Rita was lost. She'd built her scepter with a failsafe transporter function, but the Ruby Ranger's flying star had destroyed the focusing crystal. She was lucky not to have materialized inside a star, or back in her prison jar.
Rita supposed she should be grateful for that, but it was hard to feel anything but rage when she was cowering in a shallow crater, using the last of her scepter's fading power to broadcast a fitful static shield against a hurricane. She didn't even have the power to transform her clothes into something more weather-appropriate, so she waited out the storm the same way she'd waited out much of her incarceration: cursing Zordon at the top of her lungs.
Once, she had ruled it all! Oh, the grand vision she once had! Once, not a drop of liquid had dared rain down anywhere in the cosmos without her permission! Zordon, by contrast, wanted to let the weeds grow. He had fought her, and was determined to keep fighting her, and for what? To let anarchy and entropy run wild? How could he claim to cherish free will and chaos, when his shelves had creaked under the weight of his carefully-crafted bottles and jars?
She shivered, half from hypothermia, and half from fury at how thoroughly her work had been undone. The only solace she could take was that their final duel had appeared to have either crippled him substantially, or else he had gone truly mad with power. Zordon had always faced his challengers directly, but somehow he'd scraped together enough raw material and high energy to create Rangers to fight in his stead.
Rangers. The word had an unpleasant thought-texture, like goo. Rangers were always the last recourse of wizards grown decrepit from excesses of power. But if Zordon thought to intimidate her, he was mistaken. She wasn't going away. Oh, no! She would persist, and drain every glimmer of power out of Zordon's desolate remains. One way or another, she would rise again and take back what was hers!
A mighty crash of lightning and thunder erupted over her head, and Rita curled into a tight ball as carbonized debris from the lip of the crater spilled down on top of her. The sloped crater wall gave way, and she lost her footing, falling and gasping for air as she was buried in a suffocating, paralyzing weight of dust and rock. Her weak static shield was no match for it, and it failed entirely with a spark and a brief whiff of ozone. She held her breath as the darkness and silence enveloped her again. Dust trickled down Rita's collar and shifted across her back like millions of tiny fingers, and for a second, it was if she'd never escaped her stone bucket at all. Was she still in there, hallucinating this oppressive weight of rubble that held her?
Rita had endured ten thousand years of incorporeal suspension in her prison. At first, her mind had been convinced that she still had a physical body. She could wiggle her toes and feel her heart beat. But over time, the sensations became disorganized. She would wake from sleep feeling as if her arms and legs were rapidly coiling themselves into springs, or that her neck was growing, launching her head through space at a dizzying speed. Her hands had slowly disappeared. The erosion started at the tips of her fingers and progressed upwards til it stopped at her elbows and tingled maddeningly. She had screamed in agony as her toes curled back on the tops of her feet, and her torso twisted at the waist, her head and shoulders in one direction, her waist and legs in the opposite.
For a time, she was convinced Zordon had killed her, and her spirit had ended up in the Never Place. But when she had calmed down enough to consider her situation, she realized that Zordon, for all his intensity, would not have killed her. It wasn't his way. His obsession with the non-lethal Ridding Ways had always confounded her, but Zordon had always had a predilection for the obscure. His cursed pottery wheel, his collection of jars that grew as the number of his opponents dwindled. In the utter void of her prison she finally put it all together, and resigned herself to wait, and to imagine her victory yet to come.
So, Rita had passed the millenia in a state of lucid dreaming, crafting an entire universe of experience and sensation within her own mind. Vivid hallucinations of countless worlds on which she designed innumerable fortresses; she invented tools and technology with which to conquer the universe, conversed with mentors and fought with adversaries. She was Queen Empress of All Creation in a thousand different ways, of thousands of different worlds, richly and submissively populated. Over and over again, she imagined herself escaping her prison and destroying Zordon. She played it through her mind so often that the details had begun to fade like writing on parchment. So each time, she found novel, more excruciating ways to exact her revenge, and each time, it worked perfectly.
Until the Yellow Ranger shot her with his gun, and waves of real, paralyzing pain exploded through her nerves. That was when she finally realized her dream had come true, that she was finally free.
Some wake up call!
The smell of raw earth filled her nostrils, and her limbs began to feel heavy and tingly.
Then, she felt a strong vibration as her prison of debris began to break apart. She heard a loud mechanical rumble as air and light assaulted her senses. She gasped greedily, tumbling out of the collapsed bank.
Rita staggered to her feet, bracing herself on her broken scepter and coughing clouds of dust. The storm had passed, and the day was bright, grey and cold. She straightened, and beheld her savior: a spidery, hydraulic contraption half again as tall as she was, made of a patchwork of metal joints that looked like camouflage against the shifting grey clouds overhead. Its six legs were arrayed around a central potbellied pillar. One of the legs ended in a forked shovel that was slicing down through the pile of rubble. A slot on the machine's belly opened and the shovel retracted, dumping a load of crushed rock and dust inside. Moving behind the machine, Rita saw stenciling on the central pillar:
PROcessing and SPECTrometry for Ore Recovery
PROSPECTOR
UNIT
property of
GALACTIC MINING CORP.
