CALL AND RESPONSE5
5:1
Cloud Claims Workflow v4.3
Client: Adastra Interstellars, LLC
Location: [Unincorporated parcel 114] / TERRA-SOL
Date: 7-LAV-4036
Incident claim(s): uninitiated landing sequence. Pilot Interface obstruction.
Satellite recording(s): Unavailable- Contact Local Law Enforcement
Satellite image(s): Unavailable- Contact Local Law Enforcement
Action(s) taken: Attempt to contact local law enforcement.
Result(s): Local law enforcement unavailable, (3) unsuccessful calls,
Dispatch field reviewer [Wold Newton] from nearest proximity [Sector/Quandrant: Outer Rim/Alpha C.]
Status: [Wold Newton] confirmed. Calculating most direct warp sequence. Flight pattern initiated. REVIEWER EN ROUTE.
5:2
Wold Newton wriggled in his napsack, which was strapped to the hull of his cramped shuttle. Gentle chimes tinkled from the main interface as new coordinates flashed on the screen. The thrusters encircling The Urn popped on and repositioned the small craft. As a surveyor-class transport, standard warp gate clearance was unnecessary. Instead of travelling to the nearest gate, The Urn drifted in suspended animation as the Pylon Conglomeration gathered enough particulate to launch a direct route to Terra.
The chimes grew louder. Wold moaned to consciousness. He was mid-yawn when The Urn jumped to warp. By the time he exhaled, The Urn careened toward Terra using the last snapshot of the planet for orientation. Upon approach, the thrusters adjusted to new information and edged the ship toward the last known location of The Adastra Wayfarer, class IV civilian shuttlecraft, Pylon Flight 1890.
Wold pulled himself down from the napsack and into the pilot’s chair. He strapped himself in and reviewed the data feed from Terra. All the numbers were off. He dug a little deeper and discovered that the quadrant he was set to land in was completely dark. No satellite feeds, no thermal mapping, no information to go on. He pinged the surface and waited for a response. The feedback showed that all equipment was operational, but something was preventing data from leaving the planet and reaching the Constant States Operations Authority. He made a note and sent the request to have technicians survey the faulty signals, which was successfully picked up by a relay near Mercury before the Urn hit Terra’s atmosphere.
The dull light from behind the reinforced glass caressed Wold’s tired face. Wold scanned over his directives as the coffee pod reached optimal heat and melted open in his traveler’s mug. He’d never appraised in a dark region, so he was equally excited and wary. He recalled his training and how to properly account for working without a standard field connection, but he began to worry that he’d forget something only to realize on his way back to the Central Alliance.
He popped his vitamins with his morning breakfast filler. He brushed his teeth and swished Glisterine. He spat it out and took a sip of his coffee. Although he was acutely aware of the awful clash between mint and java, he never failed to remember it at the beginning of every shift.
The Urn touched down and Wold grabbed his surveyor tote and tracking tablet. He ambled down the ramp into the desert and made his way toward the team tearing down the dome over the crashsite.
Heads in hazmat suits turned as he approached. They dropped what they were doing to intercept Wold’s trajectory. The first to reach him, held up a hand, and spoke through a static spitting speaker:
“You can’t be here.”
5:3
The rolls of plastic tarp and folded interlocking poles were tossed in the back of a mid-sized transport. Leonard Staley and Wold stood off to the side as the forensics team packed up.
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you’d like to add, Mr. Staley?”
“I’ve told you all I’m at liberty to say, Mr. Newton.”
“I understand,” Wold said, frowning at his tablet. He tapped his stylus on the corner, flicking it back and forth between two fingers. “But that’s not a whole lot to go on, especially since you and your people seem to have had a decent review station set up before I arrived. Can you transfer any of the data you gathered to the CSOA?”
“Not at this time, no,” Staley said. “That information won’t be available for release until our investigation is finalized.”
“Professionally, I understand your desire for confidentiality,” Wolf said. “But from a legal standpoint, I’m not sure if that’s something that you’re allowed to determine.”
“I invite you to discuss the matter further with my superior,” Staley said. “But as I’ve stated several times, I’m not in a position to offer any more than what I’ve already provided.”
