FORBIDDEN PLANETS REGION (01/13/25 *)
Inside the mercenary ship, a secure server housed in a vacuum sealed compartment deep within the bowels hummed into action. Throughout the frozen spacecraft, a multitude of whirring hard-drives ended the long silence. An array of frost covered monitors flickered once, twice, and ignited. A host of glaring screens illuminating dark passageways, empty crew quarters and an unused mess hall waiting for the return of its long absent crew. In the Medbay, a series of switch gears activated, booting up the auto-doc's AI. The ship slowed to impulse power.
Large monitors mounted over shining steel stasis pods cycled through a series of absent vital signs. Silent alarms flashed. The crew was flatline. The temperature in each pod registered, -320 degrees Fahrenheit. Absolute zero. The interiors in the frozen pods were colder than the frigid void outside.
Everyone traveling the endless expanses of deep space realized hyper-sleep was the only way to pass between stars. But even time spent at FTL speeds slowed to a nightmarish crawl. Sure, in the first few weeks, you could fill the slow time with menial tasks. Going over the upcoming mission, preparing equipment, and studying targets. But once the busy work ended, there was nothing left to do but stare at the relentless cycling of digital readouts.
For crews traveling the great expanses before scientists developed stasis pods, empty days stretched into tortuous weeks, and FTL travel became a muddy, knee deep slog through an unforgiving black void. Soon, the unending boredom led to bitter impatience, debilitating frustration spiralled ever downward, becoming ever darker, and sanity transformed into lunacy.
While technology has opened space travel, it has yet to conquer the eroding effects of isolation on the human psyche. The mind has its limits. And those limits worsen the further you travel into deep space. Too much nothing makes Jack a very crazy boy.
A total loss of mission control is not a desirable outcome when weighed against the astronomical costs of long range space travel. For that reason, Waylan Yutani scientists developed stasis pods for deep space travel. But with stasis pods came the need to monitor those who slept. And thus, scientists created synthetic crew members that never needed to eat or sleep or use a restroom. Machines designed to simulate human behaviors and mannerisms. But they did too good of a job.
For 190 years, Waylan Yutani's mega factories and freighters criss/crossed the cosmos, plundering resources wherever they could find them. Synthetic crew members placed crews in stasis pods, managed the vessel's functions in transit, and woke the sleeping crews upon arrival. What could go wrong? It was supposed to be foolproof, but there were unforeseen bumps.
Early synthetic engineers failed to consider the long-term psychological effects of isolation on synthetic cognitive possesses. The oversight resulted in several spectacular mission failures. In those cases, synthetic malfunctions led to losses of whole payloads, crew compliments and billions of dollars in lost hardware. Many believed Waylan Yutani covered up many of those incidents, reporting them as micro meteor strikes or other anomalous oddities.
After those publicized cases, the company automated their ships and hyper-sleep cycles, discontinuing synthetic ride alongs. No loss of long-term profits. Stockholders fear not. Waylan Yutani still had their N6 replicants to bolster their stock values. And as we all know, nothing could go wrong there.
Liquid nitrogen drained from icy pods, and thick vapors faded as sub-zero temperatures rose, revealing the blotchy pallid faces of two men and a young woman. The auto doc had its marching orders. And so it set out, performing its assigned tasks with a methodical precision no human could match. The AI would wake the sleeping crew, get them on their feet and back on task. Of course, the auto docs had no way of predicting how entering the forbidden planets region would affect each crewmember's mental states. Only the passage of time could reveal how the region affected newcomers.
50 years earlier, when MegaCorp- a wholly owned subsidiary of Waylan Yutani- first sent its long range haulers out this far, ship captains reported an unprecedented rise in violent incidents in the region. Extreme paranoia and aberrant behaviors became prevalent in docile crews. Modern ships traversing the region reported crew members coming out of stasis, often reported waking crews experienced traumatic hallucinations, leading to unpredictable behaviors. In extreme cases, some experienced total dissociative madness and death.
No one knew why the region affected passing crews. As a result, the Galactic command quarantined the forbidden planets region. From that point forward, most captains steered clear of the region. More daring or desperate crews did not. But even those ships would not wake crews in the region.
