Authors: Marc Andre
“Voices are going to be off, big time.” Allen explained. “I didn’t have time to
match pitch to anthropometric parameters or tone to emotional scenario. The program assigned pre-generated voices randomly, which works well enough to piece together the events from last night.”
“Yeah,” Hammond agreed. “Sound like someone cut that guy’s nuts off.” Allen frowned. Ellen elbowed Hammond in the ribs, a cue to quickly backpedal from his criticism. “But that’s pretty good given your rapid turnaround time,” the large boy added apologetically.
Allen speed up the video feed. “So the foreman, whom I think is Ricardo Meddlenates —”
“Yeah my dad works with him a lot.” Hammond interrupted. “Says he’s a good guy but can be a major hardass.”
“That would make sense.” Allen said, foreshadowing the events to come. “The foreman asked Joinksmokker to just tweak the transformers, which should take maybe twenty minutes max. But look what happens over the next hour and a half.” In fast forward, minutes zoomed by as seconds. Joinksmokker’s hands blurred in a frenzy of motion. The transformers morphed from two large blocky structures into a mounding pile, each part incrementally decreasing in size as the man disassembled each substructure.
“The security system flagged this as a probable fene-induced episode of non-constructive hyper-attention.” Allen explained. “Basically, Joinksmokker became fascinated with the inner working of the power converters as physical structures. He’s taken them apart to look at all the pretty parts, but cognitively, in this state, he would have no understanding of their function and would not be capable of putting the converters back together.”
“Hey, that must have happened to this guy back home who lived down the hall from us.” I said. “He got hooked on fenes and took his toilet apart.”
“I remember him,” Cotton said, “you’re talking about Chancer.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Chancer couldn’t figure out how to put the toilet back together, so he started pooping in the bathtub. Some other neighbors of ours complained about the smell.”
“What happened to the guy?” Ellen asked, concerned.
“Last we saw of him, the cops were forcing him into the back of a cruiser.” Cotton said. “He was shouting and cussing and biting and spitting.”
“For
a such a small guy, he did a lot of damage,” I added. “Sent two cops to the emergency department, one with a broken jaw.”
“He must have been pretty agitated,” Allen said, insightfully. “And that’s what’s going to happen here in a second,” Allen explained, nodding at the vid screen. “Be warned, what you are about to see gets pretty ugly.”
Allen reverted the video output to normal playback speed. Meddlenates reentered the camera’s field of view, looked at the pile of tiny parts in front of Joinksmokker and said, “what the —” but then turned his back to the camera, so Allen’s lip reading program couldn’t dub in dialogue. However, we could tell by his violently exaggerated hand gestures that Meddlenates was chewing Joinksmokker out.
Allen
paused the video. “See how Joinksmokker’s pupils dilate here. He’s about to enter a psychotic state of hyper arousal.”
Allen pressed play again. Meddlenates turned his head ever so slightly which allowed us to see his lips and the program to create dialogue.
“You’re on fenes!” The lip reading program made Meddlenates sound unnaturally calm, polite even. “You wacko! You’re placing this entire ship in jeopardy! I want you out of my engine room this instant! Go on, get out!” But Joinksmokker didn’t move. He just continued to stare vacantly at Meddlenates.
“That’s it,” said Meddlenates. “I’m calling the sergeant at arms. If you won’t get out, I’ll have him drag you out.”
“Now,” Allen interjected, “you can see Joinksmokker facial expression change. Somewhere in the far reaches of his brain, he is starting to realize he’s in trouble.”
Meddlenates stormed out of view. Allen brought up another camera angle that showed the foreman picking up the comlink. An orange flash and Joinksmokker was standing where Meddlenates once stood, the comlink hand piece dangling from the wall. Joinksmokker had
shoved Meddlenates hard from the side, knocking him off balance.
“Yeah this next part gets pretty grizzly,” Allen commented, changing to another camera angle.
A man in an orange jumpsuit kneeled next to a toolbox. He used a wrench to remove a panel from a zero friction kinetic energy reservoir. The exposed flywheel spun so rapidly, it appeared as a blur on the monitor.