Rita uttered a wheezing laugh. A mining station! Luck was still on her side. She spotted a small control panel on the central pillar and approached, using part of her tattered cape to mask the clouds of dust billowing from the shovel. A few taps at the keypad, and Rita discovered that the machine was programmed to return to base when its load was full, a determination it made based on weight.
She checked the machine's capacity, and then raced around to the front and scrambled into the shovel as it scraped towards the debris pile again. The shovel stopped, lifted, and withdrew towards the open slot on its belly. Rita braced herself for the tip, and landed in a crouch on the pile of rock inside. The slot began to close, but Rita stuck her scepter in it to keep it open. She'd already been trapped in a pile debris once today, thanks very much!
Her calculations proved accurate. She heard the hydraulics whine and hum through the bowels of the metal beast as the shovel docked, and the legs began to lift the central pillar off the ground. With a mighty lurch, the machine climbed out of the shallow crater and began its lumbering trek. She braced herself against the walls of the storage compartment as it lurched side-to-side. Grit pressed into her fingertips, and the air was heavy with metallic dust and hot machinery. It felt good to be alive!
From a distance, the mining complex looked like a moderately-sized city. Huge, hulking domes lurked on the horizon, but they were soon revealed to be rows of massive storage silos. Rising over the silos was a veritable maze of pipes and infrastructure that periodically belched black fumes and flame, and sprawled for several kilometers in every direction. She could see other machines, similar in design to the PROSPECTOR Unit, drifting in and out of the metalworks, screeching and crashing as they moved their limbs in tireless function. At the center of the mechanical maze, Rita spotted an open space that was probably a launch pad.
The complex was bordered by a line of metal pillars with high-tension cables strung between them. The pillars towered so high that Rita got vertigo as she looked up at them. A gust of wind brought a cloud of dust with it, and when it impacted the fence, the air between the cables shimmered and buzzed with green-yellow energy. An electromagnetic shield fence, Rita realized, feeling her hair begin to stand up as the lumbering PROSPECTOR carried her through a gap in the fence.
Scanning her surroundings through the open slot, she quickly realized that this station appeared to be totally automated. Then she spotted a homely building nestled at the end of a row of silos. It wasn't too difficult to pull herself up over the edge of the slot and drop to the ground, snatching her scepter and rolling clear of the PROSPECTOR's giant legs. She'd quickly sensed that this planetoid had relatively low gravity. She got up and made for the building.
It was very plain, with a single automatic door at ground level, and two rows of slitted windows above. A plaque by the door read:
RHO INDUS ALPHA CRACKING STATION
Operated by
GALACTIC MINING CORP.
UNITED FEDERATION OF PLANETS
Contract No. 1284 . 07 . 5C
A slow smile spread across Rita's face. Still in the Federation? Even better.
The door wasn't locked and slid open for her. Light panels flickered to life as she stepped inside. It was a foyer or primitive airlock of some kind. After the door behind her had closed, the one in front of her opened, revealing a computerized control center. Rita took amusement from how similar the design of this facility was in comparison to the base on Iota Draconis. Mass production was always the saving grace of empire-building.
A huge computer screen across the back wall caught her eye. It was a star map. How thoughtful of the Federation to always make sure their uninvited guests knew where they were! Gleefully, Rita explored the database, cackling aloud to herself at what she discovered. Rho Indus Alpha wasn't just a mine and refinery. It was the largest mine and refinery in this quadrant of the galaxy. The planetoid was small in size, but incredibly dense with mineralogical resources. Those silos held vast reserves of dilithium crystals, deuterium, plasma coolant and just about every other critical chemical compound that every starship and starbase in the Federation needed, not to mention even larger stores of the raw materials to make them. What wasn't excavated locally was regularly shipped in from other systems, and the final productes were shipped out at Warp speed to other ships, space stations and outposts in the neighboring systems. The outpost even had its own fleet of orbital cargo shuttles.
It was a massive strategic flaw on the Federation's part, and Rita could scarcely contain her excitement. Turning from the computer bank, she opened another door and found herself in a spare, clearly neglected office. But there was a large display case mounted on one wall, full of mineral specimens that had come from the planet's crust. Rita's eyes fixed on one of them, a cloudy, spiky chunk of amber crystal. Just the thing to repair her broken scepter!
She had been out of her right mind last time, still reeling from her long captivity. This time, she would strike at the very heart of this fragile civilization; this time, she would be unstoppable!
Rita began to laugh. High, scratchy from inhaled dust and screaming, her voice bounced off the walls, the only living sound on the entire planetoid.
Ensign Pavel Chekov was only a few more hits away from exploding the space slug, but every time his shuttle got within torpedo range, the slug would launch endless salvos of spawn at him. He was having trouble navigating around them, and if he tried to shoot them, he risked running out of torpedoes before he could take out the slug. So close!