“Fair enough,” Wold said, clicking out a few more entries. “And who is your superior?”
“General Howard Mendax,” Staley said. “The Immutable.”
“I see, I see,” Wold said. “I’ve never interviewed a sitting council member before. I’ll have to check the required paperwork for that procedure.” He unconsciously licked his lips while he collated the information. “Where would I be able to reach Mr. Mendax.”
“He’s set up to work remotely in a nearby town,” Staley said. “Hazmat. It’s not too far. Would you like a lift or I can send the coordinates to your ship?”
“Please send the coordinates,” Wold said. “While I’d appreciate the gesture, it would color my review if I were seen to be accepting any favors from individuals that are part of my investigation.”
“I completely understand, Mr. Newton,” Staley said. “I’ll send you the info and let General Mendax know to expect you shortly.”
“Much obliged,” Wold said. He continued tapping on his tablet, barely looking up as he trotted back to The Urn. Staley’s team finished tossing the collapsed safety materials in the back of a transport. The Urn took off, the transport ambled away, and the twisted skeletal remains of the shuttle gathered sand in the wind. A dinosaur left for future archaeologists.
5:4
The General heard small steps up the porch. They stopped. Then there was a small knock, barely audible. The General chuckled. So polite.
“Come in,” he said.
Wold Newton ducked his head inside the entryway, which he did out of habit, not to avoid hitting his head, but in an unconscious attempt to make himself smaller, so that those he conducted business with would be more amenable to what he had to say. No one ever told him, but that behavior cost him countless promotions and pay raises over his long career. No one ever told him, but it also made his interviewees divulge more details than they consciously planned to.
“Good afternoon, Immutable Mendax,” Wold said. “Let me start by saying that it is an honor to make your acquaintance. Rarely in my profession do I ever meet someone of your standing.”
“The honor is all mine,” the General said. “It’s always my pleasure to encounter another professional. Dr. Staley told me you requested an interview about the crash out near the gulch. My commendations for making it here so quickly. Your employer must be pleased with your expediency.”
“I’ve had the best service times in the sector going on nine years now,” Wold said with pride.
“Well, here’s to you making it to ten,” the General said, raising his glass. “Would you care for a drink?”
“Thank you, no,” Wold said. “I really couldn’t. Not while I’m on the clock.”
“A consummate professional,” the General said. “Your supervisor better be careful. I might make you a job offer before the day is out. Now, what would you like to know?”
“Yes, right to business,” Wold said. “Let’s start with the alert systems. How were you informed of the crash?”
“We first received word from soldiers stationed in the area,” the General said. “With all the windstorms and treacherous terrain, we’ve come to depend on spotting things the old-fashioned way. Their report was then confirmed shortly after by our local satellites.”
“I see,” Wold said. “Are you aware of the transmission issues with your surveillance?”
“No,” the General said. “Those problems have not been on my radar.”
“Good one, sir,” Wold said. “I took the liberty of reviewing the logs and it seems there have been scattered drops in coverage over the past year, but starting this morning your required status transmissions to the central systems have been completely down.”
“I see…”
“Of course, this puts me in an awkward position,” Wold said. “Normally, I’d review the official footage and then confirm with you, but seeing as how I don’t have the official footage, I have to ask that you surrender those materials directly to me.”
“Not awkward at all,” the General said. “Give me just a moment.” He pulled out a fresh cigar and turned on his comms. “Brugada? Would you be a dear and retrieve the satellite footage we have from this morning? Yes, no, that won’t be necessary…and…oh, yes, Mr. Newton. Would you like a physical copy or is it alright if we upload directly to your Urn?”
“Direct upload works for me,” Wold said.
“Did you get that?” the General said. “Good. Thank you, Brugada. Now, what else can I do for you, Mr. Newton?”
“Well, given that the crash site was already, let’s just say ‘affected’ by your forensics team,” Wold said. “I’ll need copies of their analysis since my instruments were unable to pick up any usable readings.”
“Their yours,” the General said. “We have digital available, but if you want hard copies you’d have to go to the base in Atlas Rock.”
