex. She was twenty-two Earth years and appeared as unadulteratedly human as he genuinely was, but he knew she wasn't. Born in Bull's Head, she was the realization of two centuries of interstellar society and human relations with other humanoids. Her heritage was so mixed that even she wasn't sure what sort of recessive genetics she had or if her children would remotely look like her. Perhaps humans were going the way of the ancient Hawaiians, Ethan permissively mused with the detachment of a scholar. He returned his eyes forward. "Why?" he finally asked after a drawn out silence, suspecting her intentions. She seemed mildly annoyed by the question. "I want to know what we're going to do if we find it. And!" she warned, wagging a finger. "Don't try pulling that plakta about 'there's no we'. I helped you get into Xorax and I'm coming with you on Zoalus. You're ko if you think you're going alone after that." "Mm," Ethan minimally sounded, neither accepting nor denying her assertion. Obviously pleased with herself, Alex fell into a swagger over the last few meters and then stopped at a door. Retrieving an ident-card from her pocket she swiped it over the panel and the computer acknowledged. The door hissed open and the lights activated, revealing a fully stocked armory. Ethan stepped inside and set Zaphod's duffel down as he looked around. "You're sure this is just a science vessel," he remarked dryly. "Don't be stupid," Alex impishly snapped and waved dismissively at the racks of phasers. "This was only installed for Zoalus." She checked off two items on her list; then pulled two blades from the rack and handed them to Ethan: a bat'leth and another Ethan had never seen before. Sheaths had been fashioned out of pieces of used food containers and insulating tape, covering the sharpened edges. Casually he put them into the duffel without a second glance. Galactic blades were like tribbles and his interest in any cutting weapon was subjective, favoring ancient, traditional human designs over alien. "Where was all of this when you were boarded?" Alex scoffed. "Me and the Captain have the only keys and Captain Maxwell didn't want his crew getting shot because they were armed. Even we have to rack our weapons underway," she said, indicating her missing holster. "He doesn't see the need for us to be armed aboard ship. If you haven't noticed, he's one of those sort of pacifist types. He's probably going to try to negotiate a ceasefire with the drones on Zoalus and then ask you guys to clean up the mess." Her comments were bleeding with sarcasm, though based on a small grain of truth. Checking off the final item on the property sheet, she pulled an assault phaser from the rack that was the same model as Ethan's. "But the kitty has your tastes," she observed as she passed the sleek and menacing weapon to him. Ethan admired it in his hands, a mild expression of surprise on his face. He pushed the cowling forward to ensure the weapon was deactivated. "Y'know, some Caitians find that offensive," he said and gave her a faintly disapproving glance. She shrugged. "Some people are too sensitive." Ethan briefly furrowed his brow. There was no doubt in his mind that her sentiment had been shaped by years of intolerance. Appearing human, she might not have received as much as some, but she'd grown to embrace the words that'd been spitefully thrown at her. He'd once heard her self-identify as a 'the mutt of all mutts'. She seemed to take it as a cosmic joke. Tucking the phaser into the duffel, Ethan zipped it closed and passed it to Alex. Finished, they exited and locked the armory. From there, the duffel was transported to sickbay where it was signed over to the medical staff for Zaphod, and Ethan resumed his watch. The half-Caitian must not have been aware that Ethan knew the duffel's contents when asking if he could bring his weapons aboard the Qob. For a moment, Ethan had considered answering with a solid negative and re-confiscating them. But the Qob wasn't his ship or crew; he personally wouldn't have considered recruiting Zaphod or letting him aboard outside of a brig. It struck Ethan that Captain Manning should be given the chance to use his command discretion on his own ship, and he'd left it at that. More risk than he liked, but not his decision. When the time came, Ethan had even allowed Zaphod to carry his belongings, which wasn't a friendly or trusting gesture. Ethan wasn't going to tie up his own hands and had decided to unhesitantly shoot Zaphod the moment he made the slightest movement for his weapons. It hadn't been necessary. Zaphod had submissively walked to the airlock, the only twitch coming from his nervous or rueful tail. And, as things turned out, Zaphod's weapons had been taken away by Manning until Pher, the Qob's Security Chief, could approve them. It wasn't the outcome Ethan expected, given he'd been left unmolested as an armed passenger. But maybe that was just a matter of time and circumstances, he thought as he stood on the Qob's bridge and shifted his weight again. He listened to Rosetto and Macen carry on about Zoalus; then looked up at the mysterious and dangerous globe they were orbiting, musing that their arrival was turning out a bit more anticlimactic than he'd expected.
