Commander Cliff Trevithick’s brow furrowed in frustration, sweat beading down his forehead like slugging comets across the void of space. He was nervous, and perspired accordingly, but he was also hot as hell, as a red and repetitive flashing aura about his ship clashed on his dashboard against the white-hot glow of two unusually intimate binary white-giants, indicating to him that he had over extended himself.
In his preowned, space-abundant ASP, a medium sized explorer-class vessel, Cliff felt a bit more claustrophobic than normal. This was scary .
The young pathfinder, born in the Erevate system to a few out-of-place, excentric fortune seekers, had set out a few months before with the intentions of proving himself to his parents and returning to civilization a seasoned, hardened and accomplished explorer. Unfortunately, curiosity had gotten the better of him--That’s what he would say, but the truth is that he hadn’t ever experienced space flight out of simulation before. They don’t tell you about the way you react to the dangers of space. They mostly show you pretty pictures. They don’t tell you how your H.E. suit’s waste management system will be overloaded. They don’t tell you about the alluring beauty of a white giant, or the deadly draw of a far off black hole. Most significantly, they don’t tell you about the emptiness. They try, granted, but nothing compares to the heart-pounding feeling inspired by a humble, reflective gaze into the dark and abysmal disposal of the milky way. To make a long story short, Cliff made mistakes--many of them--and had been thrown well off course. So much so, in fact, that he wondered whether or not he would ever see home again--the strangely comforting Akerman Market, which had seemed so binding to him months before.
These thoughts had flashed across his mind earlier on, but he had no time to tarry on them, now. Instead, his fingers danced desperately, panicked and fumbling, across his navigation panel. Between hurried grasps at levers and heavy breaths, Cliff would reluctantly allow his bloodshot eyes to dart over to the floating, holographic temperature monitor. He would watch its seemingly unstoppable climb. Eighty-three, eighty-six, eighty-nine.
“Warning: Temperature critical,” Cliff would hear. He already knew that. He felt it--saw the steam rising from his flight panels. In this moment, the worst was inevitable. Cliff had to survive. He couldn’t die like this, but he couldn’t survive the odds. In a moment, he would be cooked, that was a fact, and the on-board AI seemed all too eager to remind him of that.
A month of loneliness had stunted the aspiring pathfinder. Most of his close encounters leading up to this struggle had been trivial, for the most part. Trivial in comparison, that is. His mind had stagnated. Between the repetitive jumping, scanning, jumping, scanning and a general lack of inspiration, there had been nothing to keep Cliff’s mind occupied and alert. Of course, this quickly melted away in the midst of two super-heated astronomical beasts. Though he wasn’t particularly elite, Cliff was fast. He quickly plowed through every incorrect solution he could think of. Shut down unnecessary modules. Ninety-four. He could try to get away, throwing his thrusters full-forward. Ninety-six, Ninety-eight. The blinding titans were massive, and his ship, though aggressively accelerating, spitting out every guttural vulgarity it knew how, could do nothing to span their masses in time, even in supercruise. One-Hundred, One-hundred-two.
“Warning: Taking heat damage.” The ASP informed Cliff of his and its own impending doom so calmly that it nearly drove Cliff mad. How could it be so reserved at a time like this?
As if in response to Cliff’s thoughts, a sarcastic boop-fizzzz from a panel near his right arm and a vanishing blue circle indicated that his last hope was ready to be engaged, his Frame Shift Drive. This was his last hope, yes, but it was also the last thing he wanted to do next to engaging the ASP’s built-in self-destruct sequence. In actuality, it could have exactly the same outcome. Cliff’s classic B5 Frame Shift Drive, the tool which had gotten him so far along his journey, was now more immediate a danger than the two stars his ship danced between. Jumping could mean salvation. The pathfinder had enough common sense by now to know that, at the very least, there was one system in range--the one he had come from. Jumping more likely meant certain death. The heat generated from the sort of charge necessary to travel twenty or so light years would cook his ship faster than he could worry about it.
One hundred-six. As it was, worrying was not a luxury he could afford.
“Frame shift drive: Charging.” Cliff punched the engagement sequence in and completed his desperate attempt to sate the heat growth by shutting down every module he could afford to. Now, there was painful patience and quiet. With the ship’s life support systems off, cliff was cut-off from the blaring chaos, left to the atmosphere inside of his suit. For once, the alarms, pops and cracks were silenced, muffled by the layers of high-tech vacuum protection he wore around him.
The heat monitor grew wildly and glared triumphantly at Cliff; One hundred-thirty! One hundred-thirty-nine! One hundred-forty-seven! And the Frame Shift Drive countdown whispered firmly, distantly and gently, four, three, two… The numbers raced against each other.
Cliff took the boiling moments during this lose-lose contest to glance first at the radar below and in front of him. It read clear, except for two nondescript solar spheres in the center, their ironically gentle appearance betraying the burning hot conflict which Cliff was now being subjected to. Secondly, he glanced through his canopy. If he was going to die, it would be beautiful, and he wanted to see it. His heart beat heavily, and he looked out at his assailants.
Damn. That’s bright.
