Tales from the Service: An Infestation of Cermytes

2953-04-23 – Tales from the Service: An Infestation of Cermytes 

 When Clara Liang got to her duty station five minutes prior to shift start, the second shift technicians were all still there, talking to their crew chief in low tones. This was unusual – normally the only one who stuck around to brief the third shift team was the duty chief. Still, she paid them no mind, focusing instead on draining as much of the bitter coffee in her carafe as possible.  

She’d slept poorly, as usual. It had been months since she’d been transferred to Janda Dunewhite and assigned to the third shift, but she doubted she’d had more than a dozen proper nights’ sleep in that time. There was no real reason this should be the case; yes, third shift was the closest thing you could get on a warship to a night shift, but that wasn’t really close at all. The crew deck for third shift, like those for the first and second shifts, was on an appropriate light-dimming schedule to encourage the belief that the second shift was “night” and the third was “morning,” so it shouldn’t have been any more difficult than adjusting to the day-night cycle of a new planet. 

At first, Clara had blamed the three others who shared her cabin – she had lay awake listening to all of them breathe enough times to be able to identify each of them in the dark. Really, though, they were less trouble than her bunkmates from Sugiyama – they never talked or even read on their slates after lights out. 

The medical team had offered Clara sleep medication on several occasions, but she rarely accepted them. Her father had been a Navy tech, too, and he had never slept properly after returning from the service, courtesy of a hard-to-kick dependence on the pharmaceuticals to fall asleep. She had no intention of following in his footsteps quite that closely. Not that it was too different being dependent on caffeine to function most shifts, but she’d kicked coffee twice before, and figured she could do it again. 

As the rest of the small third shift crew filtered in, Clara noticed a few uneasy looks directed at her from the tight knot of second-shift technicians. Now, their presence had gone from unusual to concerning. What could they want that the usual method of briefing and handoff between crew chiefs couldn’t have handled? 

At last, Chief Belluomo, Clara’s own superior, hurried in, barely sixty seconds to the shift change.He stopped short, noticing how crowded the duty station was.  

At Belluomo’s appearance, the outgoing crew chief detached himself from his compatriots and hurried to meet his opposite number. The rest of the second and shift crews watched uneasily as the pair talked in low tones. Clara couldn’t hear any of what was said, but the expressions on both their faces suggested that it was bad news. 

Eventually, Belluomo nodded grimly and stepped aside. The second shift chief walked to the end of the room and held up his hand for attention. It was hardly necessary; most everyone present was looking at him, expecting imminent bad news. 

“A moment, please. If you don’t know me, I’m Chief Ramsey, head of the second shift for this station.” The man began. 

Clara wondered if she would have known his name, were she not so sleep-deprived. Probably she would. Ramsey was too young to have been a long-serving crew chief in the peace-time Navy, but he was a tall, broad-shouldered man with the sort of square face that seemed more fitting in the Marines than in electrical maintenance work. 

“Normally I let your Mr. Belluomo hand over my report from the prior shift, but today...” Ramsey sighed. “Today one of my techs spotted a cermyte in the maintenance-ways between frames thirty and thirty-four.” 

A collective shudder ran through the room. Cermytes were a new hazard for Reach spacers: these Sagittarius-native pests were only too happy to colonize the out-of-the-way spaces of any starship, and they bred rapidly, They could digest most artificial polymers, and seemed to go after the cladding of high-voltage electrical cables with particular relish, even if it meant sometimes they were burnt to a cinder by shorting freshly de-cladded cables. Rumor had it that the Lost Squadrons had picked them up somewhere, and they had spread through the fleet alarmingly fast ever since. 

“Are you sure?” One of the third shift technicians belatedly raised her hand. “Could it have been something else?” 

“I saw it.” One of the second shift techs stepped forward. “I know what I’m talking about. I was on the Whitcomb Scourge decon team.” 

