EVE Fiction

"A642F, two hunnerd kilometers'n closin'," Jocson DeVisconei's rough voice curled through the smoke of a tense bridge. Eleven men scuttled through this haze; "Smoke'em if you got'em" wasn't a hobby, here; it was a lifestyle. On the bridge of the Dragon Harvester, it was a necessity to retain a crate of tobacco for the purpose, alone, of retaining sanity during a long harvest.

Lighting shifted to back-lit red; systems set to alert, if anything went amiss, the broad-shouldered, light-skinned bastard at the "helm" of the bridge, bound tightly underneath dragon tattoos and the whispered doctrines of the Blood Gurista written across his collarbones--disappearing under a threadbare shirt--repeatedly tapped buttons at his hands' ends, taking to heart the words his first mate uttered. Others moved through the haze, unconcerned with either as they strode through a common interchange of voice to adapted direction. One following a scoutship, ahead another hundred meters, and leading five more ships into what potentially may produce near to two billion in product.

The bearded, gruff man reading distance to the younger man at the helm console, reaches out to grab a fresh pack from the crate between them, ripping it open to light afresh. Having had no shortage of luck since they took to the skies, outside of the temperate nightmare that left them grounded nearly two years, Jocson would not, for the last time, sigh in contentment and pretend to settle back as a grandfather ought; to feign sleep and wait for the ship to take its place before the coming asteroids. A grunt from the younger man has the older tipping his tattooed bulk back upright, and he returns to his work in dictating the belt's proximity.

Twittering jingles rise from a side of the hazy interior, and both men turn their gazes over. "Entering anomaly distortion field," a voice calls out. There is nothing in the voice to raise an alarm from either, and the two return to their work; the levelling of the Dragon is work-enough, without something unusual adding itself into play. The younger, Trip, glances through the haze to the view screen, "Shew an'om." Moments later, the screen ripples with a static-bound view of crokite, veldspar and kernite, spread haphazardly around a broken shell of a structure; its surfaces glittering both with age and ice, though its center retains its mysterious heat from an era unknown.

Hands wringing through an intricate dance, Trip brings the Dragon's back end around slowly, working that massive end into a gradual backing-up to the edges of the belt's outskirts. He glances at the view screen, again, swallowing as he takes the pack from Jocson, lighting a fresh one even as some jack takes the tray they've been filling up away for emptying. Clearing his throat, he opens thruster bays, dropping warp-enhancers for those "just in case" moments. Someone mentions the need for them, with such a payload at the forefront of their screens; Trip's hand reaches out and he cuffs the unfortunate across the back of the head, "Kee'em ou'; tha' source ou'dere's edgin' me ner'se."

This old beast has been through a hell of a lot in the last four years. From its spaceward home, it had spun out of control when struck by a pilot in a ship of comparable size--almost a battleship, it was; they together had plummeted into atmosphere, skipping in and out of it repeatedly until the planet claimed the both of them for its own possessions. Kicking the drives into high gear, thrusters and sup-warps together straining against their mountings, Trip had brought the beast into a heavy glide through the thick air of the system; its landing was atrocious, but the casualties were nominal--his brother rumored amongst them, although only a fair few knew the truth of that--and the large combat ship incinerated before it struck the planet's floors beneath its skies.

Outside of a large metropolis, the ship had sat in its broken form nearly a month before the repairs began and, after nearly three years of hard work, settling into planetary harvesting and other methods of financial acquisition, the Dragon was back in space lanes, earning her repairs more than tenfold by the day.

From the leadening shock of the ship's sudden hurtle across space, as it starts to level, Trip is dragging himself out from underneath a console. Men prone around him, he drags himself upright, turning his eyes side to side to view the damages; it'd help if he could heard what's going on, and his palm claps off the side of his head. It feels wet; he pulls his hand around, finding blood on his palm. Movement draws his eyes away from his hand. Jocson is rising to his feet, the man stretching his meaty bulk up, shaking out hurt as best as he can, as Trip is headed to the nearest console, to check on damage.

Vibrations ricochet and thrum underfoot, sparks scatter from the ceilings, down the halls--his eyes squinting, Trip taps buttons, then pounds a fist against the console when its power source dies. Punching the console, again, he heads for the next in line, working to find a diagnostic for the ship's internals. He needs to know what can be done to save her, because he doesn't want to have to rebuild her. Another console across the room flickers, then dies, and another--it might have been his place, or Jocson's, that fades.

The older man is in Trip's way when he moves for the next console in line, as his own is faltering, darkening. He moves to step around him, but Jocson follows, moving in front of him to stop him.

"Ye need tae jump, Trip."

That earns the older man a glare, and a shove; Trip launches Jocson into a chair, and he crosses the room, men scrambling to get out of his way. The view screen has life, yet, and one of the remaining consoles is flickering, still, with power. As long as he has power, he's going to find a way out of this.

"She's 'urtin', b'she ain't gone ye'...." Hands wrap around his shoulders, and he shrugs them off. Those heavy hands return, and Trip is spun around, Jocson staring him in the face, the two nearly forehead to forehead, "Ye nee' tae go; wi'ou' ye, 'dere's nae a way tae g't back'ere... Ye'll need tae g't 'de Drag'n back. B'ye cain't if'n ye don' jump, nao."

Shaking his head, the younger man jerks out of the grip of the older man, moving around him, to drop heavily into the chair in front of the console, fingers wringing furious formulae into the remaining systems, seeking some kind of life from the thrusters that remain intact. Men spring into action as his ministrations cause a panel to raise to some semblance of life, rushing to get to some of their places while Trip forces the dying harvester into a gradual shifting-around. Two thrusters aren't much, but they're something to work with.

"Trip." The voice is right behind him, gripping the captain's chair firmly, as much to hold himself up, as to stop the younger man from a futile action.

"I's nae gon' dae tha'! She kin b'sav't ye'!" A beast of a man snarled into the microphone nestled against a cheek heavily tattooed in dragon motif, many times repaired captain's chair creaking as he leaps onto the floor of the harvester's bridge. Around him, the lights and the alerts of a dozen decks breached by issue screamed warnings of impending loss to the men rushing about the working bridge of the worn ship; other men paused in their frenzied activity to salvage the remaining men on board the ship into shuttles and boats......