Chapter 11: Geneticist

Bogon, Ratatosk System in the Igdrasil Sector. 9 December, 21:55 Standard Time

Cross jogs into the airlock, ignoring the dirty looks thrown at her from behind the masks of the more heavily armed guards for being late. Four medics wait tensely, emergency kits in one hand and the other resting on a wheeled stretcher in the center of the airlock. The inner door slides closed and Cross takes a heavy Lancer from one of the guards as a precaution.

A sudden, screeching jar shakes the airlock, almost knocking Cross off her feet and succeeding in downing a few of the humans. A second bash of what Cross assumes is the fighter smashing into a wall in the cargo bay shakes the larger ship again. She looks at a monitor on the side of the airlock, seeing the view of a camera overlooking the mostly-empty space. An agonizingly long three seconds pass as the heavy doors to space close, sealing the primary cargo bay.

All of the vents open and they blast air into the enclosed space in an emergency atmosphere venting. Cross notes worriedly that the canopy of the Megacorp fighter has been smashed opaque, and several lines indicating fissures blast atmosphere out of the cockpit. The fighter is twisted and smashed as if a giant rent it with massive fists and tossed it into the freighter cargo bay. Sparks erupt from various ruptures in the wing and points in the body.

Finally the light in the airlock turns green. The security team bursts in and fans out, but on seeing the damage with their own eyes they quickly lax their guard. A screeching wine and the sound of shearing glassmetal emanates from the fighter. The canopy lifts up - most of it, anyway. The front half begins to lift up, then deforms due to the massive damage and bends back down towards its resting place on the cockpit and breaks, landing in a loud but relatively harmless crash.

The larger half, still connected to the struggling motor, lifts up, curling under its own weight and damage. One of the burly security guards, clad in thick white and red armor, jogs up to the fighter and bodily smashes away the forward portion of the canopy to allow the medical team easier access.

Cross nears the fighter, and the first sign of passengers is a series of gurgling hacks. The medics jump up and carefully lift a short figure from a sprawled position across the front seats. Angela notices a tail and long ears, a dead giveaway to being a lombax. The pilot wears a faintly familiar green suit, darkened by large splotches of a dark, wet red.

As she nears the fighter, she gets a better look at the pilot himself. Definitely a lombax, his fur is a familiar golden color, with rich brown triangular stripes, all smattered with blood. The security chief notes with concern that he's bleeding profusely, even from his ears, nose, and mouth. His right arm is in a flimsy sling, which the medics promptly cut and throw aside.

The lombax makes a gurgling sort of groan as they move him onto a stretcher and lay his right arm across his chest. Though Cross has plenty of medical training, the other guards already are dealing with the task of recovering him to a medical facility, so she stands back and watches, wracking her brain to try to find why this badly wounded lombax seems so familiar.

"Breathing erratic, heart rate weak and dropping! Get him to sickbay!"

The security personnel between the fighter and airlock quickly move out of the way and the four medics run, pushing the wheeled stretcher. She makes a cursory glance over the twisted wreckage of the Manta-class fighter, its Bogon Blue paint finish burnt by laser scarring and scraped by the impact of crashing into the empty cargo bay. Following standard procedure, she circles the fighter, then slowly moves to investigate the cockpit. A two-seater model, aside from a lot of blood on the pilot's side and a cracked view screen in the middle of the forward controls, she doesn't notice anything. The passenger's side is empty . . . wait, what is this?

Cross kneels down, discovering what she first thought a strange splatter of blood is actually an overly thick, blocky e-pad. It looks smudged and years old. After checking carefully for traps, she puts away her Lancer and picks it up. The item is not only bulky, but even heavier than it looks. It feels more like an anvil digging into her arm than a light e-pad. She hops down and examines it as she walks towards the airlock to inventory, not noticing the blinking green underscore that appeared on the screen when she grabbed it. I wonder what this device could be. I'll bet that human will enjoy having another trinket to log in.

"You want me to take that down to Inv?" One of the other security guards, standing just inside the airlock, asks with as gentle a voice as the naturally gruff human can.

