Djak Mikos
SWRP Writer
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- Nov 19, 2010
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((OOC: Ok, let's try this again))
An engine's silence is louder than any explosion.
The usual throbbing purr of the hyperdrive motivators was gone, the giant hold that usually reverberated with the drone was still, and an eerie silence pressed its hand upon Djak's ears.
Was it just him, or was it a little colder, too? The flat air usually carried a chill, but now Djak could see his breath in the dim lights from the few glowpanels. Why the crew even bothered leaving glowpanels on in the cargo holds was beyond Djak's imagination. No one entered the holds between ports, the maintinance crawlspaces were sufficient for repairs.
Resisting the urge to crawl out of his hideaway right away, Djak began his usual checklist. Placing his glowlight by the stack of crates that hid his camp, he packed his small kit into the backpack he'd been using as a pillow. The survival blankets, the portable refresher, the box of freeze-dried rations he'd been eating dry...
Frowning, he rechecked the box. It was still more than half full.
While it was very easy to lose one's sense of time in a perpetually half-lit alcove, Djak knew that something was wrong. He always ate one box a week--always--and while he might eat more, he never ate less.
He checked his chrono out of reflex, but it hadn't magically repaired itself since the last time he'd scanned the broken screen. Biting back a curse, he sat back to think.
Either the freighter had made excellent time... or the freighter was dead in space.
Three days? No, not an old crate like this. It arrived on time, every time, or fell behind schedule due to engine failure.
And the engines hadn't failed, the cut-off had been too deliberate. He would have heard the emergency generators, seen the flicker in the glowpanels. Someone had switched off the drives in the control room.
But why?
There was only one way to find out. Leaving his backpack, Djak crept out from behind his stack of crates, his vibroknife clenched in one fist, the reassuring coils of his neuro-whip heavy at his side.
No patrols. No knots of mechanics. Everything was just as it had always been.
Curiosity overcame him, and he set off down the narrow path between the piles of crates, hoping that the dust hadn't accumulated enough to mark his passage.
His light was out and he was picking his way carefully up an access ladder when he heard a faint chink that was instantly muffled.
Someone else was in the hold, someone who, like him, didn't want to be heard.
An engine's silence is louder than any explosion.
The usual throbbing purr of the hyperdrive motivators was gone, the giant hold that usually reverberated with the drone was still, and an eerie silence pressed its hand upon Djak's ears.
Was it just him, or was it a little colder, too? The flat air usually carried a chill, but now Djak could see his breath in the dim lights from the few glowpanels. Why the crew even bothered leaving glowpanels on in the cargo holds was beyond Djak's imagination. No one entered the holds between ports, the maintinance crawlspaces were sufficient for repairs.
Resisting the urge to crawl out of his hideaway right away, Djak began his usual checklist. Placing his glowlight by the stack of crates that hid his camp, he packed his small kit into the backpack he'd been using as a pillow. The survival blankets, the portable refresher, the box of freeze-dried rations he'd been eating dry...
Frowning, he rechecked the box. It was still more than half full.
While it was very easy to lose one's sense of time in a perpetually half-lit alcove, Djak knew that something was wrong. He always ate one box a week--always--and while he might eat more, he never ate less.
He checked his chrono out of reflex, but it hadn't magically repaired itself since the last time he'd scanned the broken screen. Biting back a curse, he sat back to think.
Either the freighter had made excellent time... or the freighter was dead in space.
Three days? No, not an old crate like this. It arrived on time, every time, or fell behind schedule due to engine failure.
And the engines hadn't failed, the cut-off had been too deliberate. He would have heard the emergency generators, seen the flicker in the glowpanels. Someone had switched off the drives in the control room.
But why?
There was only one way to find out. Leaving his backpack, Djak crept out from behind his stack of crates, his vibroknife clenched in one fist, the reassuring coils of his neuro-whip heavy at his side.
No patrols. No knots of mechanics. Everything was just as it had always been.
Curiosity overcame him, and he set off down the narrow path between the piles of crates, hoping that the dust hadn't accumulated enough to mark his passage.
His light was out and he was picking his way carefully up an access ladder when he heard a faint chink that was instantly muffled.
Someone else was in the hold, someone who, like him, didn't want to be heard.
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