Three green dots raced across a series of medbay monitors from left to right. Above one computer monitor, a readout flashed, POD 3: Dahlia, "Dahl," Johns, STORAGE DURATION 6
A flat line spiked and a nearby speaker beeped as a long dormant heart spasmed. A second line blipped and then a third. Racing spikes became larger. Louder beeps sounded as the numbers filling the screens climbed. Blood chemistries improved, respirations evened out and 02 stats climbed to 98 percent.
In the lower right-hand corner of the auto doc's computer monitor, a ¼ sized pop-up screen flashed a bright yellow border. The AI registered a foreign object in pod 2.
WARNING! The tiny pop-up screen flashed. Every sterile light in the ship pulsed an amber warning.
WARNING! Again. Flash. Flash.
WARNING! Flash.
DANGER!
Emergency beacons dropped from the ceilings, flashed from amber to an angry staccato crimson and shrill alarms, replaced the eerie silence with a frantic call to action no human ear heard.
"ATTENTION!" a synthetic voice blared over the medlab speaker. "UNKNOWN CONTAMINANT DETECTED IN POD 2. ALL PERSONNEL PROCEED TO THE NEAREST QUARANTINE AREA. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL PERSONNEL PROCEED TO THE NEAREST QUARANTINE AREA."
The sound of hydraulic pistons whining into action filled the frigid air, and a series of electromagnets in the bottom of the three pods lifted them a fraction of an inch above the floor. Pod 2 lurched forward as it dragged along on an invisible force. It moved out over the red painted track leading to the quarantine zone.
Pod 1 rose on an invisible lift, moved out and stopped, hovering inches above a red line. Pods 3 followed, stopping inches behind pod 1.
A series of spinning strobe lights lead the procession towards the rear of the compartment. Pod 2 stopped in a small alcove and a heavy steel bulkhead with a large window inset into its center descended from the ceiling. A hissing thud filled the bay as the bulkhead sealed the pod away from the rest of the ship. A moment later, both pods 1 and 3 had followed suit. With loud thuds and ear-splitting hisses, the auto doc sealed the remaining pods away and set about, decontaminating the rest of the ship.
Outside the frantic medbay, an array of environmental controls began the arduous task of removing unwanted ice crystals from circuit boards, junction boxes and exposed conduits. During silent running, environmental conditions plummeted to temperatures approaching the void outside. Water vapor in the once warm, moist air condensed, covering every surface with a thin layer of ice. And now the returning heat had become the enemy. The ship's fragile crew, like the delicate electronics sustaining them, needed to be warmed with great care, or many of its systems could fail. If the ship's internal temperature rose too fast, the water droplets left by melting frost could gather and short circuit many of the ship's delicate systems.
Inside the pods, a host of whirring machines drew harsh chemicals from icy cells, while still others pushed vital fluids back into warming bodies. The reanimation procedure had begun and, with it, mobility returned to the immobile. Hearts beat, warning juices ebbed and long unused circulatory and digestive systems opened. Neural pathways sparked to life once more and the mind's eye cracked open, albeit misfiring, as the angry, flashing world outside came rampaging into focus.
This sucks, Dahl thought, frightened by the sound of her own voice echoing around inside her head.
Dahl's body ached. She tried to lift her hands, but could not. The journey had robbed her of muscle mass, body fat and strength. Every cell in Dahl's body cried out in pain. Bloody tears trickled down the sides of her sunken face. Whatever this pain was, it didn't bode well for the near future. Coming out of hyper-sleep was going to be worse than they had told her.
I feel like shit; she thought.
Thoughts were fuzzy in her mind. She had signed a standard guild contract. Standard terms: 3 to 6 months out in stasis, mission task complete and 3 to 6 month return flight back. After which, a check for 14 months' pay and a mission bonus of 20% to surviving crew members.
Dahl remembered going to the docks before Lockspur and Moss boarded the ship. It had become tradition. But this time, something was different. Dock security had met her outside the ship and taken her to a guild debriefing room out back.