“I’ll need to go there anyway,” Wold said. “To directly interview the monitors who were clocked in at the time.”
“Of course,” the General said. “You’ll need special clearance to access the facility. Brugada? Will you get Mr. Newton’s Urn fitted with plates? Thank you.”
“I’m sure you’re a very busy man,” Wold said. He saved his files and tucked the clunky tablet back into his sack. “So, I’ll leave you to get back to business.”
“Your efforts are deeply appreciated, Mr. Newton,” the General said. “And, please don’t think I was being curt with the prospect of employing your services here on Terra. I’m always eager to attract the best and brightest to our humble little world.”
“I’ll definitely keep an open mind,” Wold said. “Thank you again and have a pleasant day.”
“You as well.”
Wold smiled and nodded his way out the door. The General sat a moment before torching his cigar to life. He refilled his glass and strolled out to the porch. He watched Wold trot off to his Urn. The door opened and the ramp unfurled with the process reversing once the sensors detected Wold was safely inside.
Brugada stepped up to the outpost. The General raised his eyebrow. Brugada simply nodded.
They watched as the thrusters fired up and the automatic systems took Wold up and over the desert toward Atlas Rock.
“Our status transmissions to the Central Alliance have been down since dawn,” the General said. “Have they given any word on reinstating them?”
“They’re flummoxed,” Brugada said. “We can still make calls and access the Nexus, but no military code is making it through.”
“Do they know what the problem is?” the General said. “The satellites are up, green lines all around, no abnormal solar activity in our neighborhood. There’s no reason they should be blocked.”
“I tried twisting the screws, but they won’t budge. It’s not a problem the tech-beards can fix. Least not any time soon.”
“That won’t do,” the General said. “No one in the Constant gives a toss about us, but they can’t have an entire system off the map.”
“Makes them look bad,” Brugada said. “Gives pencilpushers something to get up in arms about.”
“I calculate they’ll be here by the end of the next cycle,” the General said. “What’s the play here, Hatch?”
“They’ll be here sooner when that fella logs his report,” Brugada said. “We can stall him, but they’ll show up looking for trouble regardless.”
“Give me the trouble,” the General said. “We finish it tonight.”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Check your grocery list and close out all open contracts,” the General said. “Then I want you and yours stationed all over this town. If there’s a fireworks show, it’ll mean a tripled payday for the Feint.”
“I never turn down a good multiplier,” Brugada said.
“Because you’re a smart man,” the General said. “Did you register those plates yet?”
“Almost forgot,” Brugada said. He pulled out a remote and squeezed the handle three times.
“Good man.”
They shared a quick smile and then went their separate ways.
5:5
The microwave dinged. Wold scooted over from his console and pulled the cup of noodles out. He peeled the lid the rest of the way and tossed it in the bin where it was compacted and vacuum-sealed. He applied the flavor packet, stirred, and checked his trajectory: thirty miles from the Carbon Corps base in Atlas Rock.
He cracked open a seaweed tea and sipped while he waited for the noodles to cool. But, as was customary, he tried them too soon. While he was exhaling over the sizable portion of noodles burning his tongue, the ship’s computer began redirecting itself back to homebase, right on the border between the Outer Rim and the Klux Territories.
“What are you doing?” he said. Wold sat up in his chair and tapped the keyboard.
“No, no, no. Cancel. We’re not finished here.”
An override appeared on the screen. His credentials were no longer active. The Urn stopped forward thrust and hovered mid-air, turning up toward the sky.
Wold watched in horror as he saw the sun rising over the horizon and stars appear beyond the veil of Terra’s atmosphere. The tea spilled in his lap, the noodles tilted, hugging the bowl until they slipped and splattered onto the floor. He scooped up the direct link and attempted to send a distress signal. His ears were met with a single, unbroken tone, an endless beep of a failed connection.
The small shuttle’s engine then attempted a hard warp directly to the Central Alliance, but without the required authorized Pylon he was on a one-way trip smack into a paradox. The Urn went full blast and tore itself apart, smearing Wold Newton’s atoms across every available dimension of space and time; a short scream that echoed into infinity.
The God Complexes 