Irideus

[Asmodeus]

"Well, there's no going back now." Green spun his wheelchair to face the others around the table. There was a smile as he made the joke, but it was doomed to fade in the next few moments. As the broadcast ended the door of the dining room cracked and one of the billionaire's aides slipped in, earpiece trailing, expression grey against his suit. One hand went to the grip of Green's chair and in a fluid motion the man stooped down and spoke softly into his employer's ear. Though soft was no word for the staccato urgency of the exchange, nor the wide shock that flooded Green's eyes. For a moment he was paralyzed altogether, then remembered himself and nodded quickly. The aide straightened and prepared to wheel Green out, while the billionaire shot a look to each of his colleagues.

"I'm sorry, everyone." The voice cracked with some unknown strain. "Something's happened..."

He wanted to say more, but colour had drained from his face. He fumbled the words then gave up and nodded to the aide, who wheeled him quickly away. Through the swinging door of the dining room, as he exited, the crew saw beyond the lobby a car pulling up: Green's personal limousine, with full staff compliment. An urgency unlike the media frenzy had gripped the household.

It would not be a long-lived mystery though. Rachaela's pager was already notifying her of the news...

* * * * * *​

"I never got his real name. Everyone at the lab just called him 'Sil'. Y'know, he'd worked there in that parking lot for fourteen years, even before Raquia Industries took over the space. I remember he always said he was grateful when you rehired the old staff."

Green smiled weakly and nodded. Yes, he remembered Sil.

"I was..." The speaker shifted a little in the bed. "I was finished up and getting in my car. Had the door open. Then I heard Sil's voice. 'You've forgotten something' - that's what he said to me."

Green lifted his hand from the arm of the wheelchair, reached across the bed covers, gripped the speaker's fingers, squeezed them.

"He had his old travel mug. Remember, that beat-up metal thing his dad gave him?" There was a slight breath, like a laugh. "I thought he was bringing me a cup of coffee."

He felt his own arm trembling. The grief had not yet reached his eyes. It had started in his fingers, blood once shock-cold now starting to tremble. He could almost feel it in his legs. Green forced himself to look at the patient. "I'm so sorry, Ann..."

There were dressings on Ann Whittles' eyes, held in place by a ring of bandage thick enough to hide the scarring on the cheeks and brow. A halo slipped. Below the burns the jaw and mouth were perfect, and they creased now into a whimper. "No..." Ann replied. "I'm sorry I didn't come to the meal when you asked me, Matthias."

Their tears broke together. Green leant over to touch his head against her hand, his shoulders trembling. All he could do was hush her, whisper that it would be okay, whisper that he was sorry. And pray... pray that this could all be undone. There were doctors beyond the paneled door of the hospital room, and down the hallway murmurs of police as they kept reporters at bay. It seemed the dinner announcement and worldwide broadcast was old news now - a prelude to the tragedy that lay before Matthias Green.

The doctors said it was hydrochloric acid. Where Sil had gotten hold of it was still up for debate. The police suggested there were ties to a religious group, or anarchists. Neither theory fitted what Green knew of that old security guard... what he thought he had known...

From Ann's bandages came a trail of tears, cutting through the brows and furrows of her scars. Green put his hand against them. "Ann, I'll fix this. I promise. I'll get Nikolai over here and we'll put in a call to the bio division. We'll get the latest optics and push the timefra--"

Now it was she who hushed him, her own hand coming to his. She shook her head. "It's too late, Matt..." Then her mouth inverted to a desperate smile. "I don't think the Spires of God will have braille on them."

The joke only worsened their sobbing. They clung to one another - she blind and beset by pain, he unable to pull himself closer, to get out of his chair, to put his arms fully around her. "It should've been me... God... You broke the conspiracy, Ann. It was all you. The memos... None of us would be here without you."

"That's why you have to carry on, Matt. Don't let these five years be for nothing."

His hands curled, clutching the wet sheets around her, twisting them as anger took him. "You're the linguist. We can't read the Spires... without your eyes."

She brought her other hand to his head, drip trailing. Her face was pitched upwards, sunlight catching on the white halo that blinded her, on the red of scars and tears. Like mother and child they remained, forgetting all the world as night drew in.

"If it truly is God out there, Matt.... then you already have everything you need... to speak with Him..."

END OF CHAPTER ONE​

CHAPTER TWO: ASCENT OF THE BLESSED​

It was the morning of the seventh day. Seven days since the dinner at Green's mansion and the assault on Ann Whittles. Seven days since the crew were taken by private jet to Galveston City to begin their hermit-like week of final preparations at the Irideus Launch Center.

And now, at last, it was the morning of the day when all the world would hold its breath.

For some, the Launch Center would be a hotel, for others a prison. Raquia had lavished funding on making the place as comfortable as possible, but following Ann's tragedy security had been ramped up. One could almost feel the suffocation beyond the walls - the rings of cameras, guard patrols, biometric locks and checkpoints that surrounded the facility. And what lay within this protection was little more than 12 private suites, a hi-tech gym with running track, medical center, communal kitchen, arboretum, swimming pool and, of course, the hangar where every possible scenario in heaven and earth had been practiced and re-practiced in intensive drills over the last few days.

A tower in which ten princes and princesses were kept safe from the dragons.

They were already wearing mission fatigues - pale blue coveralls with darker utility jackets and boots - and eating the spaceman's diet of nutrient bundles and isotonic drinks. Hair had been cut (even Mr Biloxi's dreadlocks), body mass weighed and injections given. Regular health screening had accompanied the rigorous drills and exercise. They were like Shamanic warriors, dismembered and rebuilt in fire for the journey ahead.

As the morning clocks struck five, Green was already up. In his adapted quarters, just down the sterile hall from the others, he sat at a perspex desk laden with papers. And he almost wished his wife were here, to throw them up in the air and call him a fool again.

Press releases... insurance documents... health reports on each crew-member... last wills and testaments... inventories of personal effects... legal disclaimers... funding frameworks... time schedules. Green was still dealing with the backlog of administrative tasks that came with the mission. A private company sending ten humans into space was no gung-ho affair. The legal and insurance issues alone were enough to liquify the brain. And that was before Green even tried to draw up a transitional corporate plan in the (very likely) event of his death on this mission. The board members were ready to shit a brick, and his wife was ready to make them eat it.

A tangle of paperwork, like the vines of Mother Earth holding him down. This morning, more than ever, Green was struck by the feeling that the planet wasn't yet ready to let him go.

It was now 5:30. In an hour's time he would have to report to the hangar with the others, to witness the primary firing up of the Irideus.

He hoped the others were still getting some sleep.

Sighing, the billionaire took a sip of his isotonic water and turned to the next page of the legal papers.

Alexander the Great would not have envied him.

 

[CosmicWeinerDog]

<img src=http://fc06.deviantart.net/fs34/i/2008/296/7/0/Study_by_Twilight_Lament.jpg align="left" width="500" style="padding:10px">
Nikolai poured himself yet another cup of coffee. The doctor sat on his knees before a bed turned desk as scores of books and medical records lay scattered across the sheets. He knew he should be sleeping, but there was too much at hand playing on his mind to entertain the thought. The fourth edition of Harrison's Neurology in Clinical Medicine, documents related to the medical readiness of the crew and countless records pertaining to the untimely death of Sil presented by the bio division sat in a sporadic mess atop the doctor's sheets. The items originally had taken up the lot of desk space in the corner of the room but found their way to the other surfaces as desk space became sparing. Between the regimented structure of preparation for space, having to completely rearrange Matthias's diet in light of his condition, Researching as much as he could on the state of ALS and finally picking through the autopsy reports on Mr. Sil, the doctor hadn't exactly had much in way of sleep. Experience with staying up well beyond what was healthy kept him presentable, but the bags under his eyes were not unnoticed.

Sil had taken hydrochloric acid orally; it had burned through his esophagus and several places along the lining of his stomach. It was not a clean death, and the entire process was intensely painful in the later stages. From the best Nikolai could figure, the poison had been mixed with his food but the specifics would have to wait until the report came back from the mortician. If the already daunting prospect of going into space against the will of god like organizations wasn't enough of a headache, being the target for assassination was. It hadn't been the first time a hit had been placed on the doctor's head. Back in Syria, a standing contract for the confirmed kill of any medical practitioner was maintained by the country's government throughout the revolution. Anyone caught providing aid to rebel forces at the time were marked as enemies of the state and executed publicly. You could say that the job came with a rather high turn around rate.