Lady Hemmingford entered the room as if she ran the Guild docks. No, as if she owned the Guild docks. Lilith Hemmingford looked around the cramped room, noticing the red light on the security camera hanging in the upper corner was dark. She smiled and turned to Dahl, ready to talk.
Lilith was a tall, dark-haired woman who wore a haute practiced smile of nobility. Lilith surveyed Dahl's mission ready attire with a blithe disinterest. "Johns tells me you want to join his crew? How is it this is the first I'm hearing this?"
"Moss and Lockspur trained me, but none of them wanted me to join the crew."
"Oh?"
Dahl shrugged. "I think they were trying to protect me." Dahl said with a scowl.
"You don't agree? You don't need their help?"
"What I don't need… is their protection."
Lilith stared at her, and Dahl shifted in her seat. "I trust you do not bear the illusion our familial ties will afford you any sway with me? If you cannot pull your weight, I strongly suggest you tell me now. Because I will hold you as responsible for your actions as I do all my employees."
"Yes, mam."
"Good," Lilith said, still staring through her. "I feel it best to be upfront with where we stand, don't you?"
"Yes, mam."
"Your Uncle tells me you asked to go with them every time they went on an away mission."
"Yes, mam."
Lilith drilled Dahl into her seat with a stare that made Dahl's blood run cold. "What he failed to tell me was you have already gone on a few missions. You know that having unsanctioned passenger aboard could lead to fines, sanctions and suspensions? You could have cost me a great deal of money and grief. I should tell you, I dislike grief." Lilith threw up her hand before Dahl could speak. "I find it best in these situations to remain silent. Fortunately for all of you, nothing happens on these docks without my knowledge, forcing me to take action. I covered your wrong doing. And it cost me both money and time."
"Sorry, mam. I just-"
Lilith's eyebrow raised in silent warning that drew Dahl's butt cheeks together. "Do not mistake my fleeting sense of calm as forgiveness. You have disrespected me and my authority. And you have done so with employees I thought I could trust. You… young lady… are an entitled brat. And that is a level of disruption I will not condone. You will follow my rules without hesitation. Do I make myself crystal clear?" Dahl didn't know if she was supposed to answer. Lilith walked around the table, stopped behind her, and bent over. She placed her mouth beside Dahl's ear and said, "But… never let it anyone say. Lilith Hemmingford cannot forgive. So… do you still want to join the team?"
"I do," Dahl answered.
"Are you willing to make amends?"
"I am."
"Splendid," Lilith said, patting her on the shoulders and standing up. She returned to her original position. "And if I'm not wrong, this will be the perfect mission to teach about loyalty?"
Dahl nodded, struggling to keep eye contact. She didn't know what to say.
"The others say you are ready," Lady Hemmingford leaned over the table, fixing Dahl in her sights again. Dahl shifted again. "But are you?" Lilith asked herself.
"Absolutely!" Dahl said. "Mam."
"Please stop calling me mam," Lilith said, sneaking a peek at the camera to make sure the light was still dark. "Regrettably, your uncle won't be accompanying you on your first mission. I have a job requiring his personal attention. As such, I find myself in need of a suitable replacement. A replacement I can trust on a sensitive mission. A mission skirting guild protocols. I trust you won't have a problem skirting the rules?"
"No, m… No, auntie."
"And there you go. Making it up to me already. Your Uncle assures me, you are that replacement. Him… I trust. Perhaps, some days, you will prove yourself as well."
"I won't let you down."
"I'm sure you won't," Lilith replied.
Lilith wore a regal gown fit for a dark queen. Dahl saw the telltale signs of a tactical stealth suit concealed beneath the expensive fabric. Lilith had powerful enemies, and for that reason, Lilith always prepared for unforeseen trouble. Why else don mercenary attire? Dahl looked her over, wondering what weapons she had concealed beneath her gown. Lilith did not need a weapon. Lady Hemmingford was lethal at any range. More so, up close.
Dahl realized the black gown Lilith wore was nothing a true noble would wear. It was black as the void, and the material mimicked glistening black onyx. It looked alive. Dahl looked at the blind camera and thought, this is where the dirty little deals come to life. In dirty rooms where haute nobles do not as they pretend, but as they please. Dahl envied Lilith; she always had.