Every rating in the fleet had heard of the infestation aboard the Scourge, of course. Rumor had it that it was supposed to be patient zero for the fleet’s cermyte problem. Supposedly, when the repair teams had gone aboard after the ship’s return and months in parking orbit at Sagittarius Gate, some of the vaguely beetle-like pests were more than a meter across, and it had taken plasma weaponry to clear them out. 

“The one I saw was a sub-adult. Maybe about four or five centimeters. We combed the area but didn’t find any damage. It’s possible-” 

“I think it’s likely we caught it early.” Ramsey nodded to the other tech he’d just interrupted. “Early enough to clear it out without a full decon. But we need to know where they are eating. That means a full sweep of every cable. But we need to keep this quiet so the rest of the crew doesn’t panic.” 

“Does the captain know?” Someone asked from the back of the room. 

“Not yet.” Ramsey shook his head. “I’m going to go tell him myself as soon as his shift starts. We’re days at minimum from any sort of problem.” 

Days away from a problem meant little when Janda Dunewhite was weeks from any friendly port, of course. Clara sighed and put down her half-finished coffee. The fear of running into a family of skittering, cable-chewing doom-bugs would be with her every time she went into the accessways, now, and that would keep her alert far more effectively than any stimulant. 

We covered the discovery of this pest (though it had not yet been named) aboard Lost Squadrons vessels some time ago on this feed. Interestingly enough, Whitcomb Scourge was the vessel featured in our account of the pests, though it is not as far as I know the first on which they were discovered. 

Cermytes present a particular problem for warships, whose weapon systems require far more high-voltage cabling than would be necessary on a civilian ship. 

No doubt the Incarnation has come up with a simple solution for the cermyte problem, but I am not aware anyone has determined what it is. Certainly their vessels do not seem to be overly troubled by these vermin. 

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Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Artifact

2953-04-16 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Artifact 

Obviously, though the general gist of the claims of the Fiddlehead Three should be more than apparent by the two prior episodes, but I will provide Commander Lund’s retelling of their explanation here for two reasons. 

Firstly, Lund thought their story as amusing as it was interesting, and secondly, because the details that I am permitted to present here (some have been edited out of this retelling by Lund himself) are those I think represent this story as unlikely to be a cover story for a bunch of deserters. I am not wholly convinced, but I would suspect their account is more likely to be true than not. A Xenarch artifact capable of removing three humans from time for two days would be an incredible find indeed, if they hadn't needlessly expended it.

“So, am I to presume that you... misplaced this, erm, object?” Gunther Lund pressed when the silence had once again lengthened past what was normally considered awkward. 

“Well, it...” Visscher glanced between her compatriots. “Sort of exploded.” 

“On my station?” Lund arched one eyebrow. There had of course been no alarms indicative of any explosion in the period these miscreants had been aboard. 

“There was a button of sorts, inside a slot you could stick your finger into. We... We pushed the button. And-” McCormick’s shoulders slumped. 

“You pushed the button, you mean!” Bodinsen snapped, and he started to rise before his guard pressed a firm hand down on his shoulder. “I told you we needed to get it analyzed, but-” 

“Get it analyzed? Who was going to do that, and not take it away?” Visscher scowled. “We hit it with every sensor in the standard crew kit. It seemed safe.” 

Bodensen was quick with a response. “So would a thermite grenade. Or a bio-containment canister.”  

Gunther began to suspect this argument had been had once before, and he made a show of writing a note about recommending better tracking the use of standard shipboard tools during off-duty periods on his slate. “What did this... item look like?” 

There was a brief pause, but this time, Bodinsen broke it quickly. “It was a sort of cone or horn shape, about fifty centimeters long, slightly curved near the point, with a slot running the length. That’s where we found the button.” 

This, Gunther wrote down almost word for word. “What was it made of?” 

McCormick responded this time. “We couldn’t find out. Some sort of polymer, maybe. Sort of looked like pearl, but it was pale green.” 

“Any markings? Controls other than the button you pushed?” 

