FORBIDDEN PLANETS REGION (01/13/25 *)
Inside the ship, a secure server housed in a vacuum sealed compartment deep within the bowels hummed into action, and 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 warnings that no human eye or ear registered. 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 through the open expanses between stars. But even time spent at FTL speeds had a way of slowing to a nightmarish crawl. Sure, in the first few weeks, one filled that passage of time with menial tasks. Going over the upcoming mission, preparing equipment, and studying targets. But after that busy work ended, there was nothing but the relentless cycling of digital readouts, marking the slow passage of unending space.
For crews traveling before scientists developed stasis pods, those empty days stretched into tortuous weeks, and FTL travel became a muddy, knee deep slog through a black void that swallowed a weakening mind. And that's when it began. The little kid came out to play. Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Unending boredom leads to bitter impatience, debilitating frustration and, on and on it goes, negative emotions spiralling ever downward, becoming ever darker until sanity gives way to lunacy and the brain pan turns to mush.
While technology has conquered 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 one travels 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, scientist created synthetic crew members.
For 190 years, Waylan Yutani's mega factories criss/crossed the cosmos, plundering resources wherever they could find them. Back then, synthetic crew members placed their crews into stasis pods, managed the vessel's functions in transit, and woke the sleeping crew when the ship arrived at its final destination. Sounds easy, right? It was supposed to be, but there were unforeseen bumps.
Unfortunately, earlier cyber engineers never considered the long-term psychological effects of isolation on synthetic cognitive possesses. The oversight resulted in several spectacular and bloody mission failures. In those cases, synthetic failures led to losses of whole payloads, crew compliments and billions in hardware. Many believed Waylan Yutani covered up many of the incidents. Opting to report those cases 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, though. Stockholders fear not. Waylan Yutani still had their N6 replicants to bolster their stock values. And as we all know, what could go wrong there?
As liquid nitrogen drained from icy pods, thick vapors faded, and sub-zero temperatures rose, revealing the blotchy pallid faces of two men and one 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 revealed 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. Other ships traversing the region reported crew members coming out of stasis, were experiencing traumatic hallucinations that lead to unpredictable behavioral abnormalities and, in extreme cases, 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 away from the forbidden planets region. More daring or desperate crews did not.
Three green dots raced across the medbay monitors from left to right. Above one computer monitor, a readout flashed, 'POD 3: Dahlia, "Dahl," Johns, STORAGE DURATION… WARNING…. CRITICAL LIFESIGNS FAILURE. TIME ELAPSED… UNKNOWN.'
One of the flat lines spiked and a nearby speaker beeped as a long dormant heart spasmed. A second line blipped and then the third. Increasingly larger spikes raced across the screens. 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 an angry red border. It had picked up a foreign object in pod 2.
WARNING! The tiny screen flashed. Then, DANGER! Every light throughout the ship turned from a sterile white to a pulsating, angry amber, and then emergency beacons around the ship dropped from every ceiling, flashing a staccato crimson. Shrill alarms shattered the quiet as the last of the darkness disappeared, replaced by a frantic warning no one saw or heard.
The pre-programmed response - no more or less a priority to the empty ship than any of the other tens of thousands of subroutines stored in the ship's database - went unheeded by the still sleeping crew.
"ATTENTION!" a synthetic voice blared over the medlab speaker. "UNKNOWN BIOLOGIC AGENT 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 if dragged along by an invisible force. It moved out over the red painted track leading to the quarantine zone.
Then pod 1 moved out, stopping inches behind it, followed by pod 3, 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 the center of its frame descended from the ceiling. A hissing thud filled the bay as the bulkhead sealed the chamber 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 medbay, an array of environmental controls began the arduous task of removing unwanted ice crystals from every circuit board, junction box and conduit. During silent running, environmental conditions plummeted to temperatures approaching that of the void outside. Water vapor in the once warm air condensed, covering every surface with a layer of ice. And now the returning heat had become the enemy. The ship's fragile crew, like the delicate electronics, needed to be warmed with great care or many of its and their systems could fail. If the ship's internal temperature rose too fast, the water droplets left by melting frost could gather into puddles and short circuit many of the ship's delicate systems. Systems, that if compromised, could lead to a slow and painful demise for everyone on board.