This however, was different. The game had changed and with the media spotlight the way it was, the rules of engagement of which the Doctor had been used to could not be put in effect. There was no nomadic movement or setting up a potential offensive counter measures to this mission. Every training program, movement operation and public spectacle was planned months in advance and felt anything but subtle. This time, every eye was on their progress, waiting for the fall so their bones could be picked clean. It was like walking a broadcast path with a target on your back.

Nikolai had broken down the problems facing him into smaller groups, pushing off the work on Sil's death until the autopsy reports came through with more light on the matter. The issue at hand that stared the Doctor in the face was his employer. Specifically the overwhelming chance Mr. Green had of Dying on this mission. Modern medicine had evolved again and again into a place of which would have been considered miraculous not a decade before. Even so, Lou Gehrig's disease was one of those things that nothing really made sense on. There were means to treat it, slow it down, and even augmentations in play to bring minor function to victims post deterioration, but no one knew where to begin as far as a cure. The Doctor had played with the loss of limb function in a patients more times than he could count, but only as far as physical injury. In those cases, the nerve endings were still intact regardless of what happened to be damaged. The synapses in the brain would still fire even in the whole loss of a limb. It was the reason things like phantom limb syndrome and the like took place. Wiring to those synapses would still give an electrical signal of which could be followed, tracked, recorded and used to provide functional replacement to the user. With ALS however, the nerves of the body and brain itself broke down slowly. As it was, Mr Green would be isolated within a flying refrigerator while it's crew watched him slowly lose all function. It was really just a matter of time. It was a cold fact, and one Sevlanka wasn't exactly keen on.

The doctor had torn through 15 records on experimental research through the course of the night. All manners of attempts from experiments with hybrid steroid use, electro shock therapy, full scale cyberization, and dozens of failed medication were listed with nothing terribly concrete. The more interesting of which involved attempted processes from a specific victim whose brain had been removed entirely and kept alive through chemical means. The idea, while a poor one, was that if the illness was isolated to the central nervous system then a complete replacement of the victim's body could offset the disease. While colorful, the process didn't work. The patient had deteriorated far enough that the brain couldn't sync with the implants, providing too much interference for the cybernetics to function. The man died in a jar.

The Doctor moved his finger to the top of the page and closed the record. There had to be something out there that had evidence as to a potential control. A deep breath pulsed through Nikolai's lips. This wasn't his area of study there was more do than dance about the dead ends of thousands more qualified. The doctor's placed his temples into the fingertips of his hands and rubbed at his scalp. A weary groan rumbled from the depths of the man's throat and slowly he let the lids of his eyes seal for a moment. The solace from light and sensory input held the headache at bay. For the first time since the evening began, he felt as if he could breath. Holding his head hands that seemed to serve better than any pillow, the doctor felt himself drift. Nodding forward into the haze of paperwork and bound books that sat before him.

The silence was shattered as the alarm to the side of his bed split his eardrums like a pickaxe.

​

Shit...

The doctor took to his feet with a mouthful of curses. The nap would have to wait until after the initial powering of the Irideus' systems.

 

[Spammy]

Clark had slept. Briefly and lightly, but he'd slept. He was presently awake, though, seated at the small desk in his room, doing what he normally did when his thoughts were too messy for sleep to find a home: He worked on content. He'd once considered how many of his columns or illustrations were made in the dead of night, but decided he didn't want to know the number. His personal tablet was packed away now, and he didn't much enjoy the tought of digging it back out. Saving or posting the work wasn't what he needed, what he needed was just to get these thought out of his head. So he was back to the basics: Pencil and paper.

He started with words. "Soon I will be in space." Simple. To the point. But detached and distant and not very emotional. But that was the first thought that he wrote down. There was no real coherency to the things he wrote, if one squinted they might be a passable outline or notes. Halfway down the page he gave up on words and drew a line across the page. Then another line to join it. And yet more lines, and then shading and details.

When he stopped there were dark figures stretched across the page, wrapped in shadows and looming over something. Dark and menacing. Was this what he had needed to get out of his mind? He flipped the page over and restlessly began drawing curved lines linking one after the other, until he was lest with a round, abstract figure seeming to shine and radiate. It was featureless, but being so composed of round lines and soft shading it had an air of softness and comfort. A far cry from the hard, dark shapes on the other side of the page.

That paper found itself tossed into the trash bin with a sigh. Good and evil and light and dark. Having drawn those had made him feel so terribly unique. He didn't so much care about the good and evil they might find, what he wanted was an answer, and light and dark could both give him that answer. He needed to ask whatever they found why. There were more questions, but at some point they all came back to the why.

Clark got to his feet quickly and dressed, too restless to stay in his room for now. He walked outside and began quietly walking down the quiet halls to the arboretum. He felt a vague need to find some connection with the planet before the event. He wondered briefly if anyone else had done better at resting than he had, and if anyone else also needed to walk and be active now. Walks had always calmed him, and now he was in need of being calmed.

 

[Quill]

[DASH=brown]
Cho had not slept.

She was not the jittery type, but the mere notion that within hours she would be in space chasing the most profound scientific mystery of her time was too priceless to avoid thinking about for a single moment. She preferred a waking mind to dreams. She sipped black coffee while staring out at the paling sky in her apartment. It might be cramped, but it was neat and clean and full of light. Cho closed her eyes and imagined the void of space all around her, a gaping emptiness where gravity should be, and could not. Only roiling algorithms and dizzying variations of the Drake equation spun around jabbering in her head.

She opened her eyes, inhaled deeply the skyline of her busy home one last time. She would miss the flashes and the abandon and the sheer metal lines of the cityscape that had formed the backdrop of her known world. She would feel a little lost in a place where she couldn't estimate the volume of the nearest whacky-shaped building or stoop down to press a bill into a homeless soul's grimy hand on the way to the subway, feeling superior to the smattering of coins others had offered. Space was not meant for humans, especially humans like her, who could never have survived a day in a city without stifling pollution, radical taxi drivers, street musicians or stainless steel.

Which is why she had spent most of her night recording memories to keep close on the Irideus. Cars honking, lights dancing, glass buildings soaking up bright sunlight. Black high heels clattering on cement, graffiti on the subway, gum under the benches. Just 7% of the storage space on her precious black eye, seven times as much as she had anticipated, but now she found herself wishing she could take more.

The white light spilled over the horizon of the skyscrapers. It was 5:00 AM and time to leave. She could feel her pulse quicken as she shut and locked all the windows, double-checked one last time she'd packed everything, grabbed her car keys off the sheer breakfast table and slipped out onto the busy gray street, closing the door behind her.

She wouldn't be back for a while.

[/DASH]

 

[Melody Pond]

MELISSA ARDENT​

It was quite possible that of all her fellow crewmates, Lissa slept the heaviest and most comfortably. Of course there was the small fears in the back of her mind whispering predictions of death and despair that may await them in the cosmos, but those thoughts were easily squelched in her own curiosity and eagerness to explore beyond our world. And each night she was lulled into a peaceful sleep in which she dreamt of the stars and what wonders awaited her there. The night before the launch was no different. She knew better than to let her own enthusiasm keep her up all night. It would be unprofessional, and likely life threatening, if the pilot was hindered by a lack of proper sleep. So, she slept, and slept well.

In fact, she slept so soundly that even her alarm clock did not wake her, as it should have. Set at 15 minutes past five, Melissa had assured herself a full three quarters of an hour to ready herself for the official firing-up of Irideus. She had to look professional; chic professional as she called it, and that took time. In normal circumstances, she'd be perfectly happy running around in her cute Hard Candy sweats, but this entire week had been under the watchful eye of the whole world. Being in the public eye always had her a little crazy about her appearance. She wanted to look her best, and that took time. So when the alarm did finally awake her well past five-thirty that morning, Melissa couldn't help but feel a bit frazzled. Without hesitation, Lissa shed her night-things and raced into the small compact bathroom for a quick shower.

It was only as she stepped out of the shower that it occurred to her. This could possibly be the last shower I ever have on Earth. A feverish giggle rolled through her as she fastened a large plush towel around her delicate frame. Taking a deep calming breath, Lissa wiped her palm against the foggy mirror and smiled in spite of the heavy thought. Today she would make history. They all would, for better or worse. No matter the outcome, after the Irideus launched they would be immortalized. She just hoped it be for the fact that they survived and discovered something, anything, and not just as foolish endeavor to learn from.

