A flash of light and a sudden flurry of color in the otherwise colorless blackness of space signaled the arrival of a massive spacecraft, if in fact it could be adequately described in those terms. The gargantuan vessel was every bit of a dozen kilometers in area; triple-pronged and shaped roughly like a swept delta wing, but with hexagonal outriggers at the tips and a span of hull which arced its way above the enlarged upper portion of the craft, with sections running between the spoiler-like structure and main body, several levels thick. The hull was a uniform reddish brown, almost but not quite the color of dried blood, and packed with observation decks bristling with massive weapons emplacements which dotted the upper and lower sections. An innocent passer-by of this mega behemoth might be forgiven for being confused if this was an alien luxury liner or a warship. Indeed, it wasn't so much that the designers had striven for confusion, at least in this particular regard. Rather, the galactic society from which this city-like ship hailed mixed lavish luxury with the cold cruelness of war as government policy, their sense of fashion, and indeed in any manner which tended to reinforce that aesthetic.
"We are secured from the hyperlight jump," announced one of the uniformed men on the bridge of the Draconia. Draconia, pride of the fleet of the Draconian Empire and House Imperial, was a Draconian Empire star fortress, so-called because of it's sheer size and armor, both physical and energetic.
Draconia. The Emperor's ship, staffed with the best and fiercest warriors, the most loyal of loyal lieutenants. At present, it was under the royal authority of one of Draco IX's 29 daughters, Ardala, and commanded by First Captain of the Realm Garvestius Vastrakane, who in all but the most formal of circumstances went by the second part of his last name: Kane.
"Very well," came the voice of a somewhat gruff, battle-hardened man in a deep, dark blue — almost black — uniform with a long coat which bore the seal of the House whose ship this was, and also the medals and devices of rank which had been deposited there after a long and successful career which had seen him make and wage war, put down bitter insurrections and overcome numerous instances of palace intrigue. Having afforded himself only a momentary glance out the view port, he went back to what had become the steady heartbeat of military campaigns: paperwork.
"Captain," came the other man's voice again, "our scanners are detecting a small object, constant bearing, heading directly for us."
The captain looked up at him briefly, eyebrows raised. "Oh? I thought our flight path was supposed to be clear since they re-routed us through their J2 star gate."
"Confirmed. However, this object is very small, probably no bigger than a shuttle craft, and our sensors only picked it out from the general background noise just now. I'm reading no energy signature, and it only attracted our system's attention when it failed to register as an asteroid."
"How does it register?" Kane asked, slightly intrigued by this momentary mystery.
"Object is still too distant for any usefully detailed scans, but it seems to contain heterogeneous metals of an artificial origin."
"Alloys?"
"Yes, sir. Electro-mag resonance scans suggest titanium, aluminum, various grades of steel, and what might be shielding of some sort."
The captain looked down at his workstation console, seeking out a specific control. He pressed it.
"Flight deck, this is Kane. Launch a fighter patrol to intercept and evaluate in-bound object. Science station will coordinate."
"Very well, Captain," came an equally gruff and battle-scarred voice. Kane deactivated the communications link.
With near-robotic efficiency, a trio of fighter craft launched through a series of independent launch channels. Their engines, a round cluster of ion impulse units, flared briefly as they shot outward into space. Coordinates were transmitted en-route, and the three Draconian spacecraft pitched and yawed to adjust their orientation, and their engines flared again to push them along the corrected heading.
It took almost ten minutes for the intercepting craft to come into visual range. Having confirmed it appeared to be a spacecraft of some sort, and by configuration potentially a fighter craft, the three pilots locked weapons, waiting for the order to come to engage and teach this stealthy intruder a lesson. The order came, and one of them immediately opened fire, their shot going a bit wide of the target and simply searing a streak down the left side of the craft.
"Hold your fire!" came a sudden call from the lead craft. Another volley had already been let loose as he was uttering those words, and so he exclaimed "I said hold your fire, dammit!"
"Agrippa One to base," he called back to the massive mother craft. "Target is not, I repeat, target is not a Terran Federation starfighter. Or, for that matter, any other class of fighter I'm familiar with."
"Can you identify it?"
"Stand by, I'm performing a deep scan."
"Standing by, Agrippa One," Vastrakane himself responded. "But make haste."
A few moments passed by as the lead ship's systems scanned and analyzed the approaching craft. It had become discolored and dirtied in some areas from exposure to ionizing radiation as well as micrometeorite impacts.
"Vessel appears to have been in flight for an extended period. There's a lot of scoring on the hull that looks like micrometeorite damage. A lot of discoloration, too. Unable to make contact with its crew. There also appears to be a fair amount of internal shielding. Best guess is it's anti-radiation shielding since deep scans are still able to get through it. I'm not reading any active bio-signs. Also, there are markings on the hull."