  16. Ever read something online you wish you could erase from your eyes and memory with sandpaper?
  17. Somewhere out there, it was early morning in Tennessee, Ethan mused in passing at a porthole near the airlock. Somewhere out there buried in black space that vibrant globe called Earth marched on without a thought to the hardship that lapped against the Federation's distant shores. There had been a time – once upon a time – when the Federation was regarded as a great bastion of compassion, peace and social progress. Before his time, Ethan thought as he boarded the Qob. The Federation he'd left was too concerned with stockpiling resources and winning arms races to think of generosity. Ethan immediately turned astern upon entering the Qob's central passageway. The heavy sound of his boots carried across the barren bulkheads; a long, black soft case faintly swayed at his side as he walked. Reaching the stern hatchway, he gripped an upper rung on the ladder and leaned, glancing to the lower deck to check that it was clear. Then, angling the long case through the hatchway, with his free hand he negotiated his way down the ladder. Calmly, he touched down on the next deck and continued in an unfaltering rhythm to his quarters. Pher and Byblos had been wounded and purview of remaining security matters on the Verbistul had defaulted to Ethan; left him with thinning resources and possibly the most daunting task of sorting out the hostages and prisoners. Restoration of the Verbistul's four-man security team barely filled in their numbers and most of the details had to be dealt with in phases to prevent gaping holes in their AOR. Once Holstrum had been secured, the suspected raiders had been quickly separated and placed in the makeshift brig prepared by the Verbistul's Security Chief. Ethan had expressed reservations on their manpower, but Captain Manning wanted to conduct interrogations and had taken responsibility for their security. Their leader dead, several more injured and their will broken by hunger or failure; the Captain was convinced the raiders weren't eager to put up much of a fight. Those who couldn't be kept in the storage-brig due to medical reasons remained in sickbay under a sparse two-man guard posted by Neufeld. From there, the security responsibility for the hostages had been transferred to Ethan. The hostages were rounded up from around Engineering and the crew quarters that Ethan had locked a few in earlier, and placed in the Verbistul's mess with instructions not to leave. Doctor Robert Long was called on to medically clear each hostage as they waited. Two more security personnel were posted behind in the mess with the Verbistul's Captain, who Ethan advised to delay the next step until his return. Then Ethan and Security Chief Alex began the time-consuming process of sweeping for potential stragglers and securing the rest of the science ship. By the time they finished, the ship's skipper had become impatient with Ethan's methods. He'd thrown caution to the wind; had vetted and released nearly half of the hostages. The work was tedious and unpleasant for all involved. The hostages were tired, terrorized or angry and the identity of each had to be confirmed by their Captain or Security Chief before they were allowed to return to their jobs. The Verbistul's Captain had protested the necessity, but relented to a persuasive argument. In the end, the reality of what happened didn't stop him from smugly pointing out that no raiders or unknown persons had turned up among his crew. He'd criticized Ethan's caution post-incident, but Ethan only dismissively shrugged in reply. He didn't operate carelessly and knew that suspicions hadn't been put to rest yet. Beneath murmuring voices some were asking themselves: who would be the next turncoat? They were either acting prudently or paranoid: the conclusion depended on each individual point of view. But knowing Holstrum had betrayed them left trust among the expedition's members frayed and it would either take the excitement of Zoalus or time to repair. Ethan looked wearier than he felt as he returned to the Qob. At least he'd managed a short visit to check on Pher and Byblos and the others before calling it. But once inside his berth, it was over. He knew within minutes the lingering adrenaline would wear off and uppercut him; brutally drop him like a fierce rollercoaster; kick him from the plane at high altitude without a parachute. Unless motivated into a new task, his mind would yield to detachment and his body to fatigue. A full night's sleep would answer the fatigue, but mental recovery could take days. Very few outside combat and law enforcement units were intimate with the experience; it was linked to the combat fatigue and long-term stress disorders suffered by both alike. Being on the job meant being incessantly vigilant – a significant mental task that manifested physically and often didn't leave anything for later when the job was over. The repeated, punishing swings between highs and lows took their toll on even the best. Some burned out