In record time, for her at least, Melissa was dressed and primped. She wore a pair of stylish studded slacks, a simple but cute purple dress shirt, and a pair of sleek black boots. Her makeup was a bit more minimal than usual, but was still very her. A fair coating of powder dusted her face, with a small blush of pink across her cheekbones. Her eyes were a light smoky shade of purple, accented by a small amount of eyeliner. Her lips a light cherry red glistened in the light. And then there was her hair. Once the auburn locks cascaded all the way down her backside, but now they barely reached her shoulders. She'd threatened the hired stylist with a trim of his own—and she didn't mean his hair—if he cut it any shorter. Melissa adored her hair, it was one of her best features and watching the majority of it lay on a tiled floor was worse than all of the strenuous training they'd went through over the weeks. It might have been a bit superficial, but Lissa felt she was justified. Everyone was entitled to at least one shallow concern in their life, as long as they weren't constantly small-minded. Of course, she understood the impracticality of having lengthy hair on a space mission, so she'd relented as much as she could. Now it was thrown up in a slightly messy but sophisticated bun, and a few stray curls framing her face.

Taking a deep breath, she tapped her lower right temple three times to activate her bionic eye before giving herself one last look-over. Satisfied, Lissa packed up her things and walked out of the bathroom. She set her bath things with the rest of her stuff in the corner, where it'd sat packed since last night. A small smile played at her lips until she caught sight of the time on the clock, when a small gasp escaped her lips. It was twenty minutes past six. Normally she'd be perfectly okay with being a few minutes late, but not today. It probably wouldn't be a big deal to be less than thirty minutes late to the "firing up", but this was one time Melissa really hadn't really wanted to test her "art of the fashionably late" theory. After one last glance around the hotel room, she wrinkled her nose and dashed out of the hotel room and began a light jog toward her future.

 

[ThE_DeAd]

The clock ticked to 5AM, but no alarm sounded. The curtains on the walls didn't automaticly open to allow the first rays of sun to filter through and awaken Stolarz from a deep sleep. He didn't slowly crawl his way from the bed and make his way to the shower to drowsily prepare for the day ahead. The room was empty, his sheets looked untouched and everything was spotless. If one were to enter the room it would be difficult to tell if he had ever been there at all until they looked in the closet and found his clothes and footwear organized by occasion, everything down to his toiletries were meticulously placed just so. The only things missing were a set of P/T clothes and a pair of running shoes.

Eli had been up for the last hour and a half in the crew's gym, part of the good doctor's rigourous work out regimen to insure that he was fit for duty. However, even if he hadn't been prescribed additional physical training, he would have likely been there anyways. The news of Ms. Whittle's injury at the hand of zealous extremists had affected all members of the crew in their own way. Some had become upset and had sought out counseling; others lost sleep over the ordeal and poured themselves deeper into their research. Eli simply went on with his routine. For him, this event was simply one more in a long list of tragedies which made him weep for the way people in this world could treat one another. Back home friend and family died every day. The best thing he could do was carry on and say a prayer for those affected and hope to G-d that they find peace.

So there he was, sweat beading down his brow as he aggressively pumped over and over on the pull up bar. His face clenched into a teeth baring snarl with every pull moving in a steady, strong rhythm of controlled breaths. He'd managed to keep in reasonably good shape after his discharge from the IDF, for him it was somewhat of a necessity. Eli had always enjoyed physical activity, it was a time where he was able to process his thoughts from the night before and prepare for the day ahead. It fueled his high energy personality and allowed him to remain situationally aware.

After completing his last set of reps he returned to his room to shower, shave and get ready for their morning briefing. Just as he finished zipping up his flight jacket and made for the door he noticed a flashing red light on his bedside telephone. It was a voice message; Eli stood there for a moment and looked at the display with a stone faced expression, he thought about leaving it for later, he was sure he knew who it was. But his guilt got the better of him and he reluctantly pressed the play button, and sat down on the bed:

"Eli, its Tohmb.... I saw you on television last week and I just thought-." The voice hesitated for a moment before continuing "I just want to say I understand what you intend to accomplish by doing this. But flying a million miles away isn't going to make this any easier for you. Come home. Let us help you…You know where to reach me if you change your mind."

Eli's faraway look still remained as he sat there. A moment later he picked up the phone, to delete the message and then stood up. Checking his appearance in the mirror one last time, he made his way to the door and down towards the hangar.

 

[Asmodeus]

<IMG src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/ceo.jpg align="right" width="200" style="padding:10px;"><img src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/jurg.jpg align="left" width="200" style="padding:10px;">
"God fucking damn it!"

Gene Rayburn had sworn only three times in his life. Once as an Airforce Lieutenant, when a Russian Mig put him in a jet wash over Berlin and almost caused the Cold War to become markedly tepid. And again when the men in black showed at his house one morning and informed him that his promotion to Procedures Officer at NASA was contingent on him (and his all-so-mortal wife and children) keeping a very big secret from the public.

Now, the Flight Director of the Irideus Corporation had hurled a stack of papers across his office and made the third curse of his life to date. And any passing in the corridor outside would know, in that moment, that Gene was holding the possible failure of the Irideus Mission on equal terms with the prospect of aerial death and threats upon his family.

"We should have never gone public!" He placed hands on his hips, glaring through the blinds at the launch hangar, brow knitted with fury.

And behind him, Matthias was quiet. With head bowed in his wheelchair, the billionaire held the printout of the email that had arrived but twenty minutes ago. The email that had caused the Flight Director's outburst.


<table align=center><tr><td align=center><p style="font: 10pt monospace">They're threatening my parents. I can't do this, Matthias. I'm sorry.

~Trinity</p></table>

"Well that's it," Gene muttered, still glaring across the hangar as if it might combust. "No psyche unit; no xeno-biologist. Might as well send 'em all home."

"Nikolai can run the evaluations."

Though Matthias answered softly, he might as well have jammed a knife in the Flight Director's back, such was the speed at which he spun from the window. "Now I know you're joking. We can't seriously be going ahead after this!"

"We'll have Richard recallibrate for nine people. We did it with Ann."

A flick of the wrist brought a glint of Gene's airforce watch. "We're launching in three hours, Matt! You want to rerun all the figures now?"

"Richard can do it. We'll double up on synths. Gas consumption, weight and resource burn - it will be equivocal, Gene."

"Y'know, for a man who's about to meet God, you've got a shit read on signs!"

The comment brought silence between the men. Gene realised that Matthias might have taken the wrong implication from those words, just as he realised that he had spoken his fourth curse to date. He sighed and sat back on the edge of his desk, running hands through his greying hair.

Again, Matthias broke the tension softly. "When I first recruited you, Gene, you were a man living in fear for his family. The same thing has now lost us Trinity Solara. But if there's one thing we stand for on this mission, it's that no man on earth should be ruled by such fear."

More silence followed, with Gene pinching the bridge of his nose, working a dozen calculations in his head, rehearsing a dozen speeches to the flight control crew. When at last he looked up it was with a tired sigh. "Alright. It's a good thing Nikolai doesn't sleep. But the Xeno-biology, Matt? Even if we find the Spires how the hell will we translate them? We'll be stumbling blindly out there."

"Too soon, Gene."

Neither had heard the door open. Turning, they saw two women in the electric light. The first was Matthias's wife, and, in matching power suit and leaning on her arm for support, was a familiar figure in dark glasses.

Matthias spun his wheelchair. "Ann?"

The woman smiled, and scar-lines puckered behind a veil of dark glasses. With Mrs Green's help she stepped unsteadily into the room, foot and toe remembering the well-worn routes of her career in these halls. "The hospital food would've killed me if I stayed. Now..." She raised her head, as if somehow she might see her colleagues. "...assuming Richard can respin the figures, you'll need to patch me into the synth prototype. We'll have its sensors streamed to the V-coder and get me direct translation at on the Irideus..."

Gene met her halfway across the floor, hands spread in disbelief. "Woah, what? Ann, you can't be serious. You're suffered third degree retinal scarring."

"And I'm still the best cryptolinguist in this place!" She waved him aside with her other hand. "And I've worked too damn hard to let one of your monkeys fuck up the translations. You're putting me on that ship, Gene. And you're giving me your best synth and all the braille porn you can find!"

Matthias rested his cheek on one hand, hiding the smirk as Ann made it to the desk and rested against it. His wife came over too and placed her hand on his shoulders. Together the three of them formed a resolved triangle against the Flight Director. "It seems we're back to our full compliment."

"Does the phrase 'Health and Safety Protocols' even mean anything to your people anymore?!"

"Welcome to the world of private corporations, Gene."