"Can you make them out?"
"Stand by. We're coming along side and will try to illuminate the hull."
A few more moments passed by which seemed almost like an eternity.
As the pilot in Agrippa One spoke again, Vastrakane could see the video and other sensor return data on bridge monitors.
"There are graphics on the hull. Some sort of a logo, or a standard. Hull markings say DS Ranger One. United States…"
"Rig for tractor and bring it aboard," Vastrakane said, cutting the other man off in mid-sentence.
"Copy that," replied the lead pilot in Agrippa One.
"Squadron, assume tractor tug configuration and prepare to capture alien vessel."
"Confirmed," each of the other two pilots said in turn, and they re-positioned their craft immediately to the left and right, and slightly behind, of the battered older ship. Agrippa One assumed the lead position.
"Ready," the other two pilots said in near-unison.
Agrippa One touched an on-screen control, and then moved his hand and fingers to a round, physical control, which he then slid his fingers across with the utmost delicacy, using it to fine-tune the greenish glowing tractor field which now projected outward from the three fighters and enveloped the strange ship. Fifteen minutes later, they were lined up and on final approach with one of the larger bays. The moment they were at the mouth of the cavernous entrance, the three fighters adroitly peeled away, shutting down their tractor towing field grid as they did so, and a fraction of a second later, a similar bluish field snapped on and caught the smaller vessel, slowing it down and positioning it within the landing area for a final touch-down on the cargo deck.
Captain Vastrakane continued his daily routine of reviewing status and readiness reports, occasionally sparing an eye to look at the video feeds from the area where the new arrival had been deposited. It never failed to amaze him how the higher up in rank he had gone, the less it was about doing and more about managing, which of course involved an ever increasing amount of paperwork. Was this a universal constant? he had idly wondered from time to time.
A large boom arm, which ran across a section of the service bay and was periodically dotted with roughly square-ish protuberances, gently slid across the area. Several of these boxes were active, and a scintillating, pale blue-green light emanated from each, bathing the strange craft in a field of energy. The craft itself seemed to hover about two and a half meters or so above the deck, and while it did so there was a flurry of activity from perhaps half a dozen people, men and women alike, dressed in pressurized work suits, some holding what appeared to be small packages in front of themselves. Those with equipment seemed to switch between visually inspecting various portions of the craft and looking down at their equipment, carefully making their way from fore to aft, spreading out along the swept-back wings and along the central portion of the ship. As they did so, they murmured amongst themselves in at least two different strange languages. Three of them seemed to freeze in place, one up by the nose of the craft and the other two equally distant under the base of the wings.
"Banlam zhee guhnung'tom nai?" the one asked in a rather gruff, skittish dialect.
"Access hatches for some form of landing gear," one of the others responded, nodding, continuing to inspect the panel above him, and then somewhat uncertainly, added "I think."
The first one, a slightly shorter and stockier-built man with a dark complexion and greying hair, barked out another order which, had an Earth native heard it, might have thought it to be vaguely Asian in character. At the sound of his order, a group of other workers grabbed a series of support pylons and brought them over. He pointed to several locations, and they slid them into position.
"Lower the craft," came an order from the third one in the group, and slowly and inexorably the overhead crane deposited the vehicle on top of the makeshift support structure as everyone who had been underneath the craft had by now cleared out to a safe perimeter. The gruff-voiced man walked away, turning to say something to the two but just out of earshot of the rest.
"Yes, sir, there will be a full report by end-of-shift," the one responded, evidently to an unheard command.
Most of the remaining team gathered around the left side of the craft, towards the nose of it, and there appeared to be a hatch, still sealed shut. As the craft appeared to have no active power system, if the hatch had manual controls, those would be the only way to open it. Fortunately, there were a series of small holes and some markings, apparently in the same language as that which declared this vessel to be from some place called "United States", wherever that was.
Once the craft had been set down on the support rests, a mobile access walkway was rolled up to the craft, and within moments of reaching its position, several of the group began to climb the stairs, continuing to take readings as they did so.
"I think this must be an Earth language," one of the crew commented.
"Balur!" they called out in unison. "There's someone in here! This vessel's pilot is frozen!"
"Govah," he said, turning towards one of the others, "Bring me the helical and a set of adapters." The person to whom he was speaking walked over to a two meter tall cart, opened a panel, and pulled out a roughly oblong hand-held box and walked back over in front of the hatch, and handed it to the other. He opened it and drew out a square tool, to which he then attached one of the other mechanical pieces to it, and walked up to the hatch itself.
