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ratcatchers2007-03-25 09:37 pm
dracodraconis.livejournal.com) wrote in ratcatchers2007-03-25 09:37 pm
Entry tags:
Through the Looking Glass: Chapter 2
Chapter 2: Wherein my brilliance and foresight, once again, saves the day against impossible odds.
"Surgery is always a bitch," grumped Matthieu in his head, reeling slightly from the painkiller still circulating through his system. The operation was minimally invasive, mostly performed by subdermal microbots controlled by a team of medical technicians. He imagined that he could feel the Angel tech growing into he implants, setting up new pathways. As ordered, he periodically interrogated the system to encourage pathway growth. The last time he had to do this was when his flight system was installed, many years ago.
"So, how's little miss sunshine today," came the sparkling response from the white-bearded doctor. Once again, he restrained the urge to wrap his IV tubing around the doctor's thick neck.
"Gork!" he coughed. He throat was still raw from the second, parallel surgical operation.
"Ah, your sparkling wit is a bright spot in my day," chimed the doctor as he tilted Matthieu's scowling face back to examine his throat. "Good! Now, lean back; I want to see if the stimulator has shifted." Matthieu lay back with his head between the paddles to either side of his pillow. "Ok, that looks stable," the doctor informed the medical technician behind him. The technician scratched something on computer pad in response, then asked a question in language that might have been Russian. The Doctor responded in the same language, consulted the pad, then spoke again. The technician nodded and left the room. The Doctor then sat facing Matthieu and handed him a tiny remote.
"We're going to play some recordings, and I want you to adjust these levels until the sounds no longer cause you discomfort." The technician returned with a set of headphones. "There may be some slight nausea at first," he informed Matthieu as he put on the headphones. Matthieu had only a second to register what was happening before the rumbling bi-tonal voice of an Angel was heard. Matthieu immediately vomited over the side of the bed.
"This could take some time," the doctor intoned loudly with a faint smile. "Let's try that one again."
-------------------------------
"I hate fucking doctors."
"I didn't know that was part of the treatment regime," responded young woman in blue jeans and a "Yale" shirt walking beside him.
"Everyone's a comedian, even you eggheads," he snarled in response.
The last three days had been a nightmare of vomiting, fear response, and at least one attempt in the Doctor's life (damn that muscle-bound male nurse) until the stimulator was finally tuned to cancel the effects of Angel subharmonics. The stimulator didn't so much neutralize the Angel's Voice as damp his fear response when the subharmonics were detected by a sensor in his ear. A crude solution, but the only way they could be sure that he wouldn't be reduced to a fetal ball when an Angel Spoke. The surgery on his throat was required to install a simple subharmonic generator that, they hoped might fool an Angel. Maybe. He was sorely tempted to use it on this chick who was talking his ear off about dimensional mechanics and some-such nonsense, but he had promised the Prince that he would not use the system except around Angels. Wren had confirmed that the system worked, but her behaviour said that she wasn't completely impressed with the results. He had to take her word for it; his auditory implant merely shifted the subharmonics into his hearing range.
They entered the hanger, she chattering on about observing dimensional rifts first hand and proving somebody's theory of something, him carrying his jack-helmet under his arm. He really hated eggheads.
"So, are you ready for this?" asked the Prince from among the team assembled in the hanger bay. He glanced over the group assembled there; Cory standing just behind Kevin who looked even more like death warmed over than usual; Sergent Costas looking at him like he was a bug to be crushed beneath his boot; and the crew of the "Bottle of Rum", there to bid farewell to their former (and hopefully future) ship's pilot.
"I was born ready," he replied, sticking a cigar into his mouth. The egghead pulled it out immediately.
"No smoking in the hanger!" She pointed to a sign marked 'Flammable' 5 metres away at the refueling station.
"I wasn't going to light it," he snapped, snatching the now-broken cigar from her, in toning "bitch" under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. He turned to the Prince with a salute, the effect being slightly damped by the broken cigar that bounced between his eyes.
