Announcement: All Cosmic Background Personnel Safe After Yaxkin City Blast

2947-09-02 – Announcement: All Cosmic Background Personnel Safe After Yaxkin City Blast

To all who have sent this network concerned and well-wishing notes in the past few hours, we are happy to announce that all of our staff and personalities have reported in and are safe.

Sovanna Rostami and two producers were in the city conducting an interview not far from the epicenter, and were shaken but uninjured. Two of our studio technicians were in town for the day on other business, and neither was closer than three kilometers from the affected area.

As an update on the incident, the blast which rocked Yaxkin City here on Planet at Centauri is still being investigated, but the fact that it took place in the government center only a few blocks from the Confederated Congress office complex suggests that it was meant as political terrorism, but we are not aware of any political figures injured or killed.

Dedicated Centauri news outlets will have complete coverage of this disaster. Our datasphere outreach hub is currently hosting links to several sources we recommend. Prayers and well-wishing are to be extended to the injured and to the families of those killed.

Details

Tales from the Service: The Incarnation Plantation

2947-08-27 - Tales from the Service: The Incarnation Plantation

The implications of the news we helped Naval Intelligence break on Cosmic Background’s various datasphere domains and outlets are still being worked out, but the fact that the so-called Sagittarians are in fact Terran stock is at this point beyond doubt. The Navy claims that the Fifth Fleet has captured twelve prisoners alive, most of them following strike sorties on the far side of the Gap. They claim to be members of a formal military (not surprising given the sophisticated, standardized warships used) fighting for something called the Incarnation. Apparently, this is either a religious or governmental organization, and I don’t think even Naval Intelligence has figured out which. 

As he is a familiar name on this feed, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that Captain Bosch and his relatively light squadron are specifically credited with two of these prisoners. Congratulations to the good captain for his successes in the field, and I hope he and his officers are well. 

Though the Law of the Spacelanes is clear about what is to be done with combatant prisoners, but the Navy has not publicly announced the names or conditions of the persons in custody. This either means that the Law is not being applied to this conflict (I shudder to think of the reasons this might be the case), or that the Navy has a direct line of communication to this Sagittarian faction. If it does have such a connection, I would guess it is through a cooperative Ladeonist cell, which would explain why they are not advertising this fact. 

Hopefully the Navy will reveal to us in the future their theory as to the origins of a Terran breakaway society as far from Sol as Sagittarius. Though they are counterhumans like the Ladeonist sect and seem to have determined to preserve their independence by leading raids and minor offensives into the Coreward Frontier, their nature so similar to our own probably improves our chance of reaching an understanding to end the fighting. The hard-line traditionalists might disagree, but I would rather try to negotiate peace with a mostly-human opponent than with a total unknown. 

This week’s story comes to me from an interrogator who claims to have engaged in lengthy discussions with a somewhat cooperative (though haughty) Sagittarian pilot, captured after the minor raid at Margaux three weeks ago. I cannot verify his claims, but as it is as plausible a window into the lives of citizens (or adherents) of this Sagittarius "Incarnation.” 

The prisoner who this story allegedly comes from is not named; the name given is an alias chosen by my source. She named their home-world only as “Prospero”, and according to my source reacted with confusion when asked for its location. Even so, she apparently provided several anecdotes about what life on Prospero was like in her youth (probably because they seem to be of little military value, and take a long time to tell), and it is one of these which my source has apparently elected to share.

Selima straightened and hefted her agri-tool to her shoulder the moment her implant software switched from labor-focus mode to leisure-mode, signaling the end of her final work day on the plantation. As she and the other dozen-odd members of the day’s work party headed toward the equipment shed at the center of the field, she noticed that the blue-white disk of the stellar primary had not yet touched distant Lux Ridge. The Incarnation would be well pleased, and the thought filled her with joy. Her cadre had finished their three months of work on time – more than that, they had finished with hours to spare.

Carefully stepping around the hexagonal, shiny growths of the plantation’s burgeoning crop, Selima imagined the second sunlight of the Cause's approval falling on her and the other members of the cadre. Together, they had done well, and the fruits of their labor would build a better future. The Incarnation would use what they had nurtured to preserve humanity a little while longer from oblivion.