“Hey, that’s a major violation of NSSA regulations for machine guarding!” Hammond exclaimed. “He’s supposed to stop the
reservoir and lock the controls out in the off position, even if that means dumping the energy stored in the flywheel.”
“Right
you are, Hammond,” Allen said, “and this guy couldn’t have picked a worse time to expose the moving parts of a very powerful machine!”
In instant later, Meddlenates bounded into view, tumbling out of
control from Joinksmokker’s shove. The man in the orange jump suit dived out of the way. Meddlenates’s face collided solidly against the side of the converter. Dazed and off balance, his nose gushing blood, Meddlenates reached out to steady himself. The unguarded flywheel snagged the sleeve of his white jumpsuit. In an instant, Meddlenates disappeared from view, sucked into the reservoir. The ordinary starman stood back up, peered into the reservoir, and asked, “Are you okay?” The reservoir answered by expelling liters of bright red blood and Meddlenates’s boot, which subsequently struck the starman in the head knocking him unconscious. The camera zoomed in on the boot, and, to our horror, we could see that Meddlenates’s foot was still in it. Ellen gasped. Hammond shrieked.
“The security system flagged this footage as a possible fatal industrial accident,” Allen explained, “which is a bit of an understatement. This is clearly homicide.”
“Ah man!” Hammond cried. “I think I’m going to be sick. No wonder my dad wouldn’t talk about what he saw last night.”
“Is that your father there?” asked Allen, pointing at the big vid.
On the monitor, we saw a middle aged man in an orange jump suit. Like Hammond he was thick in the arms and shoulders, only with a large pot belly.
“Yeah that’s him,” Hammond said.
Hammond’s father picked up the comlink hand piece. He pressed the bright blue button, signaling an emergency.
“Yes, I know you’re eating,” Hammond’s father said, obviously having gotten through to our sergeant at arms, “but this is an emergency!” Audio was not available from Jim’s side of the conversation, but we could easily figure out what was going on from what Hammond’s father had to say.
“I’m in the engine room.” Hammond’s father said. “The foreman’s just been killed! He was pushed into an open kinetic energy reservoir.” There was a pause. “Name’s Joinksmokker. He’s an ordinary starman… kind of short, filthy jumpsuit, missing his cap, long greasy hair, growing out a beard…. I think he’s tripping on fenes pretty bad!” There was another pause as Jim Boldergat asked another question. “Trust me, I know he’s dead.” Hammond’s father said. “No I can’t take a pulse…. No, he’s been ripped to pieces…. He left, ran out, fled the engine room. I think he’s in the main passageway.”
On cue, Allen brought up footage from the main passageway. We saw Joinksmokker fleeing the engine room, his face contorting and grimacing unnaturally.
Allen sped up the video. About three minutes later, based on the counter in the lower right hand corner of the vid screen, our hero Jim Boldergat entered the scene in hot pursuit. Even at fast forward, his pace was at best a slow trot. Periodically he would have to stop and lean on the walls to catch his breath.
Allen switched to another camera view, this one pointed from the top of a T-junction in the passageways. “Joinksmokker must have heard Boldergat wheezing in the distance behind him,” Allen explained. “As you
see, when he rounds the corner, he stops running and hugs the wall so he can spring an ambush.”
Even with the reduced gravity to ease his movement, Boldergat must not have been getting enough oxygen to his brain. When he reached the T-junction, he turned left instead of right, presenting his back to Joinksmokker. With a running start, Joinksmokker leaped into the air and planted both his feet into the center of Boldergat’s spine. As the big man goes down mouthing “oomph” his blubber oscillated, creating a shockwave so strong the buttons of his tactical vest popped out and the buckle on his belt snapped loose.