"Matthieu Evrard, reporting and ready for duty," he snapped off the salute, succeeded in hitting the Sergent in the chest with the broken end of the cigar, and stood at parade rest looking innocent. The remainder of the cigar dropped to the floor behind him. The sound of boots heralded the arrival of Wren in full flight gear. She stopped beside Matthieu and mimicked his stance. The effect was broken when each of the crew members of the Bottle of Rum came forward to tearfully hug her goodbye. The Prince came forward last to hug her, then turned to shake Matthieu's hand.
"Our hopes go with both of you. Bring Sarah back safe. And yourselves."
Matthieu winked at her with a smile, snapped off another salute, and followed Wren to the ladder leading to their ship, mounted on the back of a modified mid-air refueling plane. They strapped in, one behind the other, and performed a preflight check as aircraft technicians scurried about. The hanger doors opened to reveal a colourful sunset and the plane jerked into motion, accompanied by the whine of its engines. Now engrossed in their diagnostics, they missed the waves of the assembled team.
"Think we'll ever see them again?" grumbled the Sergent once only he and the Prince remained, watching the departing plane lift from the airstrip.
"There's always a chance," she turned to him, "which is more than we had until now."
------------------------------------------
"Stage 2 release in 5...4...3...2...1... Stage 2 clear. Good luck and God's speed," crackled the voice over the headset. Matthieu turned to watch the plane peel away below and to their left. Ahead, the storm clouds formed a wall that rapidly engulfed them. The ship shook and jumped in the screaming winds of the Storm.
"Barometric pressure all over the map back here," announced Matthieu as he watched all of his gauges swing wildly. He switched off the alarms that threatened to drive him batty. He was briefly relieved that he didn't have to attempt to pilot the craft through this storm, then wondered how she managed to keep them on course, if, indeed, they were. Neither the sky nor the instruments gave him any clue as to their heading, even their altitude.
"You know," he spoke against the oppressive silence, "This is going be difficult if we can't find some way communicate that doesn't require you typing things out." He returned to looking at his useless instruments, then to the equally futile task of gaging their position from the wall of dark cloud that surrounded them. He roamed the radio channels, picking up static on all of them. Except one. He returned to it and sensed the familiar pinging of a communications channel interrogation. He echoed the ping to indicate that he was ready to use the channel.
"Is this better?" came the reply.
Matthieu smiled and replied on the channel, "So you did hear me before." He wasn't sure but thought he sensed a smile from the woman in front of him. Cagey bitch. He knew there was a reason he liked her. His thoughts were interrupted but a sudden jolt as they cleared the cloud mass. Before them stood the volcano and, hovering it, the Gate that was their target, like a black plate centred over the volcano's crater.
"Let's hope those eggheads got the dimensions right." He check is instruments that were now back to normal, mostly, then re-engaged the alarms. "I have a positive on the Event Horizon. 1.23 clicks and closing. Telemetry says the Gate diameter is approximately 400 metres. Gonna be a tight squeeze threading that needle."
"No sweat," came the calm response. He could almost imagine that she was enjoying this challenge.
"Horizon intercept in 30 seconds." Matthieu grinned. This was what he lived for. The only thing better would have to have been flying the ship himself.
"Brace for impact, " Wren stated. They experienced a tugging sensation, as if they had passed through a membrane. The ship lurched as if carried on a wave. The darkness faded into mist, then cleared to form a silvery tunnel, lit from everywhere and nowhere. The ship regained thrust as if lifting from the wave, and they felt as if they were flying straight up. The feeling quickly faded until there was no sense of down. Matthieu fought down a sense of vertigo as his body madly attempted to reassert some orientation. It faded as he finally convinced himself that below them was down, despite the lack of gravity.
"Space, the final frontier," Matthieu intoned, "these are the voyages...."
"You don't get out much do you."
"Don't tell me you've never dreamed of becoming an astronaut?"
"No."
Silence.
"So, what do you think of this place?" asked Matthieu.
"I've been here before, remember?"
"And?"
"It's a dimensional gateway. No more, no less."
"You have no poetry in your heart. Allow a poor, sheltered farm boy to vicariously live his dream of interplanetary travel."
"Do you ever stop talking? Just listen for a change." She sounded annoyed.
"To what?"
"To this. To all of this."
Matthieu stopped and looked around.
"I don't hear anything," he replied in confusion. "I hear nothing."
"Precisely."
