The station is failing.
Wake up.
You're going to fix it.
Wake up.
You're going to fix it.
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Statistics (5 threadmarks, 6.3k words)
User Total Laplace 5 Threadmarks Reader mode
1.1
- Location
- boundless optimism
The first thing you feel is the icy sensation of phantom fingers playing through your nerves as neural connections with the life support coffin severs. Then the rush of stale air into your lungs. The restraints- built to resist the first thrashings of a warm body waking up from cryosleep- strain at your attempts to tear yourself free, snapping not a second later.
You fall to the floor, retching and gasping. Perforated metal is stained with saliva and the last chunks of tasteless protoplasm. Everything hurts. Muscles feel like they're twisted towels stapled to your bones. Head feels like the finger of God pressing down on your skull, slowly, slowly, until it breaks and brains dribble out the hole.
Stand up. Collapse at the knees. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep your eyes closed. Try again. Fall again. Try again. Somebody's talking. Ignore them. Just stand up. Throw a hand somewhere and thank God that your fingers wrap around a railing. Stand up. Breathe in again. Breathe out. Repeat until you feel somewhat alive.
"I asked if you could hear me, company property," a voice cuts in. Now's a good time as ever to open your eyes, you suppose. "Nod if you can. Perhaps speech is too much to ask for you." Asshole. You nod and open your eyes.
The room is dark, tiny pinpricks of phosphorescent blue light shining on the minimalist decor. A monitoring console for the coffin behind you. A computer console to the right, set against a wall that proclaims DECEMBER CONGLOMERATE in eggshell blue. A locked door that proclaims it's status on a holographic panel.
Oh, and a dead body with their brain splattered across said door. The voice notices you looking at it. "That would be Roberta Ramirez. She was going to starve here, so she thought to exert a little bit of control in her last moments." Cold. Clinical. Unchanging.
You find your voice, forcing words through a throat made of sandpaper. "Who- Who are you?"
"SSIEVA. I am this station's command, control, and advisory AI. To preempt your next question, yes, we are on a station- the Toroid, a loosely connected ring of stations enveloping the planetoid Lyra Opichunious 04. First built to extract hydrates and organic-"
"I was actually going to ask you who I am," you say out of contrinaritan spirit.
"Company property. You are Sonmi 9-8, that is, a genejack with cognitive upgrades created in order for tasks requiring on the spot judgement. Your current directory is to repair the station."
For a long moment, you sit there in the room, cross legged with only the mechanical voice over the speakers and the dead body to keep you company. "What happened?" you ask, the question coming naturally to you.
"Unforseen astronomical activity. It has been ten years, three months, two weeks since several modules and entire stations were taken offline by astrological activity. And to forestall your next question, the warp-line to Earth is also critically damaged."
"Christ." The religious expletive comes naturally to you. Strange. You don't remember being religious- your memories are pumped full of skillsofts and behavior optimization from a slice of donors selected from deep-sea workers and other high stress careers. Phantom memories fill your brain, ten thousand procedures from the bottom of the Marianas Trench to cislunar stations.
"It's as good as a time for religion as any other. Take the gun. I'll direct you to a terminal where the scope of the damage will be much clearer." The door unlocks, the red hologram blinking into green. You flick some specks of plasm off of you, picking up the gun slick with blood in your left hand. The room where you were brought online was one of many in a long corridor lit with nothing but phosphorescent emergency lighting stretching from your left and terminating on your right. It was constrictive. Tight. You couldn't even extend your arms fully and the roof was a scant few inches from scraping your bald scalp.
You take a peek at one of the other closet-like spaces. "Were there any other genejacks?"
"Many. Most failed within the week. Some of them succeeded. But not for long."
Each alcove- that's a better word to describe the rooms, you think, because closet makes you feel like just a janitor's mop- has a coffin. Most of them are open, empty. You can occasionally see some that are closed, with another genejack within. You could count those rooms on one hand.
The corridor ends in a pair of double doors hissing open at your approach. There was a small lobby, similarly lit with emergency lights. And, from the sudden thump of your knee against a desk, evidently full of… desks. A terminal on the far end of the room starts up on your approach, the bright white light illuminating a path through the desks. As the computer finishes the boot procedure, you place the pistol on the desk and check it. Safety's good. The clip is half empty, but the spring isn't rusted. The exterior is still slick and sticky, so you grab some napkins from a box to wipe it down, just as the computer finishes and asks for a password.
You immediately put your fingers on the keyboard. Some kind of ingrown muscle memory gives you the username and the password. A few clicks later and the screen is covered in a 3-D representation of the Toroid. SSIEVA wasn't lying, you thought as you squinted into the glare. The wireform representation surrounds the planetoid like a ring.
But it's broken. Of the twelve citadels, only one - the one you're in- is green-for-go, and only partially. The rest? Hull breaches. Hazardous radioactive zones. Areas marked 'xenoflora infestation.' And more. You lean back, exhaling deeply. "It's never going to be fixed," you say, giving a reply perfectly in line with company policy. "If it's been ten years, we should have fixed the warp-line and had an evac ship rescue all pertinent survivors." You rub your eyes, fumbling at the brightness settings. "Hell, there should be a rescue ship orbiting this station right now, assuming you needed a year to repair the line.