Slow moving, Boldergat got up to find his belt and gear dangling from Joinksmokker’s left hand and his taser clutched in Joinksmokker’s right. Boldergat raised his hands in surrender, but before he can utter a word, Joinksmokker fired. A bright blue-white arc of electricity branched outward from the end of the taser and converged on Boldergat’s upturned fingers. The big man crumpled and convulsed. His blubber gyrated like the belly of beached sea lion. Even though our Sergeant at Arms was out of the fight, Joinksmokker fired the taser over and over again until the battery ran out of juice and the weapon stopped working.
“Why is his groin area smoking?” Ellen observed astutely.
“My guess is that when he got shocked, he either wet his pants or his pubes caught fire,” Allen replied.
“Gad!” Hammond shrieked, clutching the front of his pants, empathetically.
As Joinksmokker walked away, he dropped the taser and drew Boldergat’s side arm from the holster on the utility belt.
“Each bolt fired was at least one-hundred thousand volts,” Allen commented, “but fortunately human subcutaneous fat stores don’t conduct electricity well, so Boldergat’s vital organs were pretty well insulated and protected.”
Allen fast forwarded the video and told us to observe the counter. After about fifteen minutes the immobile lump of sea mammal blubber gradually came back to life. Supporting himself on the walls, Boldergat managed to get back on his feet and limped out of view.
“In this next footage,” Allen said, “we see Boldergat is back to his normal self again. I mean he’s not moving quickly or anything, but he’s not dragging like he was. It’s been less than thirty minutes, so my guess is that sometime in the interim he must have dosed himself with an emergency tactical stim unit.”
“Where is this?” Hammond asked.
“Weapons locker,” Allen replied.
Boldergat handed out pistols and ammunition to six other men. Three wore orange jumpsuits. Two were still dressed in bedclothes; one in a dressing gown, and another in bright purple pajamas. One guy actually showed up wearing nothing but boxers. At first I thought he was wearing a sweater, but on closer inspection I realized that he was just very hairy.
“Who are those other guys?” Ellen asked.
“Armed response team, volunteers with firearms training,” Allen replied. “Boldergat must have paged them and activated an emergency tactical squad.”
“My dad used to be on armed response,” Hammond said, “but he eventually let his pistol qualification lapse. Said it wasn’t worth the trouble after he went ten voyages without getting called up a single time. You have to pay for your own training and certification
tests, and you only get paid if they activate you. I suppose these guys would get to make overtime.”
Allen nodded.
“Is that Bob Blunt?” I asked, recognizing our steward as one of the guys in an orange jumpsuit.
“You know the steward?” Allen inquired.
“Yes, he’s a total jackass,” I said.
“Wouldn’t even let us have an extra chair in our living unit.”
“I think ‘jackass’ pretty much hits the nail on the head as we shall see.” Allen foreshadowed.
Bob pointed to a long gun stashed in the corner and asked Boldergat, “Can we take the rail gun?”
“No, don’t be stupid!” Boldergat replied, tossing the guy in boxers a tactical vest so he’d be a little less naked.
“I think that’s the smartest thing our sergeant at arms ever said,” Allen commented.
“Lock and load but keep your safeties on and your fingers off the trigger,” Boldergat ordered his team.
“Okay look what happens here!” Allen said. The men filed out to hunt down Joinksmokker.
“Boldergat didn’t secure the weapon’s locker! He left the door wide open!” Hammond said.
“Yes, exactly, and see what happens five minutes later.” Allen sped up the video, and when the counter registered the moment he sought, slowed the video back down to normal playback speed. Bob Blunt walked back into view, picked up the rail gun, and scurried back to follow the rest of the team.
“There’s no way that guy’s qualified to shoot a rail gun.” Hammond observed.
“No, only Boldergat would be. It’s a class three weapon. Boldergat qualified as part of his training with Black Star International, but the others would probably only have access to basic civilian pistol and carbine training through the National Firearms Association.”
“Why is that rifle even on the ship?” Ellen asked.
“It’s not a rifle,” Allen corrected. “It just looks like one. A rail gun uses an electromagnetic field to accelerate a projectile rather than an explosive charge.”
Ellen rolled her
eyes. “You boys and your guns,” she sighed. “Very well then, why is the rail gun even on the ship?”