A meal tray clattered onto the tabletop beside him. Pavel startled, pressed the wrong button and sent his tiny spaceship right into a cluster of spawn. The PADD speakers uttered a despairing little tune, and the words GAME OVER scrolled across the screen. "Hey, what is the big idea?" Pavel complained. He looked up, and felt his annoyance ease slightly. "Oh, sorry, Sulu."
"No, it's my fault. My arms are a little tired from fencing practice. It was drop it here, or on the floor. The meal cubes are surprisingly...heavy today." Sulu grimaced at the garishly colored protein blocks on his plate.
Pavel followed his gaze and shrugged. "The green ones aren't bad."
Sulu sat down, looking skeptical. "Yeah? What do they taste like?"
"I don't know," Pavel admitted after a moment's thought. "I couldn't place it."
"Great." Sulu poked at the cube, and it jiggled. He recoiled and shook his head. Pavel felt a touch of schadenfreude and smirked. "Still working on those transporter conversions?" Sulu asked, pointing at Pavel's PADD.
Pavel stretched extravagantly. "Finished hours ago, Sulu. Scotty was most pleased with my work. Easy. Nawigating the Denebean Mine Field, that's hard."
"Is that version five?" Sulu asked eagerly, reaching for the PADD.
Pavel slid it towards him with a sigh. "Yes, it came in with this morning's upgrades."
"About time!" Sulu exclaimed, studying the screen and typing. "I've got friends back home who've been telling me about this version for weeks. It's supposed to be really hard, because they've changed it so that when you fire the torpedoes at close range, the game-Wait a second, your saved game. You're already halfway through it?" Sulu stopped and stared at Pavel.
Pavel felt chagrined. "The game physics are a lot more realistic this time. It makes the key commands more awkward."
"More awkward? Nigh impossible, I've heard. I don't know how you do it, man." Sulu put the PADD back on the table.
Pavel scowled deeper. "I have lots of free time."
"What's that mean?" Sulu asked, hesitantly poking his fork into one of the green cubes.
Pavel slouched, staring past Sulu to the one crowded table in the mess hall. The main meal shift had ended nearly an hour ago, but the group-ensigns, huddled tightly around the table-showed no signs of breaking up yet. "Nothing."
Sulu turned his head just in time to see the group burst into hoots of "Klacto! Klacto!" Sulu turned back to Pavel, and his expression was knowing. "There are better things in life than being able to join the Klacto pool."
"I know," Pavel snapped, sinking even lower into his chair, his chin practically resting on his chest. "But it's the principle. 'Sorry, Chekov, we're playing for real credits.' 'We'd love you to join us, Chekov, but you know the rules.'" He glared disgustedly at Sulu. "And then there was, 'Sorry, tyke.' Sorry. Tyke. Who ewen uses a word like 'tyke'?"
Sulu sipped his coffee and winced, but whether it was in sympathy, or a reaction to the bitter brew, Pavel couldn't tell. "Try not to let it bother you. I was living on emergency rations by the time I got smart enough to pull out. You're better off not venturing towards that blackhole."
Pavel rolled his eyes. "But the other day the computer locked me out of a training simulation."
"Why?"
"'Age restriction detected. Simulation locked,'" Pavel recited, gesturing as if the words were a giant invisible banner in front of his face. Sulu sputtered into his coffee cup, rankling Pavel's raw nerves. "That's pretty much how Commander Spock responded, too," he muttered darkly.
"Oh, come on."
"No, really. His eyebrow went up, and I could just tell he was trying not to laugh." Pavel straightened enough to lean closer to Sulu. Dropping his voice, he added, "Not that he'd ewer admit it. No one ewer admits it, but it's always there. Ewer since I was first moved in with the upperclassman, I've always sensed it, eweryone patronising malchik moy Chekov."
"What does that mean?" Sulu asked.
"'My little boy,'" Chekov translated, his voice thick with disgust.
"That's ridiculous, Chekov. You're here because you're a genius and great at what you do. Anybody who acts otherwise is just being a jerk. And you're right." He wrinkled his nose, having tried the green cube. "These things taste...weird, but not a bad weird. I don't know."
"Doesn't change the fact that I'm still younger than everybody else on this ship. I just wish I could fit in somewhere." He stewed silently for a moment. Brightening, he said, "Perhaps I should grow a beard."
"If you can," Sulu chuckled.
Pavel rolled his eyes, muttered a Russian epithet he never quite understood but that always seemed to rankle his parents, and stood to leave.
"Aw, come on, Chekov, I meant the regulations. About hair." Sulu pleaded, but Pavel disposed of his tray in the kitchen window and started to walk out. He would have better luck trying the game on the console in his quarters. "Really, don't let it get to you." Sulu was following him, so Pavel paused to hear him out. "Think about it. You've got a post on the bridge of the Federation flagship and a commendation from Starfleet to back it up. That other stuff's small potatoes by comparison."
Pavel started to think about that. The ship comm whistled. The speaker grille was right beside Pavel's arm and he jumped. "Attention, all bridge officers please report to duty stations." It was Uhura. The Klacto game broke up immediately.
"I wonder what's up?" said Sulu.
"Let's find out," Pavel answered, his troubles momentarily averted, as they joined the flow of people out of the mess hall.