"Indeed. When the meteorites hit, that was the first thing the Station Director did. She sent a transmission to the warp-line crew and a shuttle carrying necessary supplies to repair the damage. The shuttle never made it."
"Huh." You zoom in on the station you're on. "Power plant looks a bit iffy- there's some gunk in there. Should be easy to fix, as long as I get some drones. I'd be a bit worried about the O2 cleaners- do we have any stockpiles left?" You blink, another, more pressing question coming into your mind. "Where is everyone, by the way?"
"There are roughly a thousand, maybe a bit less people on the Toroid. Population has been steadily declining. Birth rates are outmatched by death rates- internecine gang warfare, natural hazard, and disease are the most common cause."
"Gang warfare?"
"Correct. In fact, in this citadel there are two thirty man gangs controlling the rails and hydroponics. I wouldn't recommend talking to them. In fact, I would suggest you avoid contact as best you can with everyone." You grunt in assent, thinking over your choices.
You're Going To
[ ]- The Power Plant: It's the easiest task. It's practically janitorial work. Get in, supervise the cleaner clones, get out. Just, you know, don't trip into a hazard on the way.
[ ]- The O2 Scrubbers: Searching the station for filters or things to build slash repair filters might be a pain, but do you know what else is a pain? Choking to death.
[ ]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
You fall to the floor, retching and gasping. Perforated metal is stained with saliva and the last chunks of tasteless protoplasm. Everything hurts. Muscles feel like they're twisted towels stapled to your bones. Head feels like the finger of God pressing down on your skull, slowly, slowly, until it breaks and brains dribble out the hole.
Stand up. Collapse at the knees. Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep your eyes closed. Try again. Fall again. Try again. Somebody's talking. Ignore them. Just stand up. Throw a hand somewhere and thank God that your fingers wrap around a railing. Stand up. Breathe in again. Breathe out. Repeat until you feel somewhat alive.
"I asked if you could hear me, company property," a voice cuts in. Now's a good time as ever to open your eyes, you suppose. "Nod if you can. Perhaps speech is too much to ask for you." Asshole. You nod and open your eyes.
The room is dark, tiny pinpricks of phosphorescent blue light shining on the minimalist decor. A monitoring console for the coffin behind you. A computer console to the right, set against a wall that proclaims DECEMBER CONGLOMERATE in eggshell blue. A locked door that proclaims it's status on a holographic panel.
Oh, and a dead body with their brain splattered across said door. The voice notices you looking at it. "That would be Roberta Ramirez. She was going to starve here, so she thought to exert a little bit of control in her last moments." Cold. Clinical. Unchanging.
You find your voice, forcing words through a throat made of sandpaper. "Who- Who are you?"
"SSIEVA. I am this station's command, control, and advisory AI. To preempt your next question, yes, we are on a station- the Toroid, a loosely connected ring of stations enveloping the planetoid Lyra Opichunious 04. First built to extract hydrates and organic-"
"I was actually going to ask you who I am," you say out of contrinaritan spirit.
"Company property. You are Sonmi 9-8, that is, a genejack with cognitive upgrades created in order for tasks requiring on the spot judgement. Your current directory is to repair the station."
For a long moment, you sit there in the room, cross legged with only the mechanical voice over the speakers and the dead body to keep you company. "What happened?" you ask, the question coming naturally to you.
"Unforseen astronomical activity. It has been ten years, three months, two weeks since several modules and entire stations were taken offline by astrological activity. And to forestall your next question, the warp-line to Earth is also critically damaged."
"Christ." The religious expletive comes naturally to you. Strange. You don't remember being religious- your memories are pumped full of skillsofts and behavior optimization from a slice of donors selected from deep-sea workers and other high stress careers. Phantom memories fill your brain, ten thousand procedures from the bottom of the Marianas Trench to cislunar stations.
"It's as good as a time for religion as any other. Take the gun. I'll direct you to a terminal where the scope of the damage will be much clearer." The door unlocks, the red hologram blinking into green. You flick some specks of plasm off of you, picking up the gun slick with blood in your left hand. The room where you were brought online was one of many in a long corridor lit with nothing but phosphorescent emergency lighting stretching from your left and terminating on your right. It was constrictive. Tight. You couldn't even extend your arms fully and the roof was a scant few inches from scraping your bald scalp.
You take a peek at one of the other closet-like spaces. "Were there any other genejacks?"
"Many. Most failed within the week. Some of them succeeded. But not for long."
Each alcove- that's a better word to describe the rooms, you think, because closet makes you feel like just a janitor's mop- has a coffin. Most of them are open, empty. You can occasionally see some that are closed, with another genejack within. You could count those rooms on one hand.