"I need a trauma team to Hangar 18, urgent," he called into his handheld communicator.
The crew member who had fetched the tool examined the hatch. "Hmmm…" he murmured to himself, reading the alien script. "Insert tool and rotate… clock… wise?…"
"The way the curved arrow is pointing?" Govah tried to suggest, helpfully.
"Ah," the man said at last, adjusting the tool's settings before inserting it into the slot apparently set aside for this specific function. Activating the tool, everything seemed to go exactly as planned until the tool stopped and suddenly started turning in the opposite direction, taking his hand and by extension his wrist with it.
"In the name of Jaq'ua!" he shouted as he cursed, wrenching his hand away and rubbing his wrist and forearm. The tool continued to turn the exterior control grip around and around in circles until he managed to visually track the appropriate control and press it. The whining stopped, and so did the little box-shaped tool.
Having seen what was going on, Govah was already half way back from the tool case with a long-handled device, which she then attached to the first one almost the way one would fit a crescent wrench over a bolt. As the man continued to stretch his hand, Govah pressed the same control while holding the bar with the other, and the tool gradually whirred until it hit the other direction's limit, whereupon it started to whine. Govah held onto the arm tightly, and eventually the man grabbed the arm as well, and the two held it still. After a few moments, there was the sudden wa-CHUNK! of an internal mechanism coming loose, and then other sounds, like those of bolts securing a bank vault door, could be heard. The device made a brief beeping noise and a light flashed, and that was it. He removed the extension arm and she pulled the tool back out of the slot, nearly dropping it when it proved to have become incredibly hot.
"Good work," he said.
"Thanks, Balur," she replied. And with that, she took the other part and the container back.
The hatch had briefly shuddered at the sound of the bolts being drawn back, but it still remained stoically in place. There was also a momentary cloud of particles as some of the insulation and other material had flaked off and settled on the deck immediately underneath the craft. Carefully, Balur tapped on the hatch all along its outline where it mated with the hull. A couple times it had felt as though it was loose, but the other times it didn't shift at all. He took to pounding on it harder, but the result was essentially the same.
Several of the team had hand-held illuminators and pointed them along the edge of the hatch where there was now the slightest of gaps. One member of the group, who was also wearing anti-gravity boots, activated them and floated up until he could easily see the top of the hatch, and he carefully eyed it, moving his illuminator slowly along the gap.
"See anything?" inquired Balur.
"Not really," the man responded. "I think we may need to try the extractor."
"I agree," Balur said, and turned to the people standing behind him, most of whom were still busy looking the craft over and taking readings. "Can you grab the hatch extractor?" Three of them nodded in acknowledgement and turned and walked away towards another storage area.
Two of the four who had surmounted the service gangway were busy using hand-held lights to get a better look at the only visible occupant of the craft. Eyes closed and some form of boom microphone and earpiece still strapped to his head, his skin had turned a pale shade of blue. Eye color was hidden from view by two closed eyelids, but the expression his face still wore was dour, alarmed even, as though whatever had caused this was unexpected and unwelcome.
"I can barely get any readings," the taller of the two said.
"What are you seeing?" Balur called out.
"Male, dark-haired, well over 2 piks in height," he answered, and then turned to his colleague. "Are you picking up any signs of metabolic activity? I can't read a thing."
"Negative. Nothing here," responded a female voice from the shorter and stockier of the two. "Either he's long dead or so thoroughly frozen that he might just as well be."
"We're not picking up any life signs," the male called out over the nose of the craft.
At the same time as the nose of the vessel was being looked at and scurried over with equipment, another member of the group, who was standing behind the craft, called out her report.
Balur looked towards the rear of the craft and spied a stocky but somewhat taller crew member
"Dione, you got anything?"
"Hard to say," she called back. "I'm having a hard time trying to identify a power source. Not getting any radiological signatures. These funnels appear to have been exposed to a high heat source at some point, and what looks like charring or erosion from some sort of combustable fuel source."
By this point, a group of pressure suit-equipped techs approached, guiding a miniature crane-like device which had a series of crosswise-mounted beams which were similar to the overhead crane with its energy-projecting boxes. One of the crew made final placement adjustments while another activated a series of controls. Lights and status displays activated, along with a group of miniature emitter boxes.
"Powered up, standing by to extract the hatch," one of them called out.
"Proceed," responded Balur.
At his command, the structure shot a series of energy beams towards the hull area surrounding the hatch, and another group which spread out and evenly covered the hatch itself. There was still significant resistance, and some unwanted creaking sounds could be heard.
"There are a series of bolts inside the hatch," he said, pointing them out on a display. "They're all retracted though."
