PG. No clues offered about this one I'm afraid. I'd rather the story play out on its own. You can blame Mary Avatar for this one, when I launched "Breathe" she said she was developing a soft spot for this LBG. Hmmmm.
Feedback and abuse to furball_60@yahoo.com, please.
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"I will never use that damn suit again.
Ever.
Not if you paid me.
Not if you threatened me.
Not for anything or anyone.
Period."
- LBG, many years ago.
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I haven't worn this suit in decades, but it still feels like a part of me. That's lucky, since hanging out here in hard vacuum would be pretty suicidal without it. All the same, it brings back a lot of memories I could do without. I remind myself I'm doing this for her, swallow hard and push off from my hidey-rock toward the ship in front of me. It's manouvring, but my dusty old reflexes serve me well and I touch down almost where I'd planned, soft as a feather. The sound transmission through the hull should be minimal; good. I know this class of ship well, I've done my homework. I have practically everything bar the original blueprints. It's only a short walk to my chosen maintenance hatch.
The hatch has an alarm, naturally, but this used to be one of my specialties. Probes extrude from the cuff of the suit, and I direct them through the cracks to key components. They explore, intertwining and interconnecting, then pinch off from the suit to form a pretty effective bypass circuit. The hatch pops open, and nobody's any the wiser. I'm in. Score one for the old fool.
So why climb in a hatch that opens to the guts of a missile launcher? Because they reload from inside. Dismantling it takes a couple of hours, and it's hard work. Every component has to be checked for a score of different monitoring devices. The builders were smart, randomly installing different safeguards on different ships, even different launchers. Someone doing what I'm trying to do can't trust anything. If I were authorized the ship would know to ignore any alarms I might trip. Lucky for me I don't slip up. Or at least, I think I don't. It's hard to be sure.
The reload mechanism's fully automated so nobody should be around, but I was trained better than to assume that. I leave the housing in place while my glove sensor snakes through the hole where a rivet once sat. There's nobody here; my luck's still holding. Mustn't get cocky though, luck can't be trusted. I carefully drill out the last rivet and quietly lower the last panel to the ground.
This is the most dangerous part. I've upgraded my suit's electronic counter measures to state of the art, but I still can't be sure the internal sensors won't spot me. They've probably had some upgrades too, and I can't predict what. I have to stick to the quiet places, the forgotten crawlways, hide in the shadows. There's a distinct possibility I'm going to get my ass shot off here. A rush of excitement rolls through me, I'd forgotten it could feel like this. I almost feel young again. Almost.
I've been planning my route for a couple of weeks, running sims and fine tuning. The third crawlspace tells me I've wasted at least some of my time. There should be room for me to slide through, even suited, but it's a tangle of jury rigged circuitry. Damn. I have the suit project the local plans into my mind through my interface port, and give me options. Not too bad, just a quick jag through the adjacent maintenance tunnel. I won't be exposed long.
Soon I fall into the old routine. Reach a corner, check round it with the glove sensor. Hide when there's movement, curse when it's blocked, slide down it when it's not. It's slow going on my own, to pass the time I start designing gear that could speed it up. Weapons and military gear always pays well. It occupies the lower levels of my mind while the rest of me concentrates on not getting caught. I figure only about a quarter of my route is navigable. This ship's been through a lot of combat, and hasn't had enough maintenance. It takes forty minutes, but finally I get where I'm going.
I cut the ECM, and key the door as I pull off my helmet. Instantly, a forest of cameras and automated weapons swivel to face me, as does a lovely female face on several screens. "Hello, Andromeda."
"How did you get past my security?"
"Don't worry, it wasn't easy, and I'm real good at this stuff. I used to do it for a living." That's an understatement, but she doesn't need the full story. I drop a datacrystal into one of her readers, it holds my research and recommendations for plugging the security holes. It should take care of all her questions. "By the way, nice to see you too."
As the data from the crystal unfolds in her mind, she softens. "Sorry, I'm not used to visitors here. Even Harper hardly ever comes down here." Strictly speaking, the circuitry that makes up Andromeda's brain stretches right across the ship, but if she can be said to live in any one place, it's here. This is the console room. Her inner sanctum. If she is ever decommissioned, this is where they'll come to switch her off. Her defences stand down, I feel honoured. She must really trust me. "Why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be sneaking up on Rommie?"
"Rommie, HoloRommie, you; You're all aspects of the same person, I care about all of you. I just realised I'd been neglecting this part of you, so I thought I'd pull a surprise visit and do something about that." I lower the pack off my back and open it. First out are some more comfortable clothes for me. I gesture at them. "Mind if I...." She nods agreement. As I pull off the suit's cuirass the interface port in my shoulder blade disconnects with a familiar wet slurp. It's not exactly the same model as Harper's. Out of the corner of my eye I see images of it from various angles on screens she doesn't think I can see. They freeze before the skin closes over it, leaving a line like a deep scar. She seems very interested. I pretend not to notice.
Dressed more comfortably I delve into the pack again. "For a human woman I'd have brought chocolate, maybe wine, but you can't taste either. You couldn't smell flowers even if they'd have survived the trip. I had to get more creative for you, play to the senses you have." Out come some books (genuine paper), and a small music generator. All are well used, worn. I sit cross legged on the counter next to her largest screen, and for hours we talk. In the books I show her the cream of my people's art, introduce her to the old pictures of elves, show her how beautiful they are. One look at her face, and I know I won't be taking that book home with me. I read her stories, poetry. From the music generator I play her all the best music from my culture and the ones I've studied. I play her the ancient classics from pre-diaspora Earth; Beethoven and the Beatles, Presley and the Pistols, the Rolling Stones and Mark Shreeve. Some she likes more than others, but she tells me she appreciates them all. She says nobody has ever done this for her before. I tell her that's a shame, and it is.
Somewhere in the small hours of the morning, my energy is flagging and I'm considering calling it a night, when she broaches a subject I'd hoped to be spared. "I ... couldn't help noticing your interface port. I've never seen one like that before, what are its specs?" I've never heard this part of her hesitate before; This is important.
I'm quiet for a moment before I reply. I know what's coming, and it scares me. "Let's just say Harper'd have a massive case of bandwidth envy, and leave it at that."
"If I had him build an adapter, would you let me use it?"
And there it is.
Crap.