They sat in silence for several minutes. At first he was uncomfortable, but gradually he began to relax. He had always had something to distract himself, radio, talking, anything to keep himself occupied. Now, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he stopped. It began to make him edgy, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. A ping appeared on his long-range radar.
"Any idea what that is?" he asked.
"No id... shit!"
He felt as if gravity had returned to him when the ship banked sharply. The forward lights briefly illuminated what appeared to be a massive tree trunk, larger around that the ship. But this one was moving. And bending. proximity alarms screamed in their ears.
"What the hell is that?" he demanded as he ship looped around, giving him a cleared view of the massive creature entrenched in one wall of the tunnel. Tentacles weaved everywhere, seeking the ship.
"I don't know."
"What d'you mean you don't know? You've been here before!"
The plane lurched to avoid another massive tentacle.
"It wasn't here before."
The plane weaved and dodged, but it was clear that, eventually, the creature would have them. At least one mystery was solved.
"Gordian knot!" Matthieu exclaimed.
"What?"
"When I say go, hand over the controls. We're going to tie this thing into a knot."
After what felt to him like an eternity, she finally relented. He gave her a few more passes to find a likely way by the creature, then, on his mark, took over the controls. The ship lurched into the complex maneuver he had been practicing. The opening appeared and the ship shot forward. His combat senses kicked in at the last moment to avoid the tentacle that appeared in his path. The escape trajectory took them toward the tunnel wall, then around to face down the throat of the creature. Suddenly, twin rockets shot from the ship, heading into the creature's mouth. With no time to think, Matthieu gunned the motors and shot through a new opening past the creature. A wave appeared to lift the ship as the rockets detonated, although no sound was heard. He glanced in the rear-view monitor to see a growing smoke cloud enveloping tentacles that seemed to now waving gently as if in a breeze.
"Good shootin', Tex," he drawled, to which he received laughter over the communications channel.
---------------------------------------
In the silence between worlds.
"Wren? I recorded someone humming during the fight with that creature."
"I have no vocal cords, Matthieu."
Silence
"You didn't answer the question."
A pause.
"My vocoder was humming an Angel subharmonic."
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Wren?"
"Yes, Matthieu?"
"Don't do that again."
"You're welcome, Matthieu."
"Surgery is always a bitch," grumped Matthieu in his head, reeling slightly from the painkiller still circulating through his system. The operation was minimally invasive, mostly performed by subdermal microbots controlled by a team of medical technicians. He imagined that he could feel the Angel tech growing into he implants, setting up new pathways. As ordered, he periodically interrogated the system to encourage pathway growth. The last time he had to do this was when his flight system was installed, many years ago.
"So, how's little miss sunshine today," came the sparkling response from the white-bearded doctor. Once again, he restrained the urge to wrap his IV tubing around the doctor's thick neck.
"Gork!" he coughed. He throat was still raw from the second, parallel surgical operation.
"Ah, your sparkling wit is a bright spot in my day," chimed the doctor as he tilted Matthieu's scowling face back to examine his throat. "Good! Now, lean back; I want to see if the stimulator has shifted." Matthieu lay back with his head between the paddles to either side of his pillow. "Ok, that looks stable," the doctor informed the medical technician behind him. The technician scratched something on computer pad in response, then asked a question in language that might have been Russian. The Doctor responded in the same language, consulted the pad, then spoke again. The technician nodded and left the room. The Doctor then sat facing Matthieu and handed him a tiny remote.
"We're going to play some recordings, and I want you to adjust these levels until the sounds no longer cause you discomfort." The technician returned with a set of headphones. "There may be some slight nausea at first," he informed Matthieu as he put on the headphones. Matthieu had only a second to register what was happening before the rumbling bi-tonal voice of an Angel was heard. Matthieu immediately vomited over the side of the bed.
"This could take some time," the doctor intoned loudly with a faint smile. "Let's try that one again."
-------------------------------
"I hate fucking doctors."
"I didn't know that was part of the treatment regime," responded young woman in blue jeans and a "Yale" shirt walking beside him.
"Everyone's a comedian, even you eggheads," he snarled in response.