Uri reached the tool-shed first, its iris door opened automatically. One by one, each of the others handed him their agri-tools, which he flicked into storage mode and stacked in the rack within the sturdy little structure. No words were exchanged – none were needed. All were tired, but not bone-tired as they would be after the usual dawn-to-dark field shift, and all were basking in the same exuberance that rewarded a job well done. The next morning, a skilled harvester party would arrive to carry away their crop for processing, and the next work party would be selected to plant and tend anew. Selima, Uri, and the rest of the party would be taken back to their homes, to resume the lives which their selection for field service had put on hold. 

As the group left the field which they had worked every day for three months, Selima turned around to examine the neat pattern of well-tended, uniform crops they were leaving behind. She would never know what their work would build, but she wasn't curious. They were obviously not a food crop, but only a tech specialist could guess what purpose they served once processed.

The first half of the three-kilometer walk back to the workers’ burrows was completed silently, but the excitement and nervous energy of the group could not be constrained for long, even by the calming efforts of implant leisure-mode. Selima remembered how many nights she had staggered back to her bunk in the dark under Prospero’s gorgeous canopy of stars, and thanked the implant's guidance system for helping her reach the burrows safely every time. The crops of the Incarnation field were demanding and prone to many forms of loss, but her work-party, guided by the Incarnation’s implant software, had guided the transformation of seven hundred glistening jewel-like cuttings into mature crops, losing only two to the many forms of loss which bioengineered flora were prone.

The muttering of conversation ahead carried on a cool breeze as the others grouped up ahead of Selima speculated about the Incarnation’s plans for the next planting seasons, but she did not join in the speculation. It would be a joy to be selected for another plantation cycle – the implant software saw to that – but she knew she would not be. She would be twenty T-years of age in five local days, and the Incarnation had long since marked her to be conditioned as a starship pilot. Her above-average genetic disposition toward fast reflexes and quick thinking would carry her away from peaceful, pastoral life on Prospero before the next planting season began - perhaps even to the front lines of the unfortunate but necessary conflict the news-feeds spoke of - the war instigated by humanity's more primitive majority.

The path underfoot joined others, and other work parties leaving other fields in the plantation began to join Selima's. In the distance, a few flood-lights glowed, revealing plots where a work-party still labored, as their harvest was not ready. Selima pitied those few, who would toil and pamper the specially chosen floral buds until they were fit for the Incarnation’s purpose.

“I am going to miss this.” Uri appeared at Selima’s shoulder, turning his head to watch the spectacular colors of a Prospero sunset. “Not the work. The walk back in the cool evening with you, under the stars.” He seemed to want to say more, but fell silent.

Selima frowned. “Uri, surely you will also miss the work.” How could he not? The implants saw to that.

The young man sighed. He was half a year younger than Selima, but several centimeters taller, both muscular and ruggedly picturesque. He was even from a village only ten kilometers from her own home. Were she not destined for service away from Prospero, Selima might have considered him a likely breeding partner, but as things were she had settled for a few lights-out liasons when the work schedule left them the energy to enjoy each others’ company. “Of course... how could I forget the work? But I will miss these cool evenings most of all.”

Selima shrugged. The plantation compound, like hundreds more like it, was far from the population-centers, but the remoteness did not inspire her appreciation. “It was a joy to serve, but I welcome the return.” The stars, for her, were not a backdrop, but a destination and a promise. The stars were a ticking clock: they had seen the beginnings and ends of the Xenarchs and many other species greater than humanity. Someday, when she was long gone, the Incarnation would at last fail to preserve Terran-kind from its own extinction.

They were silent for several seconds, as an excitedly-chattering group from another work party passed by. When they had passed, Uri spoke again. “When do you ship out for the academy?”

“When the Incarnation wills. If the Grand Plan remains unchanged, I expect to depart within thirty local days.” Twenty was the age beyond which Prospero’s settlers were released from their local burden to take up greater burdens beyond their relatively young world. The day after she came of that age, Selima suspected, her implant’s software would change modes, and guide her where she needed to be. The prospect filled her with vastly more anticipation than fear.

