Space Omake(Canon) - We Create Solutions (Written by Janus)

The bzzt-bzzt drone of lasercutters and pshht-ssss sizzle of plasma handfurnaces null-echoed through the hangar, with the uncomfortably hollow twang that only a sound rebounding from an envirobarrier against the vacuum of space has. An angry swarm of technician-drones leapt from point to point on the hull of the ship, the commands of the coordinating queen sending them across the hull of the schooner with tool-limbs precisely arrayed.


A thoroughly sculpted man in the typical brown synthleather jacket and thoroughly decorated red flightsuit typical of space jockeys squatted flatfoot in front of an ACTI Diana-class Personal-Personnel Stellar Navigator, watching with one baleful gray eye trained on the stylized "Astrodancer" emblazoned across her surface with the other covered by a fringe of loose brown hair. The drones levered plates into place and fused fissures shut across the surface of the ship, repairing the damage from its gasdrag run through the upper Jovian layers and getting it up to acceptable Federation standards. The entire ship almost went under the tides - but with any luck, this government milk run would make such risky business a thing of the past.


The details were unclear, just a short missive that read: "Need spaceworthy ship capable of Pluto-Earth run in top percentage time. Accepted standard ships listed here, non-listed ships with qualifying modifications please state all such modifications in application. This is an official posting by the Galactic Explorers Initiative." Sketchy to the googol, two googs even, but it had the classic I Am An Important Government Job identifier: the ID code of the person posting it.


The fact that the code just led to an unfilled employee page for CDRE X. Chantraraj-Taylor didn't do much for confidence either - but needs must.


What were the odds of getting to fly the Pluto run otherwise, anyway? (The Pluto Geostationary Orbital Station, as the AI in his datajack pinged cheerfully to remind him, along with the local time, weather, sporting events and potentially interesting restaurants) The feds were notoriously cagey about letting unauthorized ships too close to the facility and their mysterious Gate, so this was a once in a lifetime opportunity to see the inside. The truth, unfortunately, turned out to be far less interesting.


<New message from: Loupgarou. Would you like to play now?>
Simultaneously: <You have message autoplay disabled. To enable this option, simply enter the Settings-Messaging-Incoming section and enable the Autoplay option, or command me to comply!>


He exhaled wearily, and thought Play.


<Eyes on the target, package is heading your way, boss. ETA 7 minutes at typical walk- I take it back, ex-mil, ETA 5.5 minutes. Want to run the details again?>


He subvocalized his response: <Hit me, Wolfkid.>


<New message from: Loup-> Play.
<You have message-> Skip.


<Aaaaalrigght, so standard ops here: man-in-the-middle insertion on the transportation routine, target just thinks the Feddie ship got delayed at a port coming out of Europa. We're looking at the lone voluntary discharge from a squad - and the lone holdover after discharge from any squad, along with the lone discharge from a squad where all other members stayed in post-mortis.>


Response: <Suspect, but extraordinary circumstances crop up in half our candidates, and the reason matches the psych profile established. Being the culprit doesn't. Continue.>


<Agreed for all counts, and he's showing all clear on the Fast Map.>


<New message from: Loup-> Play.
<You have message-> Skip.


Response: <Future Sight, Stress Test or not, is not allowable for psychometric futures evaluation - only for short term emergency analysis. We've been over this, Loop.>


<Yeah, sorry boss, but also - this guy's got a couple dozen meritorious service awards granted, some of them even in absentia.>


<New message from: Loup-> Play.
<You have message-> Fuck it, enable message Autoplay.


<And nearly all of those of us were revoked pending the conclusion of the trial and, officially, were stripped from the record.>


<...wait, really?>


<What's going on here, Loup? Off the record. You weren't pulling this hard for the other candidates on this run.>


<The archaeologist with PTSD and an incredibly brittle psyche, the cop with a land vehicle on exoplanets?>


<That person doesn't exist, Loup.>


<Sir, I have their records in front of me - Vera Crewes, Oglethorpe Olivander.>


<Neither of those two people are cops.>


<Huh, really? Must've misread the file.>


The man stretched and yawned with sagacious grace and pace, lobbing a glance across the hangar before loping towards the ship. The bay of the Astrodancer unseamed, and an access ramp unsheathed down to the hangbar bay to meet his steps, carrying him up into the belly of the ship. <Loup?>


<Alright, sir, off the record? This guy bailed my platoon's ass out the fire on four seperate occasions during New Sevii. The last time, we got hit with some nasty gas cookup and I was donezo until this fucker slithers up to me, injects me with the good shit and says, "Good work depleting their ammo stores, 54th. We'll take it from here.">


<Personal bias has no place on the job, Loup. We can't afford to pick the wrong person for this.>


<I know, boss, but that's the only thing I had bouncing around my head for the next 2 weeks, and finding that beautiful smug fucker again was my entire motivation during PT. So seeing how it went down- ETA 25 and dropping fast, Crow. Switching to secured channels and awaiting inbound message drops. Back in 3660.>


<Acknowledged, Loupgarou. Yatagarasu going active.>


The man settled into the cockpit of the ship, hands dancing across