The last three days had been a nightmare of vomiting, fear response, and at least one attempt in the Doctor's life (damn that muscle-bound male nurse) until the stimulator was finally tuned to cancel the effects of Angel subharmonics. The stimulator didn't so much neutralize the Angel's Voice as damp his fear response when the subharmonics were detected by a sensor in his ear. A crude solution, but the only way they could be sure that he wouldn't be reduced to a fetal ball when an Angel Spoke. The surgery on his throat was required to install a simple subharmonic generator that, they hoped might fool an Angel. Maybe. He was sorely tempted to use it on this chick who was talking his ear off about dimensional mechanics and some-such nonsense, but he had promised the Prince that he would not use the system except around Angels. Wren had confirmed that the system worked, but her behaviour said that she wasn't completely impressed with the results. He had to take her word for it; his auditory implant merely shifted the subharmonics into his hearing range.
They entered the hanger, she chattering on about observing dimensional rifts first hand and proving somebody's theory of something, him carrying his jack-helmet under his arm. He really hated eggheads.
"So, are you ready for this?" asked the Prince from among the team assembled in the hanger bay. He glanced over the group assembled there; Cory standing just behind Kevin who looked even more like death warmed over than usual; Sergent Costas looking at him like he was a bug to be crushed beneath his boot; and the crew of the "Bottle of Rum", there to bid farewell to their former (and hopefully future) ship's pilot.
"I was born ready," he replied, sticking a cigar into his mouth. The egghead pulled it out immediately.
"No smoking in the hanger!" She pointed to a sign marked 'Flammable' 5 metres away at the refueling station.
"I wasn't going to light it," he snapped, snatching the now-broken cigar from her, in toning "bitch" under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear. He turned to the Prince with a salute, the effect being slightly damped by the broken cigar that bounced between his eyes.
"Matthieu Evrard, reporting and ready for duty," he snapped off the salute, succeeded in hitting the Sergent in the chest with the broken end of the cigar, and stood at parade rest looking innocent. The remainder of the cigar dropped to the floor behind him. The sound of boots heralded the arrival of Wren in full flight gear. She stopped beside Matthieu and mimicked his stance. The effect was broken when each of the crew members of the Bottle of Rum came forward to tearfully hug her goodbye. The Prince came forward last to hug her, then turned to shake Matthieu's hand.
"Our hopes go with both of you. Bring Sarah back safe. And yourselves."
Matthieu winked at her with a smile, snapped off another salute, and followed Wren to the ladder leading to their ship, mounted on the back of a modified mid-air refueling plane. They strapped in, one behind the other, and performed a preflight check as aircraft technicians scurried about. The hanger doors opened to reveal a colourful sunset and the plane jerked into motion, accompanied by the whine of its engines. Now engrossed in their diagnostics, they missed the waves of the assembled team.
"Think we'll ever see them again?" grumbled the Sergent once only he and the Prince remained, watching the departing plane lift from the airstrip.
"There's always a chance," she turned to him, "which is more than we had until now."
------------------------------------------
"Stage 2 release in 5...4...3...2...1... Stage 2 clear. Good luck and God's speed," crackled the voice over the headset. Matthieu turned to watch the plane peel away below and to their left. Ahead, the storm clouds formed a wall that rapidly engulfed them. The ship shook and jumped in the screaming winds of the Storm.
"Barometric pressure all over the map back here," announced Matthieu as he watched all of his gauges swing wildly. He switched off the alarms that threatened to drive him batty. He was briefly relieved that he didn't have to attempt to pilot the craft through this storm, then wondered how she managed to keep them on course, if, indeed, they were. Neither the sky nor the instruments gave him any clue as to their heading, even their altitude.
"You know," he spoke against the oppressive silence, "This is going be difficult if we can't find some way communicate that doesn't require you typing things out." He returned to looking at his useless instruments, then to the equally futile task of gaging their position from the wall of dark cloud that surrounded them. He roamed the radio channels, picking up static on all of them. Except one. He returned to it and sensed the familiar pinging of a communications channel interrogation. He echoed the ping to indicate that he was ready to use the channel.
"Is this better?" came the reply.