“Then it is likely tomorrow will be good-bye.” Uri nodded at the distant horizon. “The burden given to me will be far lighter.”

Selima put her hand on his arm. “You are strong and capable. Your burden will be like my mother’s, to help build the foundations of the future here on Prospero.”

“If that is what it takes.” Uri turned to face Selima, searching her eyes. What did he want? Surely he knew he could not go with her, and she could not stay. To do so would be to risk the salvation of all Terran-kind. “I won’t forget you, Selima.”

“Nor I you, Uri.” Selima’s smile faltered in confusion for only a moment. How could she forget? The implants would ensure that all facts serviceable to the Incarnation would remain as long as she lived.

Momentary though it was, Uri picked up on Selima’s uncertainty. With a heavy sigh, he put an arm around her, hugged her close for several seconds, then loped ahead, vanishing into the press of a large group of animatedly-talking plantation laborers.

Details

Tales from the Service: Benedictine Bonds of Blood

2947-08-20 – Tales from the Service: Benedictine Bonds of Blood 

Last week I mentioned in this space rumors surrounding the “Benedict Dispatch” - an intelligence payload making its way through the Fifth Fleet. Repeated queries to Naval Intelligence were met with silence on this issue, but two days ago, a small team of NI agents visited Nojus and myself on Saint-Lô to discuss our coverage of the Benedict rumors, or rather, our lack thereof. 

Because we avoided covering any of the rumors, Cosmic Background has been given permission to reveal the contents of the dispatch to the public, now that Naval Intelligence has determined its revalation will not compromise the military situation. I have seen much of the contents of the report filed as NIFR-1-0801, which was shown to our team in Captain Liao’s quarters, on his high-security terminal. 

Though the contents of this report will be the topic of several segments on the vidcast program in the upcoming week (the first being set for tomorrow, though I’ve already recorded my part), I received permission to reveal the dossier’s key finding in a novel way – though today’s Tales from the Service. 

The events described are not isolated. Throughout Fifth Fleet’s elements, similar scenes have been playing out for weeks. That Naval Intelligence suppressed the rumors until it was certain is a testament to the discipline of fleet personnel – most of all, its hard-working datasphere mail censors. At first, the nature of the dozens of captured strike and scout crews was thought to be a ruse or a trick to sap Navy discipline, but our visitors assured us that they have good evidence that the captured entities were the standards stock of the sapients we have been calling Sagittarians. 

 

“There must be some mistake.” Katarin tossed the data-reader onto the table in the direction of her chief medical officer. She had been expecting to learn interesting things from the autopsy of the charred body – apparently a Sagittarian, as her own strike squadron hadn’t lost any personnel – picked up by the recovery tug after the most recent skirmish. They hadn’t expected bodies, given that the vehicles launched by the encroaching Tyrant cruiser had been identified as semi-autonomous drones rather than crewed strike launches, but one had tumbled into visual range of her own stranded strike-jocks. It was a one in ten million chance – or so she’d thought. 

The medical chief fidgeted, but eventually slid the reader back across the table, all eyes on him. “I assure you there is not, Captain. The body was only vac-frozen for a few hours, and shrapnel in the torso matches the scrap shards we’ve picked up after other run-ins with those tiny launches. They aren’t drones. This sapient was a pilot.” 

“That is not what I meant by a mistake, Chief.” Katarin glared. “This shows that the body is-” 

“Human, yes.” 

Confirmation drew murmurs from the other officers in the briefing. The medical personnel had gossiped, of course, but it seemed nobody had totally believed the rumors until Chief Kraemer said it aloud. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t a third party that got caught in the tangle?” Roydon, the gunnery chief, seemed to know his objection was almost absurd, but it seemed less unbelievable than what the autopsy report claimed. “Maybe one of those Ladeonist espionage ships the intel boys are always screaming about?” 

The chief of strike operations cleared his throat to signal that he would take the question. “Nothing reported by any of the crews, visual or on the scopes. That body came from one of the five bogies we slagged.” He didn’t mention the loss of two Magpies in the engagement, though the loss ratio weighed heavily on everyone. The crews had ejected safely, but replacing state-of-the-art gunships all the way out on the Frontier was no easy task. 