early and changed careers; others gave into cynicism, alcoholism, despair or even spiraled into suicide. Social isolation and becoming defined by the job were common side-effects – only those who'd been through the same things could relate to each other or understand. Those who could stick to it until retirement intact were a rare breed and those who could redefine themselves after were rarer still. Ethan had left two years early, but his methods and sense of identity hadn't changed. He set the soft weapons case down on the unoccupied bunk. It contained the bulk of his personal, portable arsenal and had been in Alex's custody until the raiders attacked. Showing up with them on Xorax would have turned too many heads, but now they were back in his hands and he no longer felt naked. He unzipped the first compartment. The blued metal faintly glinted in the dim lighting as he pulled out a refurbished M87A2 phaser pistol, circa 2291. He briefly pushed the cowl forward to visually check the internal components and charge of the inserted magazine. Then, opening the Klingon weapons locker, he set the inactive pistol down on the shelf with an additional charge next to another outdated Type-I cricket. Operating on a higher frequency and boasting a bit of a kick, it was the primary Starfleet-issue Type-II phaser of the late 2200s. A piece from the cowboy days and, ironically, also one of the Federation's brightest decades in exploration, peace and diplomacy. But it had a history of negative reception among the softer minds of the Federation. Dubbed the 'assault phaser' by detractors, it was eventually replaced by the lesser-menacing 'dust-buster' remotes of the mid-twenty-fourth century. Ethan preferred its conventional ergonomics to those of modern designs – it pointed instinctively, aligned with the natural pointing index of the arm and fingers; provided better weapon retention and trigger-control. But it wasn't just ergonomics. There was tradition and muscle memory; Starfleet had fielded an updated pistol design through his unit that wasn't available on civilian markets. He could have purchased any number of new, black market disruptors to replace it when he'd entered Bull's Head, but he'd settled on the older Starfleet pistol. Unzipping the second compartment in the soft case, Ethan followed up with a M7X pulse-phaser carbine. It was a civilian copy of the latest Starfleet-issued Type-IIIc Ethan had used in the service, built by Cyrex Arms. Originally purchased with the standard fixed stock and Bushnell holosight and Surefire weaponlight integration, it had since received several aftermarket modifications: a tactile fire selector, altered trigger pack and control chip. In the era of featureless ergonomics, glassy panels and holographic displays, there was still a place for old-fashioned rough, protruding toggles and switches. It allowed him quickly switch power or fire settings by muscle memory, without need for lighted displays or audio feedback, looking at his weapon, counting or guessing. The fire selector offered three choices: safe or two programmable settings, which he'd set to heavy stun and mid-level disruption, capable of killing unprotected organic matter and causing damage to light alloys and ceramics. If necessary, he could still make finer adjustments using the phaser's original control panel set on the back of the weapon that he generally kept dark and muted. The pulse-phaser carbine was incapable of sustained phaser beams like hand-helds, but the altered trigger allowed him to fire semi or full-auto, determined by the amount of pressure he put on it. Ethan fingered the safety, musing at the weapon that felt entirely natural in his hands. He checked the carbine's charge and components, and then put it and the soft case inside the locker, closing and locking the cabinet door. Aftermarket modifications weren't new or unusual, but it was the control chip provided by his last employer that could eventually bring trouble. And, as he sat on the edge of his bunk and slouched over his knees, he wasn't thinking of Starfleet or Federation law. His thoughts had turned to the half-Caitian that Captain Manning had singled out among the raiders – the raider he'd shot in Engineering and would have killed if the other man hadn't been wearing armor. Ethan hadn't said much to Manning then or since. He didn't know what to say. He didn't regret his actions and, frankly, his mental energies had been focused on other things. He'd only found time to really dwell on the situation and how they handled it once Verbistul was secured. Something about the entire incident wasn't settling in Ethan's mind. He'd known that it was only a matter of time and luck before he'd run into other former members of Starfleet in Bull's Head. But by and large it was the washouts, deserters, and good-for-nothings that had ended up on the business end of his rifle. This was the first time that he'd looked down his sights at someone who'd once been a 'damned fine' officer. Still, that concept was only an offshoot of what was bothering