Matthieu smiled and replied on the channel, "So you did hear me before." He wasn't sure but thought he sensed a smile from the woman in front of him. Cagey bitch. He knew there was a reason he liked her. His thoughts were interrupted but a sudden jolt as they cleared the cloud mass. Before them stood the volcano and, hovering it, the Gate that was their target, like a black plate centred over the volcano's crater.
"Let's hope those eggheads got the dimensions right." He check is instruments that were now back to normal, mostly, then re-engaged the alarms. "I have a positive on the Event Horizon. 1.23 clicks and closing. Telemetry says the Gate diameter is approximately 400 metres. Gonna be a tight squeeze threading that needle."
"No sweat," came the calm response. He could almost imagine that she was enjoying this challenge.
"Horizon intercept in 30 seconds." Matthieu grinned. This was what he lived for. The only thing better would have to have been flying the ship himself.
"Brace for impact, " Wren stated. They experienced a tugging sensation, as if they had passed through a membrane. The ship lurched as if carried on a wave. The darkness faded into mist, then cleared to form a silvery tunnel, lit from everywhere and nowhere. The ship regained thrust as if lifting from the wave, and they felt as if they were flying straight up. The feeling quickly faded until there was no sense of down. Matthieu fought down a sense of vertigo as his body madly attempted to reassert some orientation. It faded as he finally convinced himself that below them was down, despite the lack of gravity.
"Space, the final frontier," Matthieu intoned, "these are the voyages...."
"You don't get out much do you."
"Don't tell me you've never dreamed of becoming an astronaut?"
"No."
Silence.
"So, what do you think of this place?" asked Matthieu.
"I've been here before, remember?"
"And?"
"It's a dimensional gateway. No more, no less."
"You have no poetry in your heart. Allow a poor, sheltered farm boy to vicariously live his dream of interplanetary travel."
"Do you ever stop talking? Just listen for a change." She sounded annoyed.
"To what?"
"To this. To all of this."
Matthieu stopped and looked around.
"I don't hear anything," he replied in confusion. "I hear nothing."
"Precisely."
They sat in silence for several minutes. At first he was uncomfortable, but gradually he began to relax. He had always had something to distract himself, radio, talking, anything to keep himself occupied. Now, for the first time in as long as he could remember, he stopped. It began to make him edgy, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. A ping appeared on his long-range radar.
"Any idea what that is?" he asked.
"No id... shit!"
He felt as if gravity had returned to him when the ship banked sharply. The forward lights briefly illuminated what appeared to be a massive tree trunk, larger around that the ship. But this one was moving. And bending. proximity alarms screamed in their ears.
"What the hell is that?" he demanded as he ship looped around, giving him a cleared view of the massive creature entrenched in one wall of the tunnel. Tentacles weaved everywhere, seeking the ship.
"I don't know."
"What d'you mean you don't know? You've been here before!"
The plane lurched to avoid another massive tentacle.
"It wasn't here before."
The plane weaved and dodged, but it was clear that, eventually, the creature would have them. At least one mystery was solved.
"Gordian knot!" Matthieu exclaimed.
"What?"
"When I say go, hand over the controls. We're going to tie this thing into a knot."
After what felt to him like an eternity, she finally relented. He gave her a few more passes to find a likely way by the creature, then, on his mark, took over the controls. The ship lurched into the complex maneuver he had been practicing. The opening appeared and the ship shot forward. His combat senses kicked in at the last moment to avoid the tentacle that appeared in his path. The escape trajectory took them toward the tunnel wall, then around to face down the throat of the creature. Suddenly, twin rockets shot from the ship, heading into the creature's mouth. With no time to think, Matthieu gunned the motors and shot through a new opening past the creature. A wave appeared to lift the ship as the rockets detonated, although no sound was heard. He glanced in the rear-view monitor to see a growing smoke cloud enveloping tentacles that seemed to now waving gently as if in a breeze.
"Good shootin', Tex," he drawled, to which he received laughter over the communications channel.
---------------------------------------
In the silence between worlds.
"Wren? I recorded someone humming during the fight with that creature."
"I have no vocal cords, Matthieu."
Silence
"You didn't answer the question."
A pause.
"My vocoder was humming an Angel subharmonic."
"Oh."
Another pause.
"Wren?"
"Yes, Matthieu?"
"Don't do that again."
"You're welcome, Matthieu."
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