“Not that we found.” Bodinsen shrugged off the hand holding him in his chair. “And we looked damned hard.” 

Gunther noted this as well. He had long ago stopped asking why Navy ratings did the unwise things they did; three of them found a device with a button, and they inevitably pushed it. The surprising thing was that they spent days – maybe even weeks – puzzling over its origins before they did the inevitable. 

“We, ah. Went into that storage bay to push the button.” Visscher’s face reddened. "That way we had stuff to hide behind.” 

“And less witnesses, living and electronic.” Gunther nodded. “You aren’t the first miscreants to think of that. What happened next?” 

“As soon as I pushed it, the cone just sort of... burst.” McCormick sighed. “There was a loud noise, and a blast of green smoke, and... that was it. Your toughs collared us nearly the moment we got clear of the smoke and caught our breath.” 

Gunther nodded as he wrote this down. “The security personnel first on scene did not report any smoke, or any signs of an explosion, except that two storage containers full of computer components were pried open and rifled through.” 

Bodinsen cleared his throat. “If it were a normal explosion, we’d all be perforated. None of us was more than two meters from the thing when McCormick jumped the damned gun and pressed that button, and there’s not a scratch on any of us. We didn’t see any smoke either, after we got out of it.” 

“Wait, containers?” Visscher frowned. “We didn’t touch your supplies. We didn’t have time or tools for that. We were only in there about half an hour. That must have been unrelated.” 

“I can assure you nobody else was in that bay between when you arrived and when you were apprehended.” Gunther raised one eyebrow. “Hiding in a stack of cargo containers filed with electronics could easily block the security monitors, but I’m sure you knew that.” 

“I uh. Suppose we could have guesed it.” Visscher shrugged. “I’ve worked on security monitors. But we weren’t-” 

“They have no way of knowing if we were hiding in a stack of crates or not, if nobody else was in that bay” Bodinsen sighed. “And without the device, we’ve got no strong defense. The desertion charge sticks.” 

Gunther shrugged and smiled. “It’s looking that way, yes. But your story is very interesting. I am curious if there are any other details you remember. I rather doubt they could hurt, at this point.” 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Anomaly

2953-04-02 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Anomaly 

The trio exchanged uneasy looks for a long moment. None of them seemed eager to answer, even in the face of a capital charge at court-martial.  

When the silence again began to lengthen, and they realized they would be handed no lifelines, Visscher shook her head and opened her mouth. “How could we have left the station? It doesn’t make any sense. You have airlock and suit access records.” 

“An interesting point, but one unrelated to the matter at hand.” Commander Gunther Lund spread his hands in mock helplessness. “In any event I have techs examining those records now for evidence of your tampering.” 

“We didn’t touch your files. Or your spacesuits.” McCormick scowled. “We never left your station. At least...” He glanced to Visscher. “Not intentionally.” 

“Owen!” Visscher hissed. 

“What? You think we can possibly make this any worse?” 

“The only higher offense in the code than what you are facing is treason.” Gunther smiled cheerfully as he delivered this bit of trivia which they probably already knew. Navy ratings were forced to learn the Discipline Code as part of their training regimen. “And those inquiries are always a messy business, because Intelligence wants to get involved.” 

Despite this being no new information, the flustered trio were taken aback by the observation, just as Gunther had anticipated. In point of fact Naval Intelligence was already involved, though it was remotely for the moment. They usually didn't maintain any personnel aboard a small outpost like Fiddlehead Station. 

“Look, Commander...” Bodinsen peered over at Gunther’s uniform nameplate. “Commander Lund. We didn’t desert. It was an accident.” 

“That will be most difficult to prove, given that this ‘accident’ took place while you were concealing yourself from the security system... for two days.” Gunther pretended to make a note on his data-slate. “But that’s a matter for your advocate. I’m just trying to write my report for the court, in my capacity as the station commander.” 