him; people could change or be misperceived. It was the image of Holstrum sobbing on the decking; knowing that the half-Caitian had been driven into his sights by desperation that had him revisiting his own disillusionment. He didn't enjoy hurting people, but they'd forced his hand. He would do it again each and every time lives were threatened; they couldn't shake that resolve. But it was the events and their choices that led up to the situation or as much of it as he could figure out that had Ethan frustrated. It was a complete failure of civilization; no one offered to help when their colony had run aground and they'd given up asking for it. There was no support network and pride drove them to deal with it on their own until they'd decided to just take. He could only imagine the distraught, starved friends, children and wives they'd have to greet when they returned home empty-handed, if they were still there. Ethan rubbed a hand across his tired face to clear his mind and stood. He grabbed his towel, swung it over his shoulder and walked to the shower. Almost ten minutes later he returned to his berth, washed and shaven. The exhaustion was finally showing in his frame as he wearily pulled on a pair of sweatpants and meditatively relaxed on his bunk, left arm tucked behind his head. He glanced at his duffel to the spot where his financial chip had been sewn into the seam. Business in Bull's Head had been profitable for Ethan. But in a place where nothing was provided, money was an ugly necessity to him. He wanted a simple life and was content to live on a near empty account, prone to giving it away whenever the opportunity presented itself. Damned for once if he didn't have enough this time; not to feed a colony or build their self-sufficiency. With his mental gears grinding away to dissect his thoughts and fish up some miracle, he unintentionally dosed off where he lay on his unturned sheets.
  18. The woman looked like she was ready to faint as she approached Ethan at his voiceless behest – a combination of fear, levels of adrenaline to which she was unfamiliar and possibly mental exhaustion, he surmised from her appearance. And there was little doubt in his mind that his frosty, efficient manner wasn't helping. Smoothly he moved to stand between her and the bulk of the hostages. It was obvious to him from the beginning that his tactical philosophies were different from those on the Qob; among those differences: not allowing the enemy to determine the force continuum. He'd reluctantly followed Pher's direction to set their weapons on stun; came to regret it when he witnessed her first ineffective shots on the raiders and switched back to kill, netting the first downed raider. In his experience, letting the enemy control the rules of engagement and tactics would result in casualties or defeat on his side. They were lucky that Byblos had only taken glancing hits and lived to tell about it. He'd also been taught to treat all hostages, victims and allies lost behind enemy lines or unknown and uncertain contacts as potentially hostile. It was a method he suspected some of the Qob might not share. The inexperienced might see it as heartless or overkill – he knew his share of hostages who did – but like everything else it was designed to ensure his survival as the rescuer. Whether they believed it or not, when he protected his own life, he also more effectively protected the hostage's life. They'd probably never understand that until they were in a situation where unwise assumptions followed everything south. A hostage might look innocent to the naked eye, but there was never room to negligently assume. People could act unpredictably, abnormally under duress, be 'bought' or reconditioned; tricks could be played. Only when they all made it safely home or fully secured the scene and verified or turned over the hostages to other units, was there time to relax. Survival meant treating anything as possible and preparing for that. It also meant having absolute confidence in teammates and their abilities. Being a guest on the Qob, Ethan was still shaky on that element. But, as he exposed his back, he involuntarily trusted that William and Robert had thought to search the hostages for weapons and sleepers, or would at least notice and swiftly deal with any sudden or suspicious movements before he unexpectedly took one in the back. "No sudden movements and keep your hands where I can see them," he warned lowly while trying bring an equally reassuring edge to his voice. As trained, his attention was focused on her, but not so much that he became unaware of his surroundings. He kept his weapon at a low ready; the safety had been reapplied for the moment. "If you see him, point out Holstrum." The woman looked at him with abject confusion at first. Then she nodded understanding in small stages and threw up her arm intending to point around him. Her eyes grew wide as he lightly slapped his left hand over her wrist and grasped it to stop her. "Slowly," he admonished. "Point 'through' me if you have to, but don't let him