Though the idea of dying alone in a brilliant explosion amidst some of the grandest creations known to man was a romantic one, this was the only sentiment Cliff could gather, so he turned back to the firecrackers and flames which so enthusiastically shared the cockpit with him, and the brave commander prepared to face death a bit less heroically.
End Part 1
In his preowned, space-abundant ASP, a medium sized explorer-class vessel, Cliff felt a bit more claustrophobic than normal. This was scary .
The young pathfinder, born in the Erevate system to a few out-of-place, excentric fortune seekers, had set out a few months before with the intentions of proving himself to his parents and returning to civilization a seasoned, hardened and accomplished explorer. Unfortunately, curiosity had gotten the better of him--That’s what he would say, but the truth is that he hadn’t ever experienced space flight out of simulation before. They don’t tell you about the way you react to the dangers of space. They mostly show you pretty pictures. They don’t tell you how your H.E. suit’s waste management system will be overloaded. They don’t tell you about the alluring beauty of a white giant, or the deadly draw of a far off black hole. Most significantly, they don’t tell you about the emptiness. They try, granted, but nothing compares to the heart-pounding feeling inspired by a humble, reflective gaze into the dark and abysmal disposal of the milky way. To make a long story short, Cliff made mistakes--many of them--and had been thrown well off course. So much so, in fact, that he wondered whether or not he would ever see home again--the strangely comforting Akerman Market, which had seemed so binding to him months before.
These thoughts had flashed across his mind earlier on, but he had no time to tarry on them, now. Instead, his fingers danced desperately, panicked and fumbling, across his navigation panel. Between hurried grasps at levers and heavy breaths, Cliff would reluctantly allow his bloodshot eyes to dart over to the floating, holographic temperature monitor. He would watch its seemingly unstoppable climb. Eighty-three, eighty-six, eighty-nine.
“Warning: Temperature critical,” Cliff would hear. He already knew that. He felt it--saw the steam rising from his flight panels. In this moment, the worst was inevitable. Cliff had to survive. He couldn’t die like this, but he couldn’t survive the odds. In a moment, he would be cooked, that was a fact, and the on-board AI seemed all too eager to remind him of that.
A month of loneliness had stunted the aspiring pathfinder. Most of his close encounters leading up to this struggle had been trivial, for the most part. Trivial in comparison, that is. His mind had stagnated. Between the repetitive jumping, scanning, jumping, scanning and a general lack of inspiration, there had been nothing to keep Cliff’s mind occupied and alert. Of course, this quickly melted away in the midst of two super-heated astronomical beasts. Though he wasn’t particularly elite, Cliff was fast. He quickly plowed through every incorrect solution he could think of. Shut down unnecessary modules. Ninety-four. He could try to get away, throwing his thrusters full-forward. Ninety-six, Ninety-eight. The blinding titans were massive, and his ship, though aggressively accelerating, spitting out every guttural vulgarity it knew how, could do nothing to span their masses in time, even in supercruise. One-Hundred, One-hundred-two.
“Warning: Taking heat damage.” The ASP informed Cliff of his and its own impending doom so calmly that it nearly drove Cliff mad. How could it be so reserved at a time like this?
As if in response to Cliff’s thoughts, a sarcastic boop-fizzzz from a panel near his right arm and a vanishing blue circle indicated that his last hope was ready to be engaged, his Frame Shift Drive. This was his last hope, yes, but it was also the last thing he wanted to do next to engaging the ASP’s built-in self-destruct sequence. In actuality, it could have exactly the same outcome. Cliff’s classic B5 Frame Shift Drive, the tool which had gotten him so far along his journey, was now more immediate a danger than the two stars his ship danced between. Jumping could mean salvation. The pathfinder had enough common sense by now to know that, at the very least, there was one system in range--the one he had come from. Jumping more likely meant certain death. The heat generated from the sort of charge necessary to travel twenty or so light years would cook his ship faster than he could worry about it.
One hundred-six. As it was, worrying was not a luxury he could afford.
“Frame shift drive: Charging.” Cliff punched the engagement sequence in and completed his desperate attempt to sate the heat growth by shutting down every module he could afford to. Now, there was painful patience and quiet. With the ship’s life support systems off, cliff was cut-off from the blaring chaos, left to the atmosphere inside of his suit. For once, the alarms, pops and cracks were silenced, muffled by the layers of high-tech vacuum protection he wore around him.
The heat monitor grew wildly and glared triumphantly at Cliff; One hundred-thirty! One hundred-thirty-nine! One hundred-forty-seven! And the Frame Shift Drive countdown whispered firmly, distantly and gently, four, three, two… The numbers raced against each other.
Cliff took the boiling moments during this lose-lose contest to glance first at the radar below and in front of him. It read clear, except for two nondescript solar spheres in the center, their ironically gentle appearance betraying the burning hot conflict which Cliff was now being subjected to. Secondly, he glanced through his canopy. If he was going to die, it would be beautiful, and he wanted to see it. His heart beat heavily, and he looked out at his assailants.
Damn. That’s bright.
Though the idea of dying alone in a brilliant explosion amidst some of the grandest creations known to man was a romantic one, this was the only sentiment Cliff could gather, so he turned back to the firecrackers and flames which so enthusiastically shared the cockpit with him, and the brave commander prepared to face death a bit less heroically.
End Part 1
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