In truth, if the trio were thinking rationally, they’d probably realize that on such a small station, any court martial couldn’t convene until another vessel docked for resupply. Three outsiders thrust unexpectedly into a position of judgement would of course lean heavily on the report and treat any testimony that it did not back up as suspect. Gunther, of course, had made something of a hobby of keeping miscreants off balance and far removed from their full rational faculties. 

“We didn’t desert.” Visscher shook her head. 

“Other than deserting, what else were you not doing around four-fifteen, second shift, on Seventeen March?” Gunther arched one eyebrow. “Perhaps we can reach satisfactory answers by process of elimination.” 

“We weren’t being careful.” Bodinsen sighed. “I knew that thing was trouble the moment you showed it to me, McCormick.” 

“Thing?” Gunther sat back and steepled his fingers. He knew the dam had cracked. 

“It could have been anything. Or nothing. We had to know.” McCormick shot back. “And I wasn’t going to hide it under my bunk for the rest of our tour until we knew it was safe.” 

“Then why didn’t you let me hide it?” Bodinsen smacked a palm to his forehead. 

“Because you would have spaced it the moment we weren’t looking.” Visscher sighed. “And maybe we should have let you.” 

“Damned right you should have.” Bodinsen sat back in his chair. “It wasn’t right for that Marine to bring it aboard, and it was even less right for you to let him pass it off to you when he got off the ship. It could have been waiting to kill the whole crew, for all you knew.” 

“But we didn’t know!” McCormick’s protest was growing more feeble. “It could have been the next big discovery! We could have all been rich!” 

Gunther was no stranger to mad get-rich-quick schemes among the ratings – even in wartime, some fraction of the Reach’s spacers were always plotting insane things in their spare time – but this time, something strange was afoot. “Am I correct, then, in guessing that this item you are blaming for your disappearance is an alien artifact of some kind?”  

As if they’d forgotten he was present, all three suddenly turned to look at Gunther with alarm. 

“We think so.” Bodinsen’s answer, reluctant as it was, drew glares from the other two. “No way to be sure now.” 

The claim of the Fiddlehead Three is sensational to say the least – that they were sidelined from time itself for nearly two days by the influence of an alien artifact whose provenance they cannot establish and whose very presence they cannot conclusively prove – but the fact that they simply vanished in a matter of moments from all station security systems for two days, and reappeared just as suddenly – gives credence to their story. 

We have covered some strange properties of Xenarch artifacts in this space before, but not recently. Certainly I would not put this claim past the capabilities of a device of this provenance, and I would think three deserters would have a more reasonable story prepared – and some sort of plan to make good their escape – if they actually did intend to desert. 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Three

2953-04-02 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Three  

This week we have a curious story. I am not aware of any other outlet covering it, but Naval Intelligence has seen fit to let us publish it. Deserters are a part of nearly every conflict, including this one, but this may be a case of accidental desertion. 

The accused, a trio of enlisted spacers from the light cruiser Vincennes, claim that they did not desert deliberately – indeed, that they have no memory or record of the intervening days in which they were missing, during which their vessel departed the supply depot it had been berthed at - and there are some curious facts of the case that seem to back this up. 

Commander Gunther Lund felt every eye in the room on him as he eased his not inconsiderable bulk into the chair at the end of the long table. His assistant placed a slate in front of him, and he made a show of reading it, though it contained nothing he hadn’t read the day before. When it came to this sort of thing, it was generally beneficial to make the culprits sweat for as long as possible. They could imagine far more creative punishments than a station commander could ever mete out. 

The trio of station security officers standing behind the chairs of each of the three detainees had seen this treatment before, but they still managed to look uneasy and shift around nervously every time, as if this were new. Gunther appreciated that of them, but he didn’t know whether they were somehow nervously expectant every time, or if they’d figured out the game long ago and were playing along. It seemed inappropriate to ask. 