see you." She nodded again and pointed in a line slightly over his heart. "Fifth one on the right," she said, gaining some courage but barely managing above a whisper through her dry throat. "Thank you," Ethan replied with a faint smile. He gestured to his left at a space in the corridor between Troy and William; separated from the other hostages for her safety if things went bad, but still within view of their guards without reducing reaction time. "Please take a seat." After the woman sat down, Ethan quietly tapped Joe on the arm and caught William's attention with a glance. He gestured toward Holstrum behind the cover of his body and followed with a signal to hold and watch. Then he began to swivel to his right and took his time to make eye contact with each hostage as he went, hoping that Holstrum wouldn't become wise to what was happening and bolt. Ten to twenty seconds passed before Ethan's sight settled on the wanted man. He was just as the Vulcan engineer and Alex had described him; slight of build, maybe 170 centimeters tall, with thinning, brown hair over deep-set, tired eyes. Ethan could see now that he wasn't just wiry; his baggy clothing hung over a frame that suggested he should have been more stout, and his face looked gaunt with faintly hollowed cheeks and a sharpening bone structure. He was fidgeting with something, frenzied eyes darting up and down the passageway and showing a particular interest in Joe and Troy. "Holstrum!" Ethan deliberately called out. Several sets of eyes fell on him, but it was Holstrum's that grew wide as he realized he was drawing unwanted attention and recognized. Ethan immediately raised his carbine from its low ready and leaned into it, consciously flipping the selector to stun. "Stay where you are Holstrum; show me your hands," he warned as the Engineer began to shrink and slide down the bulkhead like he meant to run. Now Ethan had the other man's terrified attention and he was almost 100% certain this was the one and only Holstrum. Those who had been standing or sitting around him began to move away; some looked alarmed while others wore a perceptive bleakness or approval. The Engineer showed his shaking and empty hands. "On the ground," Ethan vocally directed, holding his weapon fixed and unmoved from Holstrum's center of mass. A million thoughts passed over Holstrum's face as he stalled; run, charge, escape, fight. For a moment, Ethan alternately thought he'd be forced to tackle or even shoot the unarmed Engineer and he feared that was exactly the reaction Holstrum wanted to provoke. Then, abruptly, he crumpled into a heap and began to sob. "Please don't shoot me," Holstrum begged miserably into the carpet. No hostage moved or made a sound; they only stared. William watched his back as Ethan steadily worked up to where Holstrum lay. He briefly held his rifle aside, quietly patted the man down for weapons and found only a small subspace transceiver and an ancient-looking tricorder. Collecting them, he stood and backed away, eyes on Holstrum and the hostages. "He's clear," he dully announced to Captain Manning.
  19. The slaved science/sensor console groaned as Shane leaned against it with the full weight of his bionic. Peering intently at the internal sensor data from the scientists ship, he spoke into the comm headset, his gruff voice filled with the annoyance and agitation he felt with the whole situation, "Vulcan-boy or whatever your name is, what's yer status?" Ethan pushed off the urge to give his name before he fully realized the unconscious thought had occurred. "No casualties; no damage," he tersely reported via the radio in his suit. From the beginning of the engagement on the Verbistul, his manner of speech had taken an edge of controlled intensity. But as he regarded the shell of a bomb that had nearly killed them, there was a subtle energy mixed into the normally easygoing and decisive composure of his voice. "The triceron was released; forcefield is holding," he added after briefly consulting the tricorder in his hand. He looked up at the Verbistul's Chief of Security where she stood on the elevated platform that surrounded the warp core, stooping toward the forcefield like someone peering into a cage at the zoo. But she wasn't observing a curious, animal attraction that she might later remark was 'cute'. Her brown eyes were wide with shock, glued in fascination to the bomb through the plate of her helmet. He could vaguely make out a shiver along the contours of her suit as she shuddered in horrified relief. Ethan's reaction was harder to discern, but the same feeling of disbelief rushed through him and prickled across his skin. He'd become intimate with the risks of his chosen occupation early in life. As a result, death was something that he took in stride better than most and he was willing, without hesitation, to lay his life on the line and lose it for the greater purpose. But it wasn't something he'd give up recklessly and when the Reaper jokingly knocked on the door and ran, he didn't laugh. Every second, credit and detail that had