"Sure, why not." Angela hands the heavy thing to him and clasps her hands behind her back and wonders how that injured lombax is doing.

Bogon, Deep Space in the Igdrasil Sector. 10 December, 06:51 Standard Time

A figure paces back and forth behind the clouded windows on the double doors sealing the intensive care unit of the command freighter's sickbay. A medic sits on a chair at a small desk in the far corner, filling out a report. The other medic opens the doors, "Uh, Cross. You asked to be notified when he became conscious."

Angela crosses her arms and the medic meekly slips past her to escape, leaving her to the doctor. The medics wouldn't let her near the lombax last night, they spent more than three hours in surgery and pumping nanites into him. Now his wounds are gone and the blood on his fur washed away. His eyes are closed, and Cross wonders if he was really awake.

The doctor signs a line at the bottom of his page and stands up, clipboard in hand. He walks over to the table with the lombax on it. "Hey, c'mon. You were awake a minute ago." He pokes the lombax at the base of the ear with his pen.

The lombax shifts a little and Angela inquires, "So, how's he doing now?"

The lombax's eyes pop open and he pushes himself to a sitting position. The white sheet covering him falls from his shoulders where it had been drawn up to when he was asleep. A wide grin splits his face. "Angela? Damn, it's been . . . almost a year since I've seen you last!"

Angela Cross almost jumps in surprise at that unmistakable voice, and a grin slowly creeps across her mouth. "Ratchet?" I knew I knew him from somewhere down at the bay last night.

Ratchet lifts his palm to his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut as if he's experiencing an enormous headache. A few seconds pass, then he opens them. "I seem to remember being barely alive in my fighter, but obviously I'm still alive. Just to make sure the past day wasn't a dream, I did crash into some ship's hangar?" He flexes his right arm experimentally.

"Cargo bay, actually. This is a freighter." Angela smiles and laughs lightly. "It's great to see you. What happened?"

"Oh, you know. After I beat up Nefarious back in Solona, the media started hounding me. There were interviewers and paparazzi everywhere I went, so I took off for a vacation." His eyes drop down. "I wonder how Clank's doing."

"How'd you get into the Falnar Galaxy?"

"The who what?"

The doctor awkwardly steps around the table Ratchet is sitting on, putting himself closer to the door. "Um, if you don't mind chief Cross, since the patient is fine, I'm going to go submit my report?"

Angela nods and the human leaves. "The Falnar Galaxy. Home to the Ta'ree, Megacorp's doing a lot of business with . . . What?"

The moment Angela said the word "Ta'ree", Ratchet's eyes snapped open. Now he's staring at Angela as if she grew tentacles and spouted purple gas. Ratchet manages to bumble out, "You know the Ta'ree?"

Angela's right eyebrow rises as she looks at Ratchet. "That's what I was just saying. Megacorp has a new contract with them, we supply them with equipment. Why?"

Ratchet looks at his feet, the gears in his head spinning as he tries to put together everything he learned while at the space station. "While I was in the Falnar galaxy, my fighter was attacked and crippled. I drifted through a wormhole to an abandoned station..." Ratchet looks down at his hands, then at the tables around the room's perimeter. "Hey, where is it?"

"What?"

"I brought a data pad from that station, it had all this information . . ." Ratchet cringes, ". . . about the Ta'ree. And how they were created. You were actually the person I was hoping I'd find, it's got tons of genetics stuff I can't make heads or tails of."

Angela's eyebrows momentarily rise in curiosity, then she reaches to her shoulder radio. "I'll check inventory. Is there anything you wanted to point out in specific?"

Before Angela can click her radio, it clicks and she hears a guard's voice. "Chief Cross, could you come down here? The saboteur's refusing to eat or drink anything, and he's refusing to say any . . . hey, was that a rude gesture? Get back here you little—"

Angela slaps her palm over her face, "Damnit, Rusko." She lowers her hand and looks at Ratchet. "I've gotta go. When you can leave here, head down to inventory. After I'm done with Rusko I'll stop by and authorize a check-out."

Angela turns around and jogs out the doors. Ratchet grins and shakes his head. "Chief Cross? Man, I've been missing out on a lot."