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 through long unused circulatory and digestive systems. Neural pathways sparked to life once more and the mind's eye cracked open, albeit misfiring, as the angry, flashing world outside came rampaging back 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 and body fat. 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? Dahl thought.
Everything was fuzzy in her mind. She had signed a standard guild contract. Standard terms: 3 to 6 months out in stasis, mission task complete and then 3 to 6 month return flight back. After which, a check for 14 months' pay and a mission bonus of 15 - 20% go to surviving crew members.
Dahl remembered going to the docks before Lockspur and Moss boarded the ship. That had become a 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. But that was nothing new. As Lilith Hemmingford looked around the cramped room, Dahl noticed the red light on the security camera hanging in the upper corner go out. She had the camera turned off, Dahl thought, right eyebrow raising.
The tall, dark-haired woman wore an haute practiced smile of nobility that made Dahl envious. Lilith surveyed Dahl's mission ready attire with a blithe interest. "Your Uncle John tells me you want to join the crew? He says you ask every time they go out."
"I do." Dahl replied.
"He says he and the others have spent years training you. Is that correct?"
Dahl nodded, struggling to keep eye contact.
Lady Hemmingford leaned over the table and asked, "They say you are ready, but are you?"
"Absolutely!" Dahl said, "I'm ready."
"Good." Lilith said, sneaking a peek at the camera to make sure the light was dark. "Regrettably, your uncle won't be accompanying you on your first mission. I have a job that requires his personal attention. As such, I find myself in need of a suitable replacement. A replacement I can trust in his stead. He assures me, you are that replacement."
"I won't let you down."
"No. You won't." Lilith replied.
Lilith wore a 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. Not that she needed a weapon. Lady Hemmingford was lethal at any range. More so, up close.
Dahl thought the black gown Lilith wore was nothing a true noble would wear. 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 watched Lilith and thought she carried herself with a demeanor that says, I do as I please, whenever I please. Dahl envied her; she always had.
Lilith held up a paper and read, "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 take Dahl in before adding, "Your Uncle added... attitude."
Dahl smiled and said, "He would. And thanks for giving me this chance."
"Thank you for preparing yourself for service and welcome to crew 1. I sincerely hope you never come to regret your decision to join our merry little band."
Dahl looked through the foggy viewport in the hatch behind Lilith, saw sterile white walls with a single red band waist high, and said, "What's going on?" She fought back a rasping cough.
She stared up at a ceiling covered in an array of snaking pipes and glimpsed yellow strobes outside the containment barrier. Then she said, "Quarantine. I'm in lockdown."
Dahl's eyelids burst open as she spied an opaque fluid flowing up the long transparent surgical tubing, disappearing into her right nostril. She tried to grab the tube and stop its progress, but her hands refused the command. She watched in growing terror as the fluid 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.
Outside Dahl's claustrophobic pod, rigid bodies warmed, stiff arms convulsed, and mouths gulped at the icy air. The frigid air burning unused lungs. Hacking coughs filled the silence as dry, sandpaper lungs became wheezing bellows. The effort of breathing brought sharp stabbing pains that pierced heaving chest cavities and exploded out the back of aching rib cages.
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 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 sandpaper lined his windpipe. But try as he might, nothing happened. The heavy lid refused to free its captive. His imprisonment was one part atrophy and one part immovable locks. Locks that only the auto doc could 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 just a stupid mistake." That wasn't true. He had an unauthorized device implanted in his right forearm. It was supposed to be cloaked to hide it from computerized detection, but the auto-doc must have picked it up and sent them into quarantine to check it out. That was shit luck. But that wasn't a problem. Lady Hemmingford assured him it should stay hidden until he needed it.
"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, and 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 of her containment cell for her to stand up or even get out. And with no control over her limbs, what could she do? Fucking stasis, she screamed in her head. Only the auto doc could release them from quarantine. 'And 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 slight breeze that brought to mind an arctic blast. The three drowsy occupants spewed a blurry stream of teeth chattering profanity and the incoming air warmed their protesting bodies.
Carlos Lockspur wanted out now. Like his two comrades, the reanimation process was taking too long for his preference. The cycle had become torturous.