Lilith placed a manilla folder on the table and took out a paper. "Miss Dahlia Johns, chief navigator, co- pilot, part-time mechanic, specialist in hand to hand, edged weapons, long-range weapons and…" Lilith paused long enough to fix Dahl in her gaze. "Your Uncle added... attitude."
Dahl smiled and flushed. "Of course he would. And thanks for giving me this chance."
"Do not thank me until you return." Lilith held out her willow hand and added, "Welcome to crew 1. I expect you to not let us down. This is an important mission. Especially for you."
Dahl looked through the foggy viewport in the hatch behind Lilith, wondering what she meant, and saw flashing strobes on the wall outside. "What's going on?" She fought back a rasping cough and pain tore at her throat.
An opaque fluid flowed up the long transparent surgical tubing, disappearing into Dahl's right nostril. She tried to grab the tube to stop the fluid's progress, but her hands refused the command to move. She followed it in growing terror as the liquid neared its target. Her stomach cramped as the warming solution of electrolytes and glucose spilled out the open end, filling her shrunken belly with a rejuvenating serum. The fluid was there to help revive her, but right now, it only made her want to puke. A sudden glut of tenacious spit filled the back of her sandpaper throat. The choking mass increased the nauseating urge to wretch. Spasms tore through her belly. She wanted to cry out, but nothing worked. Mercifully, nothing came up. Her gag reflex wasn't working yet. Besides, nothing was in her empty stomach to come out.
Outside Dahl's claustrophobic pod, rigid bodies warmed, stiff arms convulsed, and mouths gulped as frigid air burned unused lungs. Hacking coughs filled the silence as dry, sandpaper lungs became wheezing bellows.
Moss's head pounded as if a blunted jackhammer beat against a thick concrete skull and shards of spiralling dizziness made his colon roll as if he were seconds away from soiling his pod. The sudden unappreciated stench of warming bowels filled the confined space and shaky fists banged against the inside of the heavy lid. Open for fuck's sake, he thought, trying to force the stasis lid up before the reanimation process had completed. "Come on," he rasped, his voice sounding as if glass lined his windpipe. He banged again. Nothing happened. The heavy lid refused to free its semi-frozen captive. His imprisonment was one part atrophy and one part immovable locks. Locks the auto doc had to release. A quick escape was not an option.
Lockspur heard his comrade's commotion, pressed his communications button, and said, "Calm down." He reached up with his other hand, massaging the sore flesh around his knotted throat. "There's nothing wrong. It's a stupid mistake." Big lie. He had an unauthorized device implanted in his right forearm. Lilith assured him she cloaked it from computerized detection, but the auto-doc picked it up and sent them into quarantine to check it out. Shit, luck, he thought. Lady Hemmingford assured him it should stay hidden until he needed it. She was wrong.
"Christ, it hurts to talk," Dahl said to herself. "Some asshole jammed a goddamn bore cleaning brush down my throat." Her body convulsed into a fit of uncontrolled shivering, and her teeth chattered as if they were going to shatter. "Turn the fucking heat on," she demanded, pushing up on her own lid. Nothing happened. The lock laughed. She kicked it. But what did getting out matter? Even if she could get the lid open, there wasn't enough room between the outer edge of the pod and the wall to stand. But with no control over her limbs, what could she do? Fucking stasis, she screamed in her head. God only knows how long I'll be here, she thought, trembling hands running along her body as if searching for an answer to why she was in quarantine.
"Gotta… get out," Moss said, slapping at the lid as a syrupy bile filled his mouth. The concoction pouring into his shrunken belly was doing its job. His face had turned back to normal as blood flow returned to his ashen features. Pores opened, sweat flowed and another layer of stench twisted his aching guts. If the pod stank any worse, his guts would explode out of his mouth.
A grating cough came from the back of a dry throat in pod 2. The solution pouring into the dark-skinned man's warming stomach did little to ease a growing wish for a drink of cool water or the sudden need to get away from the stench filling his own pod. "Not gonna happen." Carlos Lockspur said, fumbling to force the lid up as a wave of escaping gas made him cover his face with both hands. Mercifully, the sound of starting fans filled the insides of the three pods. Much needed fresh air replaced the growing fragrance of waking bowels with a warning breeze that felt like an arctic blast. The three drowsy occupants spewed a blurry stream of teeth chattering profanity as the incoming air warmed their protesting bodies.