gone into his training was meant to hedge the chances of his survival. They had drilled into him skills, vigilance and paradigms of decision-making until they became second nature and as much a part of him as the color of his eyes. What he'd gained, to him, was the most valuable part of his character; he liked being alive. He couldn't succeed if he was dead. "You okay, Alex?" he asked. Her gaze traveled to Ethan and she quietly stared at him for a good ten seconds. "Not really," she said, adding an uneasy but witty smile. "For a moment, I saw my life flash before my eyes. No one told me this was just the dress rehearsal." Shane blinked, "Who the qoh is Alex?" He shook his head, not wanting to mess with it. "Alright, Vulc..." One of the bridge officers leaned over and whispered something to him. "Uh, I'm mean Newfield, have you located a container for the bomb? It needs to be able to hold a vacuum, preferably a chemical container of some sorts." Alex shot Ethan a smart-alecky look and a lifted brow. "Newfield?" she mouthed in a toothy, amused grin, not wanting to be heard over the open comm. Ethan immediately held up a gloved hand and diverted his attention to the container they had scrounged up shortly before the bomb discharged. Alex sourly pursed her lips at being signaled to 'hold that thought', but didn't interrupt further. She knew better. "Affirmative; we have an air-tight container," Ethan responded to Shane. He was appreciative that Shane wasn't pushing him to explain who Alex was; the identity of the Verbistul's Security Chief was the least of his concerns and not worth their precious air-time on the radio. They'd heard her voice and knew she was there; formal introductions could wait until later. It was bad enough that others were making an issue of his name; at the moment he didn't really care what they called him so long as they accomplished their mission. "Shane," Ethan continued. "What about the triceron?" It was evident at least to Alex that Ethan wasn't trifling. She could see the wheels turning in his head; he wanted the shortest path to the nearest exit. He felt trapped with hostages running around unchecked behind Pher and her team; Holstrum and other unknown conspirators or raiders possibly hidden among them. He wanted to regroup before the others ran into more trouble. Separated, their manpower was reduced by a third and maybe more after the hits Byblos had taken. Why Ethan cared so much about a group of people he didn't know might have baffled Alex if she didn't know him, and she still thought it was a waste of time. Let the mercenaries get themselves killed, she thought. "We'll pump it out through emergency coolant vents before we lower the forcefield," Alex chimed in and then screwed up her face and directed at Shane: "Unless you want to keep to for some reason?" "Who the jyking qoh is this?" Shane snapped angrily in his low growl. "Get off my comm and let me do my job, ya petaQ." Shaking his head and mumbling, he pulled up a different set of sensor readings on the console display. "Newfield, do not empty the triceron yet. We need to flush the vent pipin' to clear any residual particles first. Pull up the venting system on yer console and activate a nitrogen flush. After that, run a level two diagnostic to double check and then you can flush yer triceron. Got it?" Ethan's jaw set grimly as he listened to the exchange on the radio between Alex and Shane; with a curt cutting motion across his neck and a warning glare, he cut off Alex's angry retort. Caught on the verge of speaking and with her mouth open, Alex gnashed her teeth and slowly pressed her lips together as Shane explained the venting procedure uninterrupted. They couldn't have picked a more inconvenient time to reciprocally trip over their egos; Ethan thought, beginning to eye the row of outlying consoles. He'd expected something like this from Pher or even marginally from Soora, but, evidently, Shane had been the wildcard. Given the circumstances, however, Ethan was in a good position to persuade Alex to drop it. She was more concerned about making Ethan angry than getting her fair comeback. "Copy," Ethan immediately answered Shane and muted the open radio. "Alex; console," he firmly directed with a motion of his head and hand, and ignored the resentful look she was boring into him. He could have done it, but she was more familiar with the Verbistul's systems and carried higher security clearances. "I got it," she snapped and was heard only by Ethan as she stepped down from the platform, irritation evident in her body language despite her suit. She settled at one of the surrounding consoles and immediately began flushing the vents with nitrogen, bitterly murmuring to herself, "You're not the only one who thought of that, Mr. Shane." Alex obviously hadn't changed much in two and a half years. She was skilled and bright, but stubborn and unwilling to reign in her arrogance and temper for the sake of the team. Alex had been irate when Ethan eventually rejected her application on those grounds. She had accused him of