- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Writing Levels
- Douche
- Preferred Character Gender
- No Preferences
ONE HOUR LATER...
The architects who built the Ezekiel borrowed heavily, like all great thinkers, from the lessons of nature. Combining principles from the dorsal rib structure of fish with the honeycomb layout of insect hives, they had achieved in the Ezekiel a vehicle optimised for Surface travel. Indeed, the very constraints of building a supertank inside a fallout shelter had become the project's greatest advantage, for each part of the Ezekiel was constructed separately. Following a master template, work teams had taken responsibility for their designated chamber, be it a hab-room, hangar piece, power cell or weapon assembly. And at the end the pieces had been put together to achieve what the public jokingly referred to as a 'jigsaw tank'. The lego-cell structure was not only practical but essential, for it allowed the outermost chambers to be 'swapped out' before taking too much punishment from the acid rain and radioactive sands. The damaged cells were taken into the heart of the ship to be repaired in the treatment plant whilst spare cells were put in their place and sealed to form the external hull. In this way, the Ezekiel acted like a snake, shedding and repairing its outer layers in the ongoing battle against corrosion.
A lot of these ideas had come from men like Gregor - Surface expeditionaries who had studied the species that survived the Rain. Their endeavour was testament to the Falkonian belief that humans had now learned from their mistakes and attuned themselves to the wisdom of nature.
Nevertheless, nature is a complex system, and Wakefield was reminded of this as he navigated the maze of service conduits and ladderwells to the lower decks. While the dorsal corridors made it easy to traverse the length of the Ezekiel, going up and down it was a different matter entirely. The hexagonal chambers were more tightly clustered the lower you went, as they had to be to endure the vibrations from the engine and super-tracks. At times corridors would dead-end or make sudden twists in bizarre directions. And with only a skeleton maintenance crew some of the routes had become a nightmare of coolant steam, water leaks and packing crates. The original maps drawn by the designers were already out of date, since corners had been cut and work teams had made their own on-site adjustments. Every leg of the journey had its own personality - a corridor used for storing dried fruits, a chamber flooded with saline solution, a room overrun with spiderwebs, a corridor painted bright pink by some cocky engineer. Perhaps when they reached Estragon and began loading up the refugees they would have to look at cleaning up this place. But for now, it was just dead space.
Dropping from a ladder with a resounding thud, Wakefield shone his torch along Corridor H8-9c, a dark stretch that was unusually circular in construction. He had no idea why it had been built this way and frankly didn't care. In the darkness he threw a switch, the snap prelude to a slow flickering of white light as three of the seventeen panel lights came on. He picked his way to the door at the end where a chamber, small and likewise mysteriously spherical, awaited him.
The chamber was bare except for a single device in the centre - a column mounted by an eliptical screen. Wiping dust from the keyboard, he entered his password and gave the machine an encouraging slap. A holoprojector stuttered into life, the panel lights flickering as power was drained. After a few moments a face constructed itself from blues and reds, a somewhat plastic smile taking shape beneath gleaming eyes. Then a voice, crackling as it was compiled from seven different tones, spoke out.
"Hello, Jonathan."
Wakefield adjusted the signal, showing no reaction to the friendly greeting or the smiling face hovering before him. "Counsellor Wakefield's end of week report." He slipped the data disc - the disc Metris had almost stolen - into the device and the hologram flickered as it was uploaded.
The Vladimir Interface Console, or VIC, was the only link the Ezekiel had with the shelter. The holographic face was a composite of the seven members of the Comnmand Council, the result being a somewhat hawk-like visage with receding hairline and smooth skin but for wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. The whole hologram seemed to crease as it smiled. "And how are the heroes of Vladimir today?"
Wakefield sighed, running hands through his hair as he circled the hologram. "You'll see from my reports, we have several alerts on the profiles, including officers. I..." He hesitated, which was unlike him, "I don't know, Vic. They don't seem to be adjusting at all - the soldiers especially. We've had twenty-nine protocol violations in seven days. Draughlaw plays pranks on his own people, Faerich shuns human company, Sandor and Gregor complain every chance they get, Gabriel is prone to outbursts and even the reporter is showing signs of ADHD." He looked up at the hologram. "I'll be honest - I thought the closed environment of the Ezekiel would keep them stable. But I was wrong. I think the mission is in jeopardy."