* * * * * *

As the clock turned 6:30, Matthias sent his wheelchair gliding along the gantry that encircled the upper level of the hangar. The crew of the Irideus were assembled on a railed platform, looking out across the massive bay. In the red lighting it was like the belly of some gargantuan beast, criss-crossed with cranes and girders. All in all, about two hundred ground crew were scurrying like ants around the Lady of the Hour - the sleek and glittering vessel that would carry them to the heavens.

These were the initial checks - the routine rundowns. An hour from now the crew themselves would be supervising their individual teams in the final preparations. Richard would be overseeing engine cycles; Nikolai confirming the med lab; Eli running safety checks; Melissa and Clark preparing for taxi; Anne and her avatar synthetic setting up in one of the bunk chambers; and the three-man film crew doing sound and colour tests. In an hour's time there would be no room for awe, no room for reflection. Only the job at hand.

This was their last moment to feel the wonder of the sight before them. And even in the gleam of the Irideus, the absence of Trinity Solara was conspicuous.

"I'll cut to the chase," Matthias declared as he wheeled before the line of his crewmates. "Trinity has resigned from the mission after fears for her family's safety. But I assure you all, I've doubled corporation security for your own family members who've requested it. These are the times we now inhabit, and as always you have the choice to walk away." He turned to face them with a smile - a smile that was genuine despite all setbacks. "Once we leave orbit, though, I won't be so lenient."

With this joke he let the information sink in. Having trained with Trinity in these grueling months, many here would feel her departure as sorely as the harsher tragedy that befell the less familiar Ann Whittles. To stand with each other on God's doorstep is to be more than mere colleagues. They were becoming a family, with all the heartache it would entail.

"The good news is that Miss Whittles is back on active duty. She'll be coming aboard with a synthetic proxy - an avatar, if you will, designed by our R&D division. It will do the physical work for her, while she remains in static life support. Just treat it like another of your crewmates. Our priority now is to recalibrate for the new sitation and rework the protocols so Ann and Nikolai don't have a meltdown dealing with the psyche evaluations and xenobiology reports."

He glanced over his shoulder as gases were test-vented from the Irideus - the hissing sound filling the hangar like some divine whisper. "And I will say this... part of me's glad I can't feel my legs, because they'd be like jelly right now."

Even in the din and industry of the hangar, the crew could almost hear the clamour from beyond the walls - the buzz of a million voices filling the streets of Galveston City, the echo of loudspeakers blaring from giant viewscreens, the flutter of confetti and ticker tape, the rumble of news crews, the flutter of helicopters and the roar of military convoys. It was the sound of every eye turning upon the Irideus Launch Centre.

The sound of History holding its breath.

 

[unanun]

Time, which Richard did not have much of, poured down the drain after the acid incident. He did not allow himself to be concerned with human resources and returned his attention to the ship. Not that the ship needed much attention anyways; in engineering, everything was given a double safety margin in construction and time. But this was Irideus. Everything got a triple, or quadruple ration.

When he returned to the housing to get rest, the tension around him caused him to lose sleep as well. Irideus had kept him busy and focused, but seeing everyone around him worried about the mission also began to make him worry about it. Suddenly, he understood, a little, the magnitude of the task he had been set to enable. Sometimes, late at night he would walk into the hanger with a folding chair and sit for a while. The work lights were turned off, and the red night lights on the floor lit up the belly of the ship. It took on a surreal appearance, a monster chained inside the hanger, vanishing into the infinite ceiling.

It was like space, and a bit disturbing.

---

He slept well on the day of the launch. The crew finished their work right on time and stopped early the night before. Richard then retired to his quarters and fell onto his pillow with the air of one who has absolute confidence in his team and himself. Personally, everyone else's optimistic attitudes were beginning to wear him down. In fact, he was starting to get irritated. Engineering is not magic! Science is not mystery! Space is not romatic!

That did not stop his palms from getting sweaty after Matthias' announcement. To everyone else, the sight of Richard swiping his palms a few times over his pants would've been somewhat odd. He pursed his lips and rubbed his stubbly chin with thumb and forefinger - a blank, thoughtful expression that would be sure to be repeated over the journey. Of course, he had already been informed of this, because he had to rush to adjust the ship's payload to compensate for the difference in crew composition. He had the option, but did not take it, to berate Matthias over this, since doing so would not have done any good.

---

There wasn't much ceremony for the startup. Truth be told, the ship had been started up dozens of times already, and was already in ultra-low power standby. Richard inserted a key into the ground console and unlocked a plastic shield. He glanced at the ground crew chief, nodded a countdown, and pushed the big red button.

The lights in the hanger flicked off, the white glow from the reserve lights in the pits below flooding the underside like some giant horror from the deep sea. And while the darkness spread over their vision, a deep hum began in their guts; the low frequency calls from the metal whale as it woke up. She was drowsy, and lights slowly grew in intensity over her body as she asked herself about where she was, how awake she was, and whether she was hungry or not. Irideus did not move but still seemed to come alive. Richard could feel the electric fluid course through its conduits, the crystals and lasers aligning themselves in the warp drive, the million small motions in the ship as sensors lept to life and servos completed their turn on test procedures. At that moment, as the hanger lights came on once again and Irideus faded from metal Venus to humanity's Longinus, he felt a bit overwhelmed. Just for a moment.

 

[Phi Chisym]

Rachaella Consuelo

Seven days…

A lot can change your choices in life within seven days. Even after experiencing enough to prove your first decisions and your first impressions of a person or a situation are sound, the overwhelming duties that are thrust before you and the devastating events that numb your senses can flip the course of your excitement into a chaotic mess of indecisiveness, or just flat out depression.

Rachaella was feeling both.

Between scooping within the investigations of Ann Whittle's assault, the grueling hours of training and testing before launch, and the hours of passing daylight working with Cho and Biloxi – preparing the collective footage thus far of their week's activities; Rachaella was exhausted and drowning in information and curiosity. But it was her family, in The States and in Argentina, that drove her over the edge. Their worried, concerns, and pleas for her to change her mind poured through her cell non-stop, especially after Augusto stretched the truth about the negative information being leaked into the media. She just flat out turned her cell off and ignored her emails. They were wearing her out more than anything.

And Seven days dramatically turned into One.

Her desk and the end of her bed was still piled with flies and a few thumb drives – various bits of information she's compiled or received about various topics when dealing with crew, events, and their mission. She knew she needed to pack them up that night, but she couldn't help but sit on the floor and cover herself with more notes, more questions, and more public misunderstandings requiring clarification… Completing her notes for the documentary, she emailed them to Cho. There were a few unanswered questions, mysterious connections, and hardened situations that could reveal themselves during this mission. She wanted to make sure they were both on the lookout for these stories as well. Not only were they there to witness history in clarity, but the world should get to know the remarkable people they'll be watching make that history in a more personal manner.

The world needed heroes, a new super to imagine, a fresh face to connect to and respect.

*****

After finally packing the last of her files and equipment, still attached to her wrist PC and cam-glasses, Rachaella noticed the hour – the sun was just beginning to fight the urge to hit snooze. Now, without something to keep her busy she felt vulnerable to her uncertainties. Rachael's mind dangerously wandered into the fear for her family while she was away. Pushing that aside only revealed Mrs. Whittle's incident and Trinity's understandable resignation - how it pained her that two amazing 'crew sisters' were out of the mix. And just when she had resolved her unease about that, thoughts of Mr. Green's surprise announcement at that memorable dinner would break through.

Everyone had their reasons for taking on this mission, but his was – there were no words. Yet, she must find them…

As of right now, the circus media circulating the negativity from his tragic revelation hidden behind the Irideus' conception has nicknamed it "Pharaoh's Phobia" - a wealthy man's fear of dying alone – going to the extreme by choosing who he wanted buried with him in his tomb… That weighted heavily on her shoulders – the world needed to understand his passion for this venture, the truth of his pains and how he's determination was only to aid in their efforts to seek truth – before his time was no more. There's nothing egotistical here, or sacrificial.

Dressing in her somewhat unflattering jumper, Rachael headed to the gym – no reason why, but regardless of her fatigue and weathered emotions, she just couldn't sit still for too long.

****
6:30 am

With a skeletal crew from her corporation covering the final footage of this mission on Earth, Rachaella nodded to Cho and the new and improved Biloxi as they sat with the other crew members awaiting Mr. Green. That silent ready-check was just for their personal tasks – always 'camera crew' even when they are just 'the crew'. Rachael firmly believed that capturing a one-person angle of the world was more dramatic than witnessing in a third-person format. They were officially off task, but never off-line.