prejudice at first, knowing that he'd been reluctant to honor her employment recommendation. But Ethan had enlightened her then; "Personal conflicts will happen, but there isn't a place here for those who can't set that aside and work seamlessly with their teammates or follow orders." From there, they'd parted on fairly neutral terms. She'd found that Ethan's near-infinite patience made him a difficult man to hold a grudge against and she wasn't so much offended as motivated. She was convinced she could prove Ethan had made a mistake, and when Ethan showed up asking her and Rodney to help him infiltrate Xorax as the half-Vulcan Selek, she saw her chance. "How long will this level two diagnostic take? Fifteen minutes?" Ethan asked. He hoped for a small margin as he watched over her shoulder, the computer highlighting each section of pipe as the nitrogen was pushed through by exhaust fans and varying air pressures. "Try forty-five," Alex replied, almost thrilled that Shane's instructions would set back, if not completely frustrate Ethan's plans to quickly regroup. Even a level-three diagnostic would push it at a maximum run-time of ten minutes under peak conditions. She heard Ethan exhale and then the telltale beep as he unmuted his comm with the Qob. "Shane," he said into his radio, "would a level four diagnostic be enough to verify the vents are clean?" He saw Alex squirm in her suit as the Security Chief held her tongue. He knew Alex would have said yes, but, ironically, on her own ship she wasn't in charge of security matters anymore. Dr. Phantos had given the mercenaries a greater latitude and Shane was ultimately responsible for their present task, their lives and the lives of the Verbistul's crew. In Ethan's paradigm, Shane or Pher had to give the word and he would follow it – no matter how much that made Alex want to beat her head bloody against a bulkhead. "Yeah," said Shane passively, already thumbing through a different set of data on the scientist's vessel. "Whatever, just make sure the vent lines are clear before the triceron is flushed. Any chunk you and yer girlfriend accidentally blow off the Verbistul's comes out of our cut of the job and I'm not in the mood to lose cash over carelessness." Quickly, his eyes scanned over the reading from inside the forcefield. "What's the status on the device? Any sparkin' since the initial trigger?" "Negative," Ethan calmly replied. It was beginning to get under Alex's skin as she sat obediently silent in her chair. She wanted to know why and how Ethan remained patient with the treatment he was receiving from the Qob's crew. Every bit of her itched to answer Shane with a spiteful, 'blow me' or 'you're going digital', followed by the hum of artificially dead air; and there was no end to the list of things she dreamt of telling Pher about her tactics. But there was little doubt in her mind that Ethan would nix that like he'd nixed her comeback on Shane. Like it or not, they all had to work together and even she admitted that her idea of 'suggestions for improvement' had the finesse of a battering ram. She heard a faint click as Ethan switched his transmitter from VOX to push-to-talk; if she wanted, they could talk without being unintentionally overheard by the Qob and taking up precious air on the radio. Inquisitively, she turned from the console and found she was looking at Ethan's back as he quietly stood between her and the warp core. She guessed that he was finally irritated and decided not to add her opinion to his thoughts. She was only half-wrong and half-right. Ethan was mulling over Shane's response as he regarded the bomb, eyes still instinctively sweeping his field of vision as Shane's words, 'yeah, whatever', prompted the formation of a small frown. He'd asked a simple 'yes or no', 'give me your best judgment' question and couldn't figure out the point of philosophizing. It didn't have the desired effect, communicating sensible urgency or caution; it was about as useful to Ethan as kicking a wall. The only worthwhile conclusion from Shane's passivity was that Shane had effectively given Ethan the full run of his discretion, which he was determined to use to their advantage. But for nearly a full minute Ethan stood there, using what time he still had while stuck in Engineering to reflect: exhaustively weighing his options, the needs and lives of his 'team' and the Qob, and the hostages and their ship – until Alex interrupted. "Nitrogen flush's done," she said. Hearing her voice he twisted to look over his shoulder, the console noiselessly flashing behind her. After a brief lull he answered. "Start a level three." Alex grinned, though not as enthusiastically as she might have if he'd requested something faster. In fact, it looked drearier than she intended. She spun around her seat and began the requested diagnostic, large, bold-faced numbers appearing on the console. The estimated countdown began at 10:13. Ethan pushed the transmit button on the arm of his suit. "Qob, Ethan. Nitrogen flush completed; running a level three diagnostic now with