“I can find nothing to suggest otherwise, Captain.” Chief Kraemer stood up to point at a certain section of his report. “Human, but not entirely human. In addition to implanted picocircuitry in the head, back, and arms, this pilot was just about swimming in resident nanomachinery. We’re still working on the function.” 

Katarin’s skin crawled at the idea. Macro-scale implants were bad enough, but surrendering one’s bloodstream and tissues as a hive for insidious nanites on a long-term basis nauseated her more than the idea of tearing out an eye and replacing it with a machine. “Counterhuman. Maybe the Ladeonist angle isn’t too far off. We’ve gotten reports that they’re operating in the same systems as-” 

“I thought of that, too.” Kraemer swiped down to another section of findings, and flicked it off the reader onto the table’s main holo-projector. “So we dug through the contents of the stomach. We found several food proteins which match no processor recipe or organism in the database, but we found something else.” Another flick, and an image of several teardrop-shaped black motes appeared. “These are seeds from an unidentified floral specimen. It was cooked and eaten. There’s nothing in this being’s diet to suggest a food-processor provided his diet. Even the Ladeonists don’t do that aboard ship.” 

“They carry their foodstores whole?” Quartermaster Matos shook his head in amazement. “The supply chain for that must be-” 

“What?” The strike chief cupped one hand to his ear, then looked up in alarm. “Captain, one of our recovery tugs is returning at emergency speed. They found one of the bogies out there in the debris field, almost intact.” 

“Intact. That might mean-” Katarin jumped to her feet, tapping her own comm earpiece. “Sergeant Beatty, round up a squad of Marines and meet me in the strike bay.” Looking at the officers clustered around the briefing-room table, she pointed to the Chief Kraemer. “With me. Everyone else, dismissed.” 

In the moment of shocked silence which the other officers spent digesting the implications of the news, Katarin was already out the door. To his credit, Kraemer caught up as she reached the lift. “I’ve called ahead for a medical isolation team.” 

“Excellent.” Katarin keyed in the destination, and the lift hurtled through her ship to the strike bay, at the aft end of the uppermost pressure decks. 

“Captain, what’s going to happen when the crew realizes we’re fighting humans?” 

“They’re going to do their duty, Chief. It changes nothing.” 

“But-” 

The lift reached its destination and Katarin hurried out, reaching the reinforced hatchway into the strike hangar just ahead of a tromping column of bulky-suited Navy Marines. Though their combat helmets covered their faces, the gold stripes on the leading suit’s shoulders and chest identified Sergeant Beatty. As a unit, the Marines stopped and saluted snappily, their armored gauntlets clicking neatly against their helmet brows. 

Katarin returned the salute, then waved them at ease. “The recovery tug is bringing in a mostly-intact enemy strike ship, Sergeant. The Chief here found foreign nanotech on the body we brought in earlier, so keep your environment seals on. If the pilot threatens the medical team, shoot to kill.” 

“Aye, Captain.” Beatty formed up his men in front of the hatch, then keyed it open. Just as the last rank tromped through, a trio of medics in far lighter vacsuits jogged up behind them. They saluted, but did not break pace; Kraemer had already told them what to do. 

As soon as the medics had entered the hangar, Katarin followed, though she was without a protective suit. The tug was still several minutes away, so she took her time finding a personnel shuttle whose cockpit viewpanel faced the correct berth, and let herself and the medical chief inside. 

“Are you sure this is wise, Captain?” Kraemer hovered behind the two crash-padded pilots’ couches in the shuttle cockpit long after Katarin had taken a seat. “We can watch just as easily from the ready-room.” 

Katarin ignored him; the vast cylinder of the strike recovery airlock had begun to turn its open side outward to space. Tuning her comm to the strike operations channel, she listened idly to the chatter of the excited tug pilot and the futile attempts by the operations crew to calm him. 

At last, the giant lock turned full circle, and the tug eased into the a-grav of the pads with exaggerated care. Clamped against its port side was a little wisp of a ship that Katarin still couldn’t believe supported a pilot. Barely six meters long and two across, the vessel’s outer hull had been cracked and punctured by several railshot strikes, but the central body – where the pilot surely resided – appeared intact. 

