Chapter 2: "So you think YOU'VE got troubles?"

Author: Marc Morisseau
Original Publishing date: 3/28/01

The Station
Darian stretched and yawned in his chair, swiveling to look out the view port of his office. Staring back at him was what the crew affectionately called “Little Red,” the planetoid that held Rogue Island Station in its geosynchronous orbit. Little Red was larger than Earth’s Moon but smaller than Mars; it also had a thin atmosphere and the same dusty-brown appearance. And the similarities were one of the reasons why the station’s original settlers made this part of the galaxy their home. There had been attempts to settle on and even mine the planet, but it became either too expensive or was deemed a waste of precious resources. Darian even recalled stories about early survey missions disappearing without a trace; something about getting lost in the myriad of caves that scattered the planet.

Shaking cobwebs from his head, Darian turned to his desk and began reading the onslaught of reports off the monitor. “Let’s see” he toned to himself. “Juice bar’s been cleaned up after that messy no-restrooms incident, there’s a new shop opening on level 9, and Floyd reports that the new solar sails we purchased from that Tentarian dealer are fully functional. Good, no more unexpected blackouts” he chimed. “Commander” said Floyd, “would you please come down to Docking Bay 6? We’re having some problems with the docking threads.” “Be right there, Floyd” said Darian.

Docking Bay 6
“Darian, I’ve told you before, I don’t trust this alien technology” gurgled I’D’Arae, the station’s security chief. “Here, take a look.” Darian looked out the docking bay’s viewport, and saw that one of the station’s rescue pods was hovering just outside the thread’s range. “It’s empty, we’re controlling it from here” said Ida, “and in a moment you’ll see why.” She toggled a joystick in her tentacle, and the pod began to move closer to the station, leaving a stream of fuel in its wake. “10 seconds till we’re in docking range” said Ida. Three other technicians stood by, their faces strained. “4,3,2,1” Ida finished. A loud whoosh erupted from the sides of the docking port, and six long, metal tendrils shot their way out of the station, headed for the pod. Four of the threads wrapped around the circumference of the hull, adjusting themselves for tension and the size of the ship. But the last two drove straight through the rescue pod’s hatch, where the operator would be sitting. Sparks flew and the station shuddered as the pod was torn into two very messy pieces. Then, as quickly as they had destroyed the ship, the docking threads released themselves from the wreckage, and recoiled into their slips. Ida turned to Darian, clearly frustrated, while the techs tried to look anywhere but in the Commander’s direction.
“Get this fixed gentlemen” said Darian.