"These are early days, Jonathan." Vic's voice was like his own, soft and low, dispelling tension. "Command is confident that the crew will adjust to life on the Ezekiel in good time. You must appreciate, Jonathan, that for the longest time Falkonism has taught our children to rely on their individual strength, both in body and mind. Until now, we have had no common goal but survival, and therefore on this mission the principle of teamwork is one that must be learned."
Wakefield had nodded through the speech, but it was impossible to tell if he had been listening. "Can I ask something, Vic?"
"Of course, Jonathan. We are here to help."
"Why were the last weeks of training rushed? It's been two years since any contact from Estragon - why the sudden urgency?"
Vic's smile held. "Following the two year mark since contact was lost, the Council received an unprecedented number of calls from the public. Many citizens have friends and family in the Estragon Bunker, from before the Rain. High Councillor Rawlins himself has a son in the Estragon government. It was our unanimous decision that the Ezekiel needed to be launched immediately to allay the concerns of the people. We apologise for any inconvenience to your crew, but we have faith that you will rise to the challenge."
Wakefield's head was lowered, brow furrowed as he considered his options. He was close to giving up and recommending the Ezekiel's return to base. As mission leader he had authority to cancel the expedition. Sure, it would mean answering to an entire population of pissed off civilians and council members, but that was better than watching his 200 crew members tear each other apart out here.
Vic flickered again as he read the data disc. "We see from your report that you have a stowaway."
"Yes, Wakefield answered, gaze still on the ground. "We're looking into it now. Possibly a teenage runaway, too curious for her own good."
"We shall conduct our own review of security at the construction site. For now, we would advise compassion and leniency in the handling of this affair. The mission has a good reputation with the people of Vladimir and we would like it to remain that way."
Again, Wakefield nodded, but only barely before he was lost in his thoughts again. It was a long time before Vic continued. "And what about you, Jonathan?"
Wakefield looked up. "Sir?"
"How many times did you tidy your room today?"
Wakefield's frown held. "I'm sorry, but I fail to see the relevance..."
"Our point, Jonathan, is that morale begins from the top. If you yourself are settled then this will filter down to your subordinates. Likewise, if you have faith in your crew then they will, in time, reward that faith. Your plan to send Gregor to Pertuka Station with the 'problem-soldiers' is an excellent first step. By trusting them to work as a team you are sending a clear message: that the men and women of Ezekiel are a family united in faith. It is in your hands, Jonathan, to carry this mission forward. And that is why we chose you."
"And I am grateful," Wakefield answered immediately. "But I request that my concerns are noted."
"Of course. Now you must conserve your energy. We shall speak again in seven days, and we are sure that your next report will tell of great improvements. In Darkness Reach the Broken Hand."
"In Darkness Reach..." Jonathan echoed, reciting the traditional Falkonian prayer. The hologram clicked off and the interface went silent. Wakefield logged out and his fingers lingered on the keyboard, brushing away every last speck of dust as he stared into the distance.
END OF EPISODE ONE
Wakefield waited in the corridor for the announcement to finish, then drew out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his finger, and pressed the access button for the Medi Bay. The door parted from a diagnonal slit and as always he felt a warm buzz as the sterile scent of chemical cleansers embraced him. From the youngest age Wakefield had loved the smell of medical facilites, not least because his mother had been a nurse at the Seattle Children's Hospital. Back then, when the nations were being dragged into war, the young Wakefield had thought up excuses to go see his mother at work - feigning allergies or headaches just so she would have to check on him. Of course, she knew that he was only there because he needed to escape - escape from home where his father kept the TV on 24-7 to follow the news reports from the Middle East. His mother's hospital, with its clean and quiet rooms, seemed the only place in the world that wasn't going to hell.