Fiddlehead Station was, as military outposts went, a tiny speck on a big map, little more than a hollowed-out asteroid. It had been built as forward resupply depot for patrols which the high command didn’t want to route all the way back to Sagittarius Gate, and it had gained few comforts in its two years of existence. Its permanent population was barely a hundred souls, and its recreation facilities were best described as bare-bones, though with capacity to entertain perhaps four times the normal population when a pair of large ships occupied the only two docking berths that had been built out from the asteroid surface. When there was gossip-worthy trouble on board, everyone knew of it in minutes. 

In the case of the trio shifting uncomfortably in their seats at the other end of the table, Gunther had heard the first rumor of their miscreancy more than an hour before the case documents had arrived on his desk, and that too had been nearly a full shift ago. Presumably, they’d been cooling their frenetic energy in the brig’s drunk tank since then. Gunther never bothered to ask about detention details; that wasn’t his job. 

After several long, silent minutes, one of the trio cleared her throat. “Our crew advocate isn’t present. According to Section 6-B of the Discipline Code-” 

“The Navy Code will be followed to the letter, Technician Visscher.” Gunther tried to look and sound bored, but really, he rather liked this part. “We needn’t be worried about anything in Section 6 today.” 

Visscher and her nearest neighbor, a rotund gunner by the name of McCormick, looked relieved in an instant. By contrast, the third member of their little group, a thin, hawk-nosed technician whose name was apparently Bodinsen, proved himself to be a little bit smarter; his concerned frown only deepened. 

Gunther was only too happy to let silence descend on the room again if the trio did not start talking on their own soon. When they realized this, they exchanged uneasy glances. Visscher, evidently, was their chosen spokesperson. “If this isn’t a disciplinary hearing, then can we go?” 

“Not a disciplinary hearing?” Gunther frowned and pretended surprised. “Why, I suppose technically it isn’t. But no, you may not go.” 

“Vincennes is due to undock in a couple of hours.” The smart one, Bodinsen, had a reedy voice matching his appearance. “Your toughs took our comms, but I’m sure the shift chief is screaming-” 

“Oh, I do hope he has calmed down somewhat by now.” Gunther shuddered. “Lieutenant Sparks was clearly under a lot of stress when we last spoke.” He wondered if he could play this game out any longer without impacting the rest of the day’s schedule. Probably not; it was time to play the other card. “That was nearly two standard days ago, though. When Vincennes headed back out on patrol.” 

“Two days?” McCormick tried to start to his feet, only for the security officer behind him to force him back down. “You had us in that hole for more than two days? They went on without us?” 

“Feigned outrage is no defense for desertion, you know.” Gunther tapped his pudgy fingers on the slate. “Under Section Eight, Subsection D, of the Navy discipline code, I am required to inform you that you are facing capital charges.” 

In the moment of shocked silence that ensued, all three faces paled visibly. Then they were all talking at once – Bodinsen was holding up his hands and trying to say something about how this must be a joke, McCormick was struggling to stand with fists balled and voice raised, and Visscher was shaking her head and muttering some sort of denial. Their associated security officers kept them all in their chairs – barely, in the case of McCormick – until all three protests subsided once again into silence. 

“In addition to the top-line charge, you are facing rather minor court martial charges for destruction of Navy property.” Gunther smiled slightly as he said this, as if smashing a packed strike frame worth nearly fifty thousand credits to worthless bits was a minor thing. “But this will obviously be dropped if capital punishment is applied to your case.” 

“That’s impossible.” Visscher’s voice was barely a whisper. “We’ve only been on this station a day, at most.” 

“In total, yes.” Gunther nodded sagely. “Station monitor systems reported that you came aboard for perhaps ten or twelve hours after Vincennes arrived, but you went off the monitors after that until they flagged you this morning in storage number nine.” 

“Wait.” Bodinsen held up his hand, struggling against the pressure of his guard. “Around what time did we... leave the station?” 

“The monitors last detected you on board at about four-fifteen, second shift.” Gunther tried to make this seem like a dull detail; in point of fact, it was something about which he had been quite interested in his reading about this case. “If you would like to get this inquiry started, you can tell me what you were doing around that time.” 

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