Beyond her view stood the Irideus in all her glory, and a childish, bright-eyed little girl finally emerged from her hiding place. She finally smiles…after seven days, she finally granted herself the chance to soaked in the magical moment, from the eyes of an Astrology lover, and a civilian embarking on a once-in-a-lifetime venture, rather than in the perspective of employment. That rush of adrenalin gave her the missing energy she needed to enjoy herself for once.

Announcements were made; most were of things known to her, except for the added security for their families. That removed another knot from her shoulders. And to hear that Ann would be able to participate with them after all - in a whole new form sort of speak, was new, thrilling information as well. She won't be missed after all.

In One Day, Rachael removed her doubts and concerns and was ready to jump into the stars.

 

[CosmicWeinerDog]

The doctor had always felt a bit unique when it came to the situation of his home life. Whereas the remainder of the crew had taken several precautions concerning the safety of family and friends, he had no one to protect. Born from a single mother who had died during the last years of his public schooling; the man had just never felt the need to bridge the absence of companionship with another human being. He had extended family, but no one close enough to make time for. Much less have to worry about in the case of blackmail. The people he considered friends were companions of mutual respect, with large projects and reputations of their own to worry about. Overall, the only people he honestly kept up witht were a handful he had the opportunity to get to know during his time in Syria. Most of those people had kept to the business of independent contracts in hostile countries. More than a few had long since passed.

While a matter of fact, this was not something that kept the man up at night. Quite the contrary, he had his work for that. For reason or another, the Doctor's direction was based in the deeds he performed rather than the company he kept. In his research, the doctor found peace through the function of the human body. In his craft, Nikolai formed flesh and bone in his own image. He made the lame walk once more and rose people from the dead... metaphorically speaking. When it all came down to it, human relations had their place but could not hold a flame to the sense of purpose had at the end of a scalpel. He didn't often bring it up as people tended to misunderstand his mindset with denial. Through the progress of his work, the man never felt alone.

Also while it was of little consequence, it probably saved the company hundreds of thousands of dollars in insurance costs.

During the ceremony, the doctor looked upon the ship with an absent gaze. Dark circles sat under each of his eyes and while the man hadn't complained about his lack of sleep in the recent week, he looked worn. As the initial power up of the ship's function was broadcast across the televisions of the world, Sevlanka's mind wandered. He had been informed on the change of plans when he arrived on the platform. With no psyche unit, evaluations would fall on his department. Truth be told, the doctor was less than pleased on this development. While atypical from his usual get things done demeanor, Nikolai voiced his concern to the abrupt change in taskings. He was a doctor, not a psychologist. Snags in the project of such a dramatic nature called for an extended deadline, not duct tape and good thoughts. The Doctor's complaint was brief. After all, the decision had already been made. At this point lingering on it would only seek to ruffle already questionable morale among the unit. When it came down to it, orders were orders and the task would be carried out.

The situation brought on a memory of a similar nature. Years before along the Syrian border, the doctor had dealt with the troubled mind of a physician who had buckled under stress. At the time, a nationwide order had been placed by the Syrian government against any medical personnel providing support to rebel forces. The Doctor's clinic was forced to become nomadic in order to stay in operation. A task that was not simple due to the nature of the equipment needed for surgical practice. The contracting firm's diplomatic relations with bordering countries allowed occasional movement across state lines, but such solace could not be relied upon. Anyone the clinic assisted risked the threat of exposing their unit. Looking back, it was anything but comfortable.



Through the chaos, a physician by the name of Alexander Strauss could not handle the gravity of the situation. As months passed, he became more and more emotionally unstable. Mentions of suicide were thrown about and finally the Sevlanka and the others could no longer ignore the problem. The physician was removed from service and a watch rotation was placed on the man to insure he would not harm himself. Contact was eventually made through the Turkish government and a transfer was had to get the man psychological attention. Before the transfer however, the unit had to make up for the manpower lost. Extra taskings fell onto the shoulders of the staff which did nothing but rob sleep from tired eyes. While the best intentions were kept for the safety of the physician, the unit hated the man for his weakness.

Standing before the Irideus, Nikolai felt a similar ire towards the failure of the psychologist. Duty was absolute, and to abandon one's crew was the lowest of actions. When a promise of death lingering so prominently in the balance, such a fault was all the more apparent. The Doctor could feel the muscles of his face tighten as the memory came to mind. It was not a pleasant thought to recollect upon.

 

[Quill]

[DASH=brown]
Cho Ionis was in a world no longer her own. She had slipped down the rabbit hole into a seething, sunless, stainless steel hive, the plated metal throat of some Jules-Vernesque monster. The new faces were a flurry, and she kept a calculated cool when seeing Matthias Green for the first time. Sure, she'd heard about him in bits and pieces, but making the news kept her too busy to watch it most of the time. The debilitating disease did not take her aback: rather it was the large, gleaming wheelchair that made her mind wander dark places, as if a black beast were curling its claws around his body to sink its teeth into his neck. She shut her eyes to dispel her anxiety. It was Trinity's fate that had sent these chills down her back. Her family had been both physically and emotionally pushed well past the brink while her father meddled in the affairs of the cover-up. The stress had broken a joyous marriage and the occasional shrapnel of her father's war would cut her still if she did not watch her footing.

But at least, unlike Trinity, she could be certain her family would be safe. Her parents could afford several enormous houses with scrupleless security. And they had all been there before, had all been followed countless times, received death threats, written messages, phone calls, emails, aerosol paint sprayed across the driveway. Truly, there was no need to be anxious, no need to start imagining things, to let the nightmares return. She regarded Matthias with solemn eyes during his speech. The challenge to leave fell on deaf ears. Everyone here was here for a damned good reason. The wheelchair was a cruel twist of fate indeed. It could have happened to any of them, and she doubted whether anyone here would have the courage and dedication to do what Matthias Green was doing now. Cho knew how frightening it could be when your body was your only instrument, and it was failing.

Green finished his spiel, the ants swarmed into action, and the hive roared with the tinny hollers of the loudspeaker and the booming snap of billions of dollars of machinery tensing for the leap.

Somewhere out there, the truth was waiting for them.

[/DASH]

 

[GeekOut]

The dual chambered unit held Ann and the synth side by side, wires leading from both of their bodies. Oxygen masks covered the lower half of their faces, and formfitting bodysuits protected the rest of their still forms. Ann's shallow breathing was the only indication that it was not some sort of high-tech crypt. The synth was nearly her twin, organs grown in a lab forming a genetic match. A port at the base of its skull allowed access to the brain stem, and a maze of infinitesimally small wires that crept through every crevice of the brain. Ann had undergone a procedure to integrate a similar port in her own body, and only now was she going to attempt to use it. The technology involved was beyond cutting edge, pushing closer to insanity. Truth be told, though, maybe insanity was necessary for this trip. Traveling in search of God... there were still times when she wondered if she had gone mad.

Ann tried to stay still on the bed as it lowered, immersing her body in a warm solution. This would allow her to have the greatest range of motion, as well as reducing strain on her muscles, and could be treated with various medications to speed her healing. None of that stopped her from cringing at the sensation. She took in shuddering breaths as the liquid closed over her ears and spread across the scars that marked where her eyes had once been. A muffled beeping betrayed her heart's nervous flutter to anyone nearby the machines that monitored her vitals.

"Miss Whittles." The technician's voice resonated through the com link in her chamber. "You need to try to relax. We can't establish a connection until your systems are stable."

Ann gritted her teeth. Easy for you to say, she thought. Nonetheless, she took in a slow breath. No one made me do this. I chose to come here, and dammit, I will see it through. Sight or no sight. With no small effort, she forced her muscles to un-clench. She was now floating in the solution, with space on all sides to maneuver. With one last deep breath, she spoke into her com. "Let's do this."

A tingling sensation spread from the liquid to every inch of her skin. The port in her skull pulsed with energy, and suddenly she was drifting. Her head screamed in pain as the electricity flowed through her, linking her mind with the synth. She couldn't focus enough to cry out. It felt as if she were being pulled in all directions at once. Just as she felt that she would lose consciousness, the darkness that had surrounded her since her injury lifted. Her eyes-no, the synth's eyes opened.