ten minutes," he reported. "Good." Shane replied." And quit mutin' yer comm, I keep thinkin' you've set off the triceron. As soon as we've verified that the chemical is completely flushed, we need that bomb in your container and sealed. I want that thing out of an airlock and at a decent distance before the fail-safe detonator goes off." "Airlock, roger. Negative mute; VOX disabled to save airtime," he replied simply and then just as quickly released the talk button, plunging whomever was listening on the Qob into silence. Turning his back to the bomb and adjusting his phaser carbine on its sling around his body, Ethan settled down on the warp core platform. Reflexively feeling out slightly behind and above the trigger housing with his gloved, right thumb, Ethan found the tactile fire selector and flipped it to safe. Letting the weapon cradle in his lap, he leaned forward with his elbows resting on his raised knees. "So this turned into a jyking mess," Alex commented as she casually joined him on the platform. The corner of Ethan's mouth briefly flinched in an unrealized smile as he audibly exhaled. "No plan survives first contact with the enemy," he pragmatically remarked. He glanced at her and knowing that she was searching for blame more than feeling conversational, he added: "Not their fault. They did the best they could with what they had." Alex sneered at what she felt was wasted charity. "What did they have?" she scoffed. Ethan was quiet for a moment as he considered her question. "Resolve," he suggested; "concern for this ship and crew." "Peh," Alex breathed acidly. "You heard that punk, Shane; they're only concern is for their paycheck." Ethan shrugged and tilted his head, conceding that fact. "But, whatever their motive, they still put their lives on the line for you and probably succeeded." Alex couldn't think of an immediate rejoinder and sighed at her defeat on the matter. "I wish more people in the galaxy were like you," she finally murmured, giving no clue into the thought process that led her there. Surprise crossed Ethan's face and then his brow fell into a furrowed, questioning look. "Why like me?" Alex shot him a glare that seemed to say the answer should have been obvious. "Never mind," she dismissed. "So how much do the mercs know about you;" she smirked, "Ethaniel Newfield?" "They know I'm not Vulcan and they know my name. They'll piece the rest together," he answered matter-of-factly. She was only mildly disappointed that she didn't get a rise out of him by making fun of the moniker she suspected he valued. "But how'd they find out in the first place? Did you break?" "Nope. From what I'm told, their security chief recognized me from a bounty poster on Tranquility. The act was pointless after that." "What?" Alex let out a piercing laugh. "That's priceless; you wanted for bounty," she said, obviously unaware of the circumstances that had led to someone offering a bounty on Ethan. She might not have thought it was funny if she knew. Ethan markedly frowned at her, ears ringing from the overload in his helmet, and he looked to the console behind her. Five minutes remained until the diagnostic was finished; then there was the time it would take to flush the triceron, repressurize Engineering and transport the bomb to an airlock. From their vantage point, the blast doors seemed like they'd become a whole lot thicker.
  20. Happy birthday, folks. Hope it is/was a great one!
  21. Everyday in the Corps is "fun", son! Every meal's a banquet! Every paycheck a fortune! Every formation a parade!
  22. ......... Good. Grief.
  23. Yeah, I got that; certain four-number groups or 'patterned sums' equal 30. Actually, I counted 32 groups; not including the 12 groups that don't add up to 30. But honestly there's only one thing I'd really care to know before this continues ad infinitum: Sal, what's the point?
  24. Heh. 30. Is that what you're looking for? I'd brushed that number off earlier (from 15+9+6+0); ironically thought it wasn't complex enough. Go figure.
  25. Heh. Might be reaching here: First speculation is 15. Numbers on north-south, west-east ends can be added together to arrive at 15 (e.g. 15+0; 3+12; 9+6; 5+10). But the problem arises when trying to add diagonals; the only way to get 15 is to add numbers that aren't in a perfect corner-to-corner diagonal line. Maybe that was done on purpose? Keeping the line closest to it's north-south or west-east origin (e.g. south-south-west to north-north-east)? This also assumes that A-F are 10-15 respectively and not meant to be in another, unclear order. Haven't tried with other operations yet, but I admit at first glance it doesn't seem like anything but addition will work. I'm leaning toward the idea this is some sort of riddle - not just the riddle of figuring out its significance, but an actual puzzle in Zoalus. That's a 'question mark' in the center, right? The real curiosities are: the context that we still don't have; why it was assumed that we'd make the leap from A-F to 10-15 on only the original post; and how do we earn more clues?