After the long journey, the weakened crew had lost 28 percent of their body mass and even the fluids pumping into their dehydrated bodies only replenish 10 percent of that loss, meaning they needed time to heal and regain lost body mass and a significant part of their 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 belief that she had just seen her sister looking in through the viewport. How her sister got there, Dahl couldn't imagine, it couldn't be her. In the next pod, Moss was sure he had seen four of the six men who had died in his command and Lockspur had 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. After that, the warmer 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 there 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 pouring from her only open nostril. The salty pus gave rise to an urge to yank the transparent tube out of the other nostril just so she could blow her nose. "Just one swift yank and it's out," she told herself, reaching up and twisting the tube around her hand. As soon as she pulled at it, a dull tearing pain exploded from somewhere deep inside in her skull, causing her to rethink the decision. "Fuck," she screamed, sending another wave of pain up 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 red light next to a tiny camera popped on 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."
"Nice," she replied, brows furrowed and eyes squinted into watery slits. "You could have warned me before I yanked on 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 that seized 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 that 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. But if he had, he would have had the needed adrenaline to break the locks and get out.
Moss lifted his right hand to his chest, fumbled around the camera, searching for the comms switch on the headrest, and after several failed attempts, pressed the comms switch. "How is everyone doing?"
"About as good as you sound," Lockspur answered.
Dahl wanted to cry. She lay atop a mixing puddle of God only knows what fluids and wiped a thick layer of slippery snot across her face. It was trickling down the side of her face, filling her ear. She pressed her comms button and said, "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 said, "Are you seeing anything strange?"
"My dead mom is outside the pod," he said, tears filling his voice. "She keeps asking me why I let her die?"
"It's not her," he said. "She's not real."
"I know," Lockspur admitted, wiping his eyes as if not wanting the others to see his shame. "I just wished 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. Proceed to the left for showers. One deck down for the mess hall and two decks up for crew quarters. Report back for further testing in 16 hours. I shall monitor your vital signs and notify you of any needed changes. Until then, get some rest. And please report any strange anomalies you may experience as soon as possible. And remember, before attempting to remove any tubes, please release the internal balloons. Consider yourselves warned."
"Computer," Moss called out. "What was the final protocol?"
"Your confirmations that 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 edge of a seldom visited system grew out of the star speckled canvas.
G-633 - a secluded binary star system- spiralled a single 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 a covert mission 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 there.
Neither Waylan Yutani nor MegaCorp's scientists had discovered why the animal side of the mind fired up when entering the region. The science supporting long-term stasis said active dreaming while under was impossible. Neurons- in particular, frozen neurons- cannot pass electrical impulses at speeds fast enough to develop REM sleep.
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 that region sucks, he thought. I'll never do it again. But Johns was paying a hefty fee for this run. He offered them 3 times the normal rate; a rate too steep to refuse. So, he came along for the ride, knowing the effects on him and his less experienced teammates. "You guys do not 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 that they were here, approaching their destination, Lockspur wished he had rethought his earlier decision to come to g-633.
The system didn't work right. It was as if the laws of physics didn't apply. Two stars rotated around each other in a queer oblong dance as 9 gas giants weaved around them and each other. Add to that, 37 free roaming satellites that often moved orbits between the gas giants. And at the center of it all was a tiny moon that concealed a dark secret buried in its core. A dark secret that held it all together.
Lockspur sat up, itching the lump on the inside of his right forearm. Sometime while in stasis, the lump had doubled in size. He supposed the lump is what the auto doc had found during his wake-up call and that's the reason for the quarantine. But that wasn't right. During the reanimation sequence, the auto doc had removed the original shard and replaced it with two others. He studied the misshapen lump, saw a long red suture line bordered pink dots. The incision appeared fresh; the stitches had just fallen out. He dug at the rock-hard lump with his fingernail, wincing as it moved around beneath the skin. Whatever it was, he was sure it was not natural. And for a strange reason, he didn't understand. He hadn't shown the lump to his teammates. Then a strange thought struck him. It's a secret.
Lockspur had forgotten important details about the lump in his arm 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 in there? But he didn't know. His mind was blank.
An ominous sense of foreboding distorted his features. Lockspur remembered something. He was there to meet someone, but he hadn't told the others. 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.