 

[Spammy]

Clark understood why Trinity left, but he couldn't agree. The news did shake him on the inside though. Just because the crew was lifting off and going into space didn't mean that the Earth wasn't going to stop completely to wait for their findings. People would be talking about the mission, living their lives, still going on despite the momentous events happening above them. And people that wanted to harm the mission would be lashing out at their family because they couldn't lash out at the crew. Or maybe they would lash out at the corporation. Lash out at something.

One danger replaced with another. One worry replaced with another. The odds were slim that this mission wouldn't turn into a chain of dangers and worries that would consume them all. Face with those odds, would it be better to just bow out?

"Hell no," Clark muttered aloud to himself, though his gaze was turned upwards as it always was when he was deep in thought, so others might've heard. That didn't matter though.

He couldn't stop now. Yes there was the fact that his friend was counting on him. Yes there was that he had thousands if not millions of readers and fans he'd never be able to look in the eye again if he quit. But those paled in comparison to what had first captured his dreams ever since he jokingly suggested so long ago: Going into space and finding the truth. If he left now he might as well end his life, because he wouldn't be able to live with himself knowing what he could've done but didn't.

"Let's get out of here quick then," Clark said as he raised his voice and started to walk towards Matthias. "The sooner we're up there, the sooner all these second thoughts stop mattering."

 

[Asmodeus]

"Good morning to the men and women of the Irideus Mission. On this day, as we stand ready to turn the page of history, I extend the prayers of my administration and the American people. As forty-seventh President of the United States, it has been my burden to guide our country through a time of darkness, a time in which that trust which should be sacred between a government and its people has been most violated. Yet today there is an accompanying pride, and the honour of witnessing how greatly we have risen from those ashes. In the mission of the Irideus we see the recovery of our human spirit. And I believe this is not the paragon of our efforts, but rather the first step we all must take. For just as I, for my own part, must work to repair the bridges severed by former presidents, and to make amends for the conspiracy that has shamed our world, so must others follow in your footsteps and look ever-upwards and ever-onwards. Never before has it been so vital to hold that we are not alone. All nations stand as one upon this Island Earth, in our quest to uncover the truth beyond the lines that were drawn for us. And though so much of our history has been abused, there is this that still remains. We are resolved to the freedom of all men and women, and in the resistance of tyranny, from wherever it may rise. I wish you all the safest journey... and may God watch over you all."

Old habits die hard, Matthias thought, as the broadcast was replaced by silence throughout the Irideus. President Laura Tian had broken nearly every mould when it came to politics - an easy feat as the only campaign candidate not connected with the disgraced echelons of her predecessor. But even she could not remove the mention of God from a Presidential address, no matter how her voice wavered on the blessing. And wavered it had, with all the irony Matthias felt as he heard that name spoken.

Yes, God was watching for sure... but in this there was an ambiguous comfort.

With Clark and Melissa running drills from the bridge, and with Nikolai, Richard and Yuri ruling their spheres, a good thirty minutes had been freed - time enough for the film crew to establish themselves and Ann's synth to be pre-checked. Matthias himself had used the half-hour to make his goodbye in the cargo area of the hangar, where a chair had been brought for his wife to sit on. And after so many arguments, so many accusations and recriminations, the two had decided unconsciously to spend that time in silence. Leant against one another, forehead to forehead, hands entwined, they had touched upon the very essence of what they were. For ever since she had learned of her husband's diagnosis, Andrea had forgone her life and slumped completely into Matthias. She had become his smile, his face when he could not bear the fundraisers and board meetings, his shoulder when he could not lift himself, his embrace when he despaired. All question of her own career and dreams had faded to this symbiosis, this lapse of identity. She had lived for him, and now in the grey lines of her face and the fraying of her hair she seemed no more than a fragment - a piece of himself that he was leaving behind.

"Come home to me," was all she whispered, when the hour ran out.

And he: "One penguin at a time." A joke from the Ice Cap Social, where their eyes had first met, fourteen years ago, across a crowded eco-conference.

And now the billionaire sat in a flight seat, mounted behind and above the helm where Clark and Melissa worked. And with the president's address concluded the airwaves filled with a far more functional but no less spine-tingling chorus.

"Irideus, this is Launch Control. All hatches are secure."

"This is Sevlanka, we copy. MO Control, we show normal cabin pressure, over."

"Roger, out."

"Control, this is Ardent. Inertial measurement alignment complete. We show two-eight degrees, three-six minutes, three-zero point three-two seconds north, by eight-zero degrees, three-six minutes one-four point eight-eight seconds west. Over."

"Roger, Irideus. Out."

"Control, this is Jones. Boiler control switch ON. Nitrogen supply switch ON, over."

"Control, this is Duredan. General purpose computer, backup flight system complete.

"Roger that. Ground crew is secure, out."

"Stolarz to Control. OMS pressure is normal at 16 point 7 psi. Cabin vent complete, over."

"Control, this is Duredan. Copy voice checks, and flight plan OPS-1."

"Roger that. Good for SPEC99, out."

"This is Biloxi. Abort checks complete."

"M.E.4, do you copy? What is your status?"

"Orbiting Galveston at 54,000 feet. Temperature is 45 degrees Fahrenheit. Humidity at 30 percent. Winds are out of the north, northeast at 15 mph, gusts to 25 mph. Barometric pressure stands at 30.31 inches, and the weather is partly cloudy, over."

"This is Irideus. We copy, out."

"Control, this is Jones. Event time sequencer started. Access arm is clear."

"Roger, Irideus. Auxiliaries powering up."

"This is Ardent. Prestart complete. Powering up APU's."

"Control, this is Green. Hydraulic pressure indicator shows... green."

"Heh... Um... Control to Irideus, you are on internal power, over."

"Roger that. Hydraulic check complete, surfacers in place."

"This is Jones. Main engine gimbal complete.

"O-two vents closed. Er... sorry... this is Stolarz. 0-two vents closed."

"Roger, out."

"APU to inhibit."

"Medical is a check."

"Irideus, this is Control. H-two tank pressurization OK. You are go for launch, over."

"Shit... er, I mean, APU start is go. On-board computer initialized, over.

"This is Flight Director Rayburn. Countdown is begun at 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4 ..."

"SRB igniting! We have LIFT OFF!! Irideus has cleared the hangar!"

And then the dead weight of his legs, the numb oblivion of those nerve endings, came at once upon all his body. The force of the launch pinned Matthias to his seat, pressed his lungs and choked his breath. The hand of the watching god curled around him and shook him left and right. He closed his eyes... and heard perhaps the roar beyond the engines, of crowds and ticker-tapes, of news copters and escort jets, of view screens and loudspeakers, the roar of the multitude as the mouth of Raquia Corps gaped wide to admit its messenger.

How many prayers were whispered at that moment? How many lives self-extinguished? How many terrorists tackled and TVs crowded? What psychic spike from all the nations now bore them aloft and gave their fuel more fire? Was it g-forces that squeezed him, or a billion hearts that ached, for but a moment, as one?

The spaceship rose into the morning light, thrusters scorching immemorial black across the walls and rooftops of the corporation. Then into clouds and turbulence, ever-upwards.

And those inside perhaps would feel, amidst the radio-chatter and calibrations, the eyes of nations lifting to follow them, the arms outstretched, the newsfeeds and prayers rising after them...

...like a spire... in emulation of the ones that awaited them.

 

[lynzy]

((Toggling switch up...check the screen, yes, good...again with the next switch... and so on. She had over 500 of just the basic ones done already with approximately 250 more to go. The rest were not critical and could wait till after the launch. After all, she had been in here only 18 hours ago doing the very same thing she was doing now. Whether people would believe it or not, the business of being an astronaut was 95% repetition and patterns and 5% fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants intuition.

Melissa hummed her favorite tune, one her mother taught her when she was a baby, 'Oh Little Playmate' was its name. It usually helped her focus on what she was doing, and she needed all the help she could get this morning. Her switches were the easiest part of the pre-flight for her though. It was simple to flick a switch and check the comp's read out, even a monkey could do it. Lizy frowned at that thought. WOW, I really must be nervous! To be thinking of him now.She hadn't even seen her brother in over 10 years, Melissa frowned again but kept a good pace up with the switches check.

​

Why now? She shook her head to refocus her thoughts where they belonged. It was HE who had left, not her. She still remembered the many many nights of sitting with her mom while she cried in agony over his leaving, just holding her and promising her she wouldn't ever leave her. And now look at her, about to blast off to who knows where. If it hadn't been for the fact that mother had died two years ago from cancer, she probable wouldn't be here. Circling the earth in low orbit was one thing but this...))