The corridor ends in a pair of double doors hissing open at your approach. There was a small lobby, similarly lit with emergency lights. And, from the sudden thump of your knee against a desk, evidently full of… desks. A terminal on the far end of the room starts up on your approach, the bright white light illuminating a path through the desks. As the computer finishes the boot procedure, you place the pistol on the desk and check it. Safety's good. The clip is half empty, but the spring isn't rusted. The exterior is still slick and sticky, so you grab some napkins from a box to wipe it down, just as the computer finishes and asks for a password.
You immediately put your fingers on the keyboard. Some kind of ingrown muscle memory gives you the username and the password. A few clicks later and the screen is covered in a 3-D representation of the Toroid. SSIEVA wasn't lying, you thought as you squinted into the glare. The wireform representation surrounds the planetoid like a ring.
But it's broken. Of the twelve citadels, only one - the one you're in- is green-for-go, and only partially. The rest? Hull breaches. Hazardous radioactive zones. Areas marked 'xenoflora infestation.' And more. You lean back, exhaling deeply. "It's never going to be fixed," you say, giving a reply perfectly in line with company policy. "If it's been ten years, we should have fixed the warp-line and had an evac ship rescue all pertinent survivors." You rub your eyes, fumbling at the brightness settings. "Hell, there should be a rescue ship orbiting this station right now, assuming you needed a year to repair the line.
"Indeed. When the meteorites hit, that was the first thing the Station Director did. She sent a transmission to the warp-line crew and a shuttle carrying necessary supplies to repair the damage. The shuttle never made it."
"Huh." You zoom in on the station you're on. "Power plant looks a bit iffy- there's some gunk in there. Should be easy to fix, as long as I get some drones. I'd be a bit worried about the O2 cleaners- do we have any stockpiles left?" You blink, another, more pressing question coming into your mind. "Where is everyone, by the way?"
"There are roughly a thousand, maybe a bit less people on the Toroid. Population has been steadily declining. Birth rates are outmatched by death rates- internecine gang warfare, natural hazard, and disease are the most common cause."
"Gang warfare?"
"Correct. In fact, in this citadel there are two thirty man gangs controlling the rails and hydroponics. I wouldn't recommend talking to them. In fact, I would suggest you avoid contact as best you can with everyone." You grunt in assent, thinking over your choices.
You're Going To
[ ]- The Power Plant: It's the easiest task. It's practically janitorial work. Get in, supervise the cleaner clones, get out. Just, you know, don't trip into a hazard on the way.
[ ]- The O2 Scrubbers: Searching the station for filters or things to build slash repair filters might be a pain, but do you know what else is a pain? Choking to death.
[ ]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
Last edited:
- Location
- Seattle, Washington
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
You gotta take care of yourself before you can deal with anything else and we're doing no one any favors dead. If we were going to die from lack of O2 in the next few hours we'd have prolly been told to deal with that first.
Take care of immediate needs then worry longer term I say.
You gotta take care of yourself before you can deal with anything else and we're doing no one any favors dead. If we were going to die from lack of O2 in the next few hours we'd have prolly been told to deal with that first.
Take care of immediate needs then worry longer term I say.
SuperSonicSound
Shadowmancer of the Shadow Cabal
[X]- The O2 Scrubbers: Searching the station for filters or things to build slash repair filters might be a pain, but do you know what else is a pain? Choking to death.
THatWhichWillBe
The Squiddly One
- Location
- In The Darkened Deep
[X]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
Priority One: Uphold Company Policy.
Priority Two: Ensure you still exist to Uphold Company Policy.
Priority One: Uphold Company Policy.
Priority Two: Ensure you still exist to Uphold Company Policy.
- Location
- Newer England
[X]- The O2 Scrubbers: Searching the station for filters or things to build slash repair filters might be a pain, but do you know what else is a pain? Choking to death.
After ten years and at least one ongoing conflict, security lockers have probably been cleaned out already.
After ten years and at least one ongoing conflict, security lockers have probably been cleaned out already.
That should be astronomical, unless this is a universe where there is real star-based magic or somesuch.
[X] The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
- Location
- not here any more
[X]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
- Location
- New England
[X]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
Fricking SSIEVA can just kiss our ass until we get some better tools.
Fricking SSIEVA can just kiss our ass until we get some better tools.
- Location
- Fort Worth, TX
[X] The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
- Location
- On Earth
[X]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
Night_stalker
Slava Ukraini!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X]- The O2 Scrubbers: Searching the station for filters or things to build slash repair filters might be a pain, but do you know what else is a pain? Choking to death.
- Location
- Elsewhere
[X]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
inquisition
Not Affiliated With the Spanish Church
- Location
- Valkenheim
[X]- The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
[x] - The Security Locker
[X] The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
Solarstream
It's all in the cards
- Location
- Zombie World
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The Security Locker: Before everything, you want to make sure that you can live to get to your destination. That means guns, and not the ones on your shoulders.
- Location
- boundless optimism
alright votes are called for security locker
Will be writing update now.
Will be writing update now.