Technicians in heavy-lift suits scrambled forward to detach the captured strike-ship and lower it to the deck while some of Beatty’s Marines leveled their oversized weapons. Though the hangar atmosphere was quite breathable, Katarin had no doubt every person assigned to the task was keeping their environment seals safely on. Infection by hostile nanomachinery could easily be one of the most agonizing ways to die. 

Failing to find a catch to open the central pod of the little ship, the technicians resorted to cutting. Though they used mechanical rather than thermal tools, sparks flew across the landing pad as the tiny ship’s thin armor resisted. Katarin’s breath caught in her throat as the workmen tore free a meter-long chunk of its frame, then jumped back without looking inside. 

Sergeant Beatty, not one to order others to take risks for him, stepped forward and jabbed his weapon into the opening. After a few seconds, he stepped back, and a humanoid figure sat up in the opening, sweeping the hangar with the gaze of an oversized, featureless helmet. A mess of cables and wires connected the being’s flight suit – and perhaps biological functions – to the crippled ship, but even as the captain watched, these umbilicals fell away of their own accord. 

“Pilot appears uninjured.” Beatty reported. “No visible weapons. Isolation team forward.” 

The medics hurried forward as the pilot extracted the last few tethers and climbed slowly out of his ship. With his oversized, reflective helmet above a slim build accentuated by his tight-fitting flight suit, the Sagittarian pilot resembled an insect more than a human – even so, Katarin counted five fingers on his gloved hands. 

At a gesture from Beatty, the pilot reached up slowly to disengage the catches on his helmet and lift it off his head. Katarin held her breath, as did Kraemer and, she suspected, half the flight ops personnel. When a shock of reddish hair spilled out of the confines of the helmet, and a shockingly young, vividly human face glared defiantly at the armored Marines, Katarin could doubt no longer. “They are human.” Even as she said it, she saw that it was not entirely true – a serpentine projection of bright metal hugged the pilot’s left brow, alive with status indicators. He was counterhuman, at best. 

The medics wasted no time deploying a collapsible isolation unit around the young pilot. Confusion replaced defiance, and alarm replaced that just before the tent-like apparatus swallowed him whole. The medics would spend hours examining him for resident pathogens and nanotech, but Katarin intended to wait. 

As the medics got to work, Katarin saw a face framed by red hair appear in one of the isolation unit’s windows, brow marred by shiny metal. Her blood ran cold for an instant when she realized that he was looking directly at her. Through the crowd of Marines, technicians, and medics, he had picked out the two figures sitting idly in a cockpit halfway across the hangar, and he seemed to know who he was looking at.  

Katarin, at a loss as to how to react, waved at her new prisoner, trying to look bored. 

With a sneering smile, the prisoner waved back, unafraid.  

Details

Tales from the Service: The Haunted Hauler

2947-08-13 – Tales from the Service: The Haunted Hauler 

Fifth Fleet intelligence has relayed some sort of secret dossier to commanders. Most of my contacts deny having seen the so-called “Benedict Dispatch” but datasphere rumors inside and outside the fleet are full of speculation as to its contents. Several purported leaked copies of this payload are making their rounds, but as they are contradictory and unverifiable, Cosmic Background is going to play it safe and not report the contents of any of these competing versions yet, and not only because that will keep us in Naval Intelligence’s good graces. 

I will say that about a third of my contacts seem to have grown ten years older since I last talked to them, and that all these contacts are flag captains or senior officers. I’m going to take a wild guess that these are the persons who are in on the Benedict secret, and that whatever was in that file is not helping anybody sleep at night. 

There might be other things preventing Navy spacers from sleeping at night – this ghost story has been making the rounds ever since Saint-Lô had its last resupply. Apparently, it came aboard from the supply ship’s crew. 

Tyler S. stared blearily at his display and reached for the long-cold cup of synthetic coffee perched on its edge. Into his third shift without a break or a breakthrough, the ship’s maintenance woes had evolved from a thorny puzzle into a taunting demonic horror coiling through the eighty-year-old cruiser’s bowels. 

“Have you been here since I left?” 