​

Her thoughts snapped back to the present, they were clear of the gravity, finally, she patted a loose curl out of her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. It still bothered her a lot that she had been thinking of Tom before the launch, especially since she hadn't done so in so many years.A voice to her left startled her out of her thoughts about the morning.

Looking up and slightly over her shoulder and back to the chair almost behind hers, her cheeks reddening as she did so, Melissa found herself staring up at the Chief of Operations Engineer, Richard Jones. He had a quizzical look on his face, probably because he was waiting for an answer to a question she hadn't heard. Damb it! Now I look like a real pro...Melissa mentally smacked herself on the forehead with the flat of her hand. With her usual quickness though she recovered her decorum with one of her hugely winning smiles.

"Sorry Chief, I guess I was a bit preoccupied, what's up?"

 

[unanun]

Richard threw up during liftoff. Prepared as he was, the months of training in the G-force spinners only helped a little as the noise and crushing weight suddenly assaulted him. The meticulous planning around Irideus' launch was impeccable, however, and his stomach was mercifully empty when the nausea overtook him. Without much choice he spat up bile into his suit, and kept a bleary eye on the holographic diagnostic sphere flaring in front of him, a thousand different motes of light demanding his attention. All systems remained green as the ship escaped Earth's gravity, and his weight left him. He unbuckled himself and went to clean up.

---

The magnets in his boots latched weakly onto the walkway with each step. Personally, he preferred the magnetic latches to the metaklett - unsticking from the floor was a much more valuable trait than being fastened to it. Weightlessness was a strange feeling, and having his guts freely float in his chest cavity felt weird. Without gravity, it seemed that his head was getting more blood, and he felt a bit flushed.

Or that could have been just from catching sight of a pensive Melissa. Suddenly, Richard began to rehearse what he was going to say in his mind, and ran an uneasy hand through his hair. (Later, he would contemplate, somewhat bitter, over how a lifelong dedication to his career left him in his late thirties, unable to really talk to women.)

Well, forget her good looks for a second. He needed to talk to her about something important.

Ahem.

"Meliss - hack (Good job there Richard, leftover bile in your throat?) - Melissa, just to remind you, the thrust characteristics will be drastically changed. The one-time boosters are gone, and there is only a small amount of fuel to get us ready for the slingshots. After that, we will be switching to the ion thrusters before finally engaging the crystal warp."

Fuel was the chief problem for the space flight. Chemical fuel gives the greatest impulse (force over time), but weighs the most. There would only be enough for a few more liftoffs from Earth-like gravity before Irideus became permanently stranded. It would take a very, very long time before the ion engine and slingshots would give them enough speed for the warp to kick in - once that happened though, relativity would let them reach their destination in a tiny amount of subjective time.

"Sorry Chief, I guess I was a bit preoccupied, what's up?"

"..."

Richard tried to give a smile but probably looked angry and annoyed instead.

"Ah .. you probably know this already, but just to remind you, the thrust parameters have changed .. "

 

[lynzy]

Melissa's Smile waned a bit at the grumpy look on the Chief's face but she managed a quick nod then looked at the display in front of her and found the readouts to be within parameters for the lift off and their present course at the time. She flicked a couple of switches and checked the readouts again.

"Yep, right on course, Chief...are you alright? You look a bit pale. Maybe you should report to medical."

Lissa felt like she had been through a ringer herself, which was normal. Having no gravity, well some people took time getting use to that. It was one of her favorite things about space though, she loved to float around, it made her feel...free. With that thought in mind, she unstrapped her harness and slowly drifted out of her seat and towards the doorway to the main corridor that basically led to the Cradle, not bothering to engage her boots to the floor. She looked like a mermaid swimming in the sea, quite at home with it all.

"I'm going for a snack, I missed breakfast. Anyone need anything?" Melissa looked around at everyone as she prepared to duck through into the gangway.

 

[CosmicWeinerDog]

For the last 20 years, Nikolai's life had been an exercise in repetition.

Paperwork, research logs, conferences, development, continuing education, certifications, re-certifications, the never ending attempt to keep in shape despite an aging body and the countless applications of surgery in the face of slanted odds. The Russian had spent so much time absorbed in the pursuit of progress that he had long since forgotten where the road was supposed to lead. 18 hour days stacked lengthwise upon each other and blended together in a sort of haze. Where one ended and the other began sort of fell on the perception of the observer. He couldn't count the nights of sleep lost in the study of his profession. The concept never crossed his mind. After all, time was relative. The hour, the day, the year. All of these were creations from the minds of men. How do you measure a day when you never rise with the sun nor slumber in the face of the moon? In minutes? In productive output? In cups of coffee?

The habit was developed early in the Doctor's life in the ruined Streets of the Syrian border. The young Sevlanka learned that time was maddening if it was dwelled upon. A watch moves with the grace of a slug when it's observed. It's only when that clock is ignored that time begins to turn. With enough distractions, even the cycles of the sun can be disregarded. Suddenly insurmountable tasks became all the more capable. Biological necessity of sleep became a sort of compounded equation with an ever changing value. A few minutes waiting for supplies to arrive, an hour in transit to another location, a half hour as equipment was cleaned in prep for the next patient. For years on end, this was how the Doctor measured the progression of his life. Short periods of downtime, moments where the logistics of reality had to catch up to his pace. Even then, the Doctor always kept his next move on the corner of his mind. A mental list which evolved and expanded as the years dragged on. While he had long since left the borders of the war torn country, his mind never abandoned its sense of hyper vigilance. An odd habit, but a habit all the same.

The on board checks and rechecks of the ship's medical bay plagued his mind right up to the moment of launch. There were too many liquid factors at stake and not enough time to appropriately deal with them all. The needs of the crew's psyche evaluations, Matthias' condition, Ann's recovery as well as the neurological link to her synth prototype, all of these individually could warrant the focus of an entire department. There was no time to dwell on whether the tasks assigned were impossible, nor was it in the man's nature. On the ground the crew had access to a near infinite resource base but in space? Everyone knew however as soon as that countdown ended, their oasis would dry up.

"This is Flight Director Rayburn. Countdown is begun at 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4 ..."

As the countdown sounded in the Doctor's ears, his mind trailed over his steps the last few days. Had anything been forgotten? Had anything been overlooked or neglected? Would the stores of the equipment they did have hold for the duration? Sevlanka went over the progression up to this point again and again like the performer of a Broadway. It wasn't until the curtains lifted on its opening performance that the man found epiphany.

"SRB igniting! We have LIFT OFF!! Irideus has cleared the hangar!"

Millions of Neutons lifting the ship's hull echoed against the earth. A wave of Gs pulsed into the bones and marrow of the crew. Countless words were cast through the headsets of each Astronaut but lost in the excitement of the moment. It was here that revelation was had, a realization not considered in longer than the Doctor could remember. Sitting in the passenger chair of the bridge as the pressure of motion pounded against his body, Sevlanka could do nothing but sit. The time for prep had run its course and for the first time in two decades, the man found himself completely out of control.

The feeling was euphoric, added upon only as weightlessness drifted through the chamber. A breath filled Sevlanka's lungs as if it had been his first taken. In a poetic sort of way, it was like birth all over again. A man will leave the womb of his mother to find his place among the earth. They, on the other hand, had left the womb of the earth to find their place among the stars. The repeat of a cycle that no one before had ever gotten to experience. As the Doctor exhaled into a long sigh he milked the enlightened moment as long as he could.

"Yep, right on course, Chief...are you alright? You look a bit pale. Maybe you should report to medical."

And just like that, it was over. The cycle repeated itself yet again, this time in unfamiliar territory. Nikolai glanced over the readings of the crew's vitals and surveyed the results. The average blood pressure level of the entire crew had spiked a bit but considering they had just pierced the atmosphere, it wasn't surprising. A few values caught the Doctor's eye and brought on a sense of concern, but they'd need to be consulted at a later point. As it was, there was more to be done in the time being.

"I'm going for a snack, I missed breakfast. Anyone need anything?"

"I can not speak for the rest of the crew, but I think I could go for a Drink after that debacle." Nikolai replied in a half whisper running a hand through his stubble. "I do not imagine that would have been included in the store holds though... How is everyone feeling so far? Anyone loose anything more important than the contents of their stomach on the trip up?"

While the question wasn't designated to a specific target, the Doctor found his line of sight weighing towards the direction of Ann and Matthias.

 

[Quill]

[DASH=brown]
Cho was violently thrust back in her seat as the broiling engines sent tremor after tremor of thunderous energy through the rippling steel. Sound, light, speed – it all converged in a great spectacle of the senses, a feast of chaos burgeoning ever upwards.