Just as he was about to add a comment about the hinge, there was a rather uncomfortable metallic clattering sound, and the hatch popped open. Quickly, he shut the unit down, and two members of the crew reached out to grab the hatch, and swung it backwards until it came to a rest up against the outer hull.
Another group of people, women and men in medical garb, crossed the hangar deck, immediately preceded by what appeared to be a floating cushion which was a bit longer than the height of an average humanoid, perhaps two and a half meters long, and roughly one meter wide. Under and around it were racks and booms carrying a variety of equipment and medical supplies. The hatch had been opened no more than a minute and the group of newcomers were positioned immediately outside of the craft, the floating gurney conveniently to the side of the hatch combing so as not to interfere with anyone climbing into or out of the strange, alien craft.
Balur headed towards the hatch, running his hands around the entryway and beyond, feeling for any sharp or other hidden protuberances which might catch on their environmental isolation suits. When he was satisfied it was safe, he motioned to two of his own crew, and generally to the trauma team.
"The entry seems clear of obstacles. This is an alien vessel, so take care. The commander will have the ass of anyone who does unwarranted damage to it," he said, slightly emphasizing the "un". "He'll also have the ass of anyone who gets himself injured or puts the team in harm's way." The group seemed both concerned and simultaneously reassured at these brief directions.
Slowly, they boarded the craft one at a time, each pausing for a moment once they were again on their feet to take stock of their new, somewhat claustrophobic surroundings.
Balur looked around at the various panels, many of which seemed like they were little more than storage bin covers. The craft was absolutely silent inside, the only noise to be detected coming from the Draconia team themselves. As he headed forward, Balur could make out an assortment of controls and what appeared to be display screens and even old-time mechanical gauges, all which were dark or showed no reading, the only illumination coming from his and his team's head-mounted lights. The ship itself, alien-seeming though it was to him, was also a baffling contradiction. The systems he was looking at, along with the interior itself, seemed out-dated and ancient. Who among the crew had seen — much less used — mechanical gauges or displays of any description? Yet, the ship, internally at least, had the quality of being almost factory showroom new, unlike the fighter craft he and his teams regularly serviced which were indisputably newer than what this craft appeared to be, yet were clearly lived-in looking and had signs of frequent, high-intensity use. How could such an old ship as this, if it were indeed as old as the equipment on board suggest it was, also be nearly new in appearance, if not in function?
"Over here!" called out one of the medical team members, breaking the silence and Balur's momentary contemplative mood.
The frozen man was seated in his pilot's seat, five-point harness laying draped across the floor in front of the chair. His arms were splayed out in front of him, eyes closed, and lips parted, not enough to be described as having an open mouth, but enough to reveal his white teeth within. There was a headset strapped around his head, with what appeared to be cushions at strategic points. There was a thin, wiry boom which extended outward in front of his face. And it was in this exact configuration that the man — whomever he was — had been sitting, frozen in place, for as long as this vessel had been in flight.
Two other medical personnel had gathered around, joining the first who was also the one who had discovered the ancient pilot. The shorter of the two had a hand-held scanning device in his left hand and some sort of tethered probe in the other, and was using this combination of devices to electronically probe the man.
"Reading minimal metabolic processes," he declared at last. "Appears to be a rather crude form of cryogenic suspension." He paused a moment to look around the increasingly cramped chamber. "There's nothing around here to suggest this is a cryo chamber, so I'd love to know what caused this."
"Must have been some sort of catastrophic on-board systems failure," the other opined, gently touching the frozen man and checking to see how pliable his frame was in his present state. "He's too stiff to be mechanically adjusted here," she added, and then "and I don't think this is rigor-mortise."
"I concur," both the other medics agreed, in near unison."
"How are we going to move him?" Balur asked.
"Very carefully," the first medic said, stooping down to see what would happen if he tried to lift the man's feet up off the deck. "Ok, he's not stuck in place," he concluded. "It's going to be a three-person lift. Each of you lift under the arms, and I will lift him out by his feet. Then, carefully turn him and we'll work our way back to the hatch."
The three worked carefully for a few minutes, slowly inching the frozen man out of his chair and over the one side. There came a moment when he suddenly tugged, seemingly of his own free will, back towards the console. It was at this point they realized the man's headset was still tethering him, and one of them removed it, handing it to Balur who placed it back on the pilot's seat once his feet were clear. Untethered from the last remaining umbilical with his ship, the frozen pilot was carried briskly, yet carefully, back towards the entrance to the ship. As the medics did this, Balur and two of his team started scouring the interior of the craft, each using their own handheld scanning devices as well as visually scrutinizing every last millimeter of the chamber, the consoles, and their controls and displays.