Tyler started so violently at the unexpected voice behind him that he sloshed coffee on his uniform. The smart-fabric shrugged off the liquid easily as he staggered to his feet, but disheveled and dripping spilled coffee was no way to greet his shift lead. “Lieutenant. Is it third shift again already?” 

“Not quite.” Lieutenant Yasmine Brankovic stepped into the maintenance annex, her perfectly creased uniform at odds with Tyler’s twenty-six-hour grime. “I’m three hours early. I figured someone would still be on this... But I didn’t expect it to be you.” 

Tyler glanced back at the corner of his display to verify her claim. His shift started again in three hours, and he had not slept since before the previous one. “Mack and Penny are following cables on level six. Each time we think we have the problem patched, it only comes back worse. It’s like it’s alive or something.” 

“Captain is probably fuming.” Yasmine reached out to take the half-empty coffee cup from his hands. “We told him this would be fixed by 0800 yesterday.” 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Obvious.” The third shift on any crew always tended to be overly familiar with each other, but Brankovic encouraged a crass atmosphere on her maintenance crew which would get her written up on most crews. Since she served aboard a hastily-refitted supply hauler running equipment, her improper discipline earned nothing but rolled eyes from the senior staff. “It might be faster to go steal another hull out of a breaker’s yard at this point.” 

“We should be so lucky.” Yasmine took Tyler’s place at the console, where the first thing she did was put in a remote request for fresh coffee. “Get some sleep, I’ll cover for you until at least 0400.” 

“I’d rather stay on.” Brushing the last few droplets of coffee off his uniform, Tyler shook his head. “We’ve almost got it this time. I’m certain of it.” 

“You said that at 1530.” Yasmine tapped through the display settings until she found the map indicating the locations of the other two members of her shift crew. “And again at 1800. And...” 

“You’ve made your point.” Tyler caught a clever grin on his superior officer’s face as she bent over the console. “I’m going.” 

Heading out into the dingy corridor, Tyler headed for the ladder shaft rather than the still-broken lift. His shared cabin being on deck nine, he stopped first on deck six, wandering in the general direction of the cable runs Mack was tracing. The vaguest idea of helping for a few minutes bounced about in his head, intermixed with the scattered detritus of his triple shift. They were close – he knew it – if only he could think properly for ten minutes, he’d have it solved. 

An open access panel caught Tyler’s attention, and he stopped in the otherwise empty corridor to peer inside. “Mack! Need anything before I clock out?" 

The call echoed in the narrow maintenance tunnels without reply. Tyler checked his pockets for his comm, and cursed – he’d left it in the duty annex. There was another in his cabin, of course, but that was no closer. 

“Mack, how’s it going?” 

There was still no answer, though Tyler thought he heard a scuffing sound deep in the tunnel. Grumbling, he climbed in, determined to check in with his compatriot before surrendering to the call of the top bunk. 

The scuffing sound, joined at odd intervals by a clinking and a rushing sound as if of venting gas, led Tyler on, deeper into the tunnel than he would have expected Mack to need to go for a simple cable trace. Something seemed off, but putting off the siren song of the bunk took most of his remaining attention. “Come on, Mack.” 

The sounds ahead stopped suddenly, and light footsteps padded on the hollow maintenance tunnel deck. Tyler couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like they were retreating away from him. 

“Mack, this isn’t funny.” Tyler redoubled his pace, just in time to trip over a tangle of cabling strewn across the half-lit deck. “What the-” 

Before he could finish his question, the pile of cables squirmed as if alive, twisting its way up Tyler’s body and binding his jaw shut. Perhaps he had been right in his grumbling – perhaps the problem wasn’t a maintenance fault. Perhaps the ship’s antiquated systems really were alive, and fighting back. 

Struggling madly against the cables, Tyler tried to scream, but the sound went nowhere. As the cables wound around him, he felt the breath forced out of his lungs – the living systems would protect their secrets, even if it apparently meant killing a few maintenance techs. Had Mack and Penny succumbed to the same malicious machinery? 

“There you are!” It was Mack’s voice. The beam of a maintenance torch blinded Tyler for a moment, and strong hands seized the cabling crushing his lungs. “What the hell have you gotten into down here?” 

Details
  • You are here:  
  • Home