Yet in all this gnashing, explosive apotheosis of metal there was an irresistible elegance. Something so swift and effortlessly graceful as the massive billion-dollar craft ascended. Her eyes were trained on the cameras – she could still not quite believe that she was in the colossal machine glimpsed among swirls of pastel smoke – that somewhere in that pixelated image she was there, gazing infinitely at herself – and with quiet awe she appraised the coruscating column of blinding white that the craft left, a trail of brilliance so great it seemed, momentarily, to blot out the sun and leave the world in stark Rembrandtesque relief, as the fumes of the burning liftoff flanked them like great billowing wings of the fallen angel unfurling.

They tore, impossibly, through the atmosphere, and abruptly the light from the portholes became a thundering black. Intense fear gripped her without warning, irrational and so cold it scalded her when she tried again to breathe. Emptiness, total and unending, too close to dare touch. A vastness so profound it seemed to have a silent, oppressive pressure of its own, as if the world outside was forged of the hardest, most constricting steel. For some time she sat void of any real thought, then quietly and whispering her regular thought returned and the uncontrollable fear began to thaw. She was ashamed, then, to find herself so breathless, her back so arched and her eyes so fixated at the screen image of a quickly dwindling earth, her fingers clawed and gripping the seat. Eyes trained on her hands she forced herself to slowly and systematically release. It was hard, but once she did the reassurance of human hubris returned to her, and she was shocked by the rush of pleasure it imbued her with.

The belt buckle was straining against her suit and a few tiny droplets of sweat drifted past her eyes. Her feet were somehow lifting up in the air. For a moment she was possessed by the most dizzying confusion. Totally disoriented, her mind whirled with the foreign laws of motion. She felt as if a part of her heart had been left behind with gravity. There was something so lacking – familiarity, experience, love, security. How ironic that in this moment it was mankind's greatest enemy that she missed most.

Cautiously she unclipped the belt buckle, making sure to hold on to it with one hand.

She was impossibly free. There was nothing supporting her, and no burden to tax her. Every link had been completely severed. It was like losing a limb, being torn from the roots, forgetting every word of a living language. Had Ann felt like this, then? she found herself wondering. Matthias as he was slowly devoured? Leia when Alderaan sundered the balance in one terrible instant of annihilation? The memories of her own past arose again – glimpses of forgotten loneliness, profound loss, and in this hurtling towards a discovery, towards the ultimate mystery, some kind of renewal, in the most puzzling and unexpected sense. Life was a rising and falling – space an infinite circle.

She thought she would be prepared for this journey. She thought a few audacious seconds suspended in the belly of the great white tube at NASA that had acted as a primitive and achingly brief simulator of zero gravity would steel her for all that was to come.

She could not have been more wrong, she thought somewhat remorsefully as she watched the glowing blue orb on the screen: her home planet, gone. She closed her eyes and met total darkness and let go of the belt at last so that she was blindly suspended in emptiness. Might as well get acquainted with my new best friend.

[/DASH]

 

[Asmodeus]

​

Matthias Green had devoted a lifetime to opening up his eyes. Yet right now he was compulsively, relentlessly, closing them. With each mile they travelled beyond the exosphere he lowered his lids, and in his paranoia mistook the after-image of consoles and light-fittings for more harrowing things. The five-year Irideus Project had been one-third an opus of propulsion, one third a feat of hydroponics, and one third an engineering miracle through the development of the Galahad Shield. And now, at the dawn of their voyage, they would live or die upon the whim of that shielding.

He still remembered the nightmare of the early months, trying to forge unilateral cooperation between the disgraced space agencies so he could gain access to the global stockpile of meteor deposits. In every nation whole rafts of aeronautic personnel were losing their jobs, technicians were going into hiding for fear of reprisals, and facilities were being seized left and right by NGOs. Those in senior management not already on trial for their part in the conspiracy had better things to do than squabble over rocks with some crippled American CEO. Days and nights blurred together, with months of international flights, embassy stopovers, state functions and road-trips. Yet at the end, Matthias and his wife had brokered the deals necessary to get a hundred-thousand tonnes of space rock shipped on its way to Raquia Industries.

When he had first met his wife at the Ice Cap Social, they had talked about scarcity. Andrea was a believer in the idea that technology will overcome resource depletion, if enough time is granted. People only need suffer a little while, before the instruments of grace are manifested. It was her insistence on this that kept them going in those months, and it was a notion proven by the end-result. Only at that moment, in 2044, could they possibly have developed the Galahad Polymer - at the moment when Earth had been hit by enough meteors to yield sufficient quantities of debris for analysis. At any other time in history it would not have been enough. The planet had had to serve its time in the galactic shooting range. Mankind had had to wait.

Now the same polymer developed from those exo-elements was galvanizing the hull of the Irideus. Today it would be tested. They were nearing the Van Allen Belt - the killing halo of their world, where satellites had scrambled, where animals and astronauts had perished. Where no one had ever encroached alive.

<img src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/irideus.jpg width=95% style=padding:10px align=center>

Like a skateboarder slow-spinning in a halfpipe, Matthias wheeled his chair through the central compartment knows as The Cradle. Powered by a reserve battery for the time-being, the living quarters of the Irideus were eerily silent, with their contents sticking surreally to the inner hull. The billionaire had checked on each of his crewmates and gathered reports for the pre-orbital phase. But now, with the ion cycles engaged, he had nothing left to do but focus on the impending possibility of their annihilation in the Van Allen Belt.

He almost lost the contents of his stomach as he crossed the threshold of the Cradle and entered the weightlessness of the bridge. His wheelchair engaged its Metaklett and he had to use his arms to push himself towards the floor (which, sickeningly, was above him when he entered). And despite all his training his mind still reeled - refusing to believe that the world had turned upside down. When the Metaklett wheels engaged he had to sit there for a moment, hanging his head, hyperventilating. The zero-gravity pulled at his lifeless legs, trying to make them float from their braces; yet this was at contrast with the sense of relief in his abdomen and back. With such little muscle mass in his legs he had learned to support himself with his core, and to feel that core relieved was like being born again. By this he was caught between pleasure and pain, terror and comfort, as he arrived on the bridge.

He needed a moment.

<img src=http://i94.photobucket.com/albums/l81/Asmodeus1845/Stories/ceo.jpg width=45% style=padding:10px align=right>Finally, Matthias lifted his head, and wheeled himself to the command deck overlooking the helm. Melissa and Clark were there, running mantras of navigation and correction. Each pilot was surrounded by a thousand touchscreens and displays, as if they were pharaohs inside coffins crawling with deathwatch beetles. It was an odd mental image, Matthias knew, but one he could not shake. And the viewscreen up ahead showed only darkness overlaid with astrometric diagrams.

More veils behind which imagination painted horrors. Matthias wondered if there was truly space (as we know it) beyond the Van Allen Belt, or if it was mere illusion. Were they like the Earth of Paradise Lost, suspended on a chain inside a black bubble, beyond which lay heavenly white? Would they would punch through into another realm - a sky of celestial clouds, or the red inferno of some Biblical hell? Perhaps they would collide with walls divine, or flicker entirely from existence. Maybe drop off the edge and into an ocean?

The though made him smile, despite his thumping heart.

"Are we okay?" It was the first human thing Matthias had said since the launch - the first question that was neither quantitative nor technical. And if Melissa detected the quiver in his voice she gave no sign of it. She glanced at him with a nod, while Clark gave a thumbs up. They were ready.

Locking his chair into the command alcove, Matthias pressed the comms and sent his voice to every vein of the ship.

"Two minutes to the Van Allen Threshold, everyone. This is it." He kept his finger, absently, on the intercom button as he gathered his thoughts. His crewmates would hear every moment of his anxiety. "Remember, if your vision becomes impaired... if your systems fail... if you feel any kind of adverse reaction... report it immediately..."

And accept that you are already dead.

The two minutes dwindled in the space of heartbeats. Melissa switched to manual. A klaxon sounded the threshold alert. This was it.

He had no concept of how it would feel to be killed by radiation. Was it the feel of your insides boiling? A headache? A sudden nausea? Or would he feel nothing at all? Matthias screwed his eyes shut and waited for the lights - those will-o-wisps of death that would flash as cosmic particles pierced his skull.

They were now amongst the borders of the quarantine, directly in the wrath of God.

"Please..." he whispered with his head low. "Please..."

And behind his eyelids came only darkness, from the womb of a godless night.