Carlos Lockspur wanted out. Like his two comrades, the reanimation process was taking too long for his preference. The cycle had become torturous.
During the long journey, the weakened crew lost 28 percent of their body mass and the fluids pumping in their dehydrated bodies would only replenish10 percent. The team needed time to heal and regain body mass, strength, and endurance.
Dahl's arms and legs trembled. She couldn't even lift her own head. The weakness did not concern her as much as the sight of her sister looking in through the viewport. How her sister got out there, she couldn't imagine, it couldn't be her. Outside Moss's pod, four of his dead six dead teammates stared at him. Lockspur didn't see anyone, but he heard his dead mother calling to him through the auto doc's speaker.
After God only knows how long, Dahl's trembling arms had fallen limp at her sides. At least they had stopped hurting. But now, her sudden inability to move only worsened her sense of captivity. Her building emotions boiled over and she let out a sobbing scream. Pain seized her raw throat and the warmed air blowing through her pod became unbearable. The warmer she became, the more phantom pain burst out of every reviving nerve ending. She writhed in pain, gasping for air and clutching her guts as if a bullet had torn through her soft flesh. The pain tearing at her core was a side effect of a long stasis or a result of being in the Forbidden Planets region. Fucking Lilith, she thought, remembering Lilith had told her may regret her choice to join the team.
The debilitating pains left in the wake of the crossing distorted Dahl's slender frame. Before she left, she looked young and fit and full of life. But now, after months of laying naked and frozen, she thought, Fuck, I must look like shit; I stink like it. There were fluids leaking out of every orifice in her body. This is flattering, she thought, wiping at the steady stream of snot out of her nostril. The salty mucus spreading across her face gave rise to an urge to yank the transparent tube out of the other nostril. More than anything else, she wanted to blow her nose. "One swift yank and it's out," she told herself, reaching up and winding the tube around her hand. The camera light came on. As soon as she pulled at it, a dull tearing pain exploded from somewhere deep inside in her skull, causing her to rethink the ill-conceived decision. "Fuck," she screamed, sending another wave of pain through her sore throat. Water poured from her eyes and had it not been for her already empty bladder, she would have pissed herself.
A light on the tiny camera turned red and a computerized voice said, "Attempting to pull out the feeding tube is discouraged, Flight Lieutenant Fry. There is an air bladder at the end of the tube, preventing its accidental removal during transport. Pulling on the tube may lead to pain or injury."
"Nice," she replied, brows furrowed and eyes squinted into watery slits. "You could have warned me before I yanked it."
"That is not in my programming."
"Fuck you."
"Neither is that," the AI responded.
"Has anyone ever told you, you're a mother-"
The light on the speaker went dark before she could finish.
A stream of oily hot fluid spread out on the bottom of Moss's stasis pod and he realized the liquid pouring into his stomach had reached the end of the line. The fan speed increased, making the stench tolerable. He gagged, and a geyser of bile blotted out the viewport. He grimaced as the dripping goo spattered his face. At least the fuckers outside can't keep looking in here, he thought. Moss tried wiping the bile from his face, but only smeared it everywhere. "Shit!" he screamed, unprepared for the pain, seizing his throat. "This isn't just inhumane, it's goddamn humiliating. Here I am, laying in a puddle of my shit with puke all over my face, and the worst part is I asked for this." He felt a plastic tube protruding from his manhood and thought, at least I can't piss myself. Fortunately, he didn't pull it out. If he had pulled it, he would have found the strength to break the locks.
Moss lifted his right hand to his chest, fumbled around the camera, searching for the comms switch, and after several failed attempts, pressed the open switch. "How's everybody doing?"
"About as good as you sound, amigo," Lockspur answered.
Dahl wanted to cry. She lay atop a mixing puddle of God only knows what fluids were trickling out of her and wiped a thick layer of slippery snot across her face. It poured down the side of her face and filled her ear. Dahl pressed her comms button. "I could use a warm shower with a sandpaper luffa, followed by a 12 hour bubble bath and a fist full of anti-hallucinogenics."
"Compadre, what about you?" Moss asked, "Are you seeing anything?"
"No. But my mom is calling to me over the speakers," he said, tears filling his voice. "She keeps asking me why I let her die?"
"Ah… fuck, compadre. I'm sorry," he said. "She's not really there."
"I know," Lockspur admitted, wiping his eyes as if not wanting the others to see his shame. "I wish it didn't seem so real."
A tone sounded throughout the pods and a familiar computerized voice said, "Final protocol observed. You may now leave quarantine. After the bots remove your catheters, you may shower and head down for the mess hall. Your meds and meals are waiting for you. Get some rest and report back for further testing in 16 hours. I shall monitor your vital signs and notify you of any needed changes. Please report any anomalous visions you may experience. And remember, do not remove any catheters until the bots deflate the internal bladders. Consider yourselves warned."
"Computer," Moss called out. "What was the final protocol?"
"Your realizations, the visions, are hallucinations."
Outside, the racing stars had slowed to a crawl as the mercenary ship dropped out of light speed. The auto doc did not tell the angry crew they had languished in their well soiled stasis pods, battling visions for 16 days. During their unwitting incarceration, the long journey had reached its conclusion. The ship drifted at the edge of a seldom visited system, waiting for the crew to catch up.
G-633 - a secluded binary star system- spiralled a light year off MegaCorp's back channel shipping lanes. A little known ghost lane only frequented by outlaw black market smugglers, fleeing criminals or clandestine military forces en route to covert missions in the outer colonies. The system lay at the heart of the forbidden planets region. After a handful of fruitless missions to the system, found nothing but parched soil, an acute absence of natural resources and savage beasts, no one ventured into the system.
For the next nine days, none of the wary crew spoke to one another as the routine effects of the long hyper-sleep, combined with the ill effects of the region, gave life to a mixture of jagged kaleidoscope visions woven into the most traumatic events of their lives. The visions, both macabre and unsettling, attacked them from all sides. The visions forced the crew to lock themselves in their private quarters to experience their temporary insanity in private. Days later, the mentally exhausted crew buried their troubled minds beneath mountains of menial tasks. They busied their trembling hands by preparing for the upcoming mission.
Only Lockspur had come out this far before, and when Lilith approached him with the mission parameters, he had considered declining the position. Hyper-sleep in the region sucks. Never again, he thought. But Johns was paying 3 times the normal rate; a rate too steep to refuse. And she offered him a bonus he could not turn down. So, he came along for the ride, knowing the effects it would have on him and his less experienced teammates. "You guys don't know what's coming," he told them. They laughed. He wondered if they were laughing now?
Lockspur lay in the silence of his quarters, lights low, holding a picture of his wife and kids. But now the team was almost here. Lockspur wished he had rethought his earlier decision to come to G-633.
The laws of physics did not apply in the system. Two stars rotated around each other in a queer oblong dance as 9 gas giants weaved around them, dragging 37 free roaming satellites, often shifting orbits between the gas giants. And at the center of it all was a tiny moon concealing a dark secret buried in its core.
Lockspur sat up, itching the lump on the inside of his right forearm. During his unappreciated stay in stasis, the lump on his forearm doubled in size. He supposed the auto doc found it during his wake-up call and placed them in quarantine. During the reanimation sequence, the auto doc removed the original shard and replaced it with two others. He studied the misshapen lump, saw a long red suture line bordered by pink dots. The incision appeared fresh; but how could that be? He dug at the rock-hard lumps with his fingernail, wincing as they moved around beneath the skin. He hadn't shown the lump to his teammates. The lump was a secret.
Lockspur had forgotten important details about the lump and no matter how hard he tried to remember, he drew a blank. How had the lump gotten there, or at the very least, who put it there? But he didn't know. His mind was blank.
An ominous sense of foreboding distorted his features. Lockspur remembered he was there to meet someone, but he hadn't told the others he had a meeting. Moss was going to kill him. Dahl was going to kill him. And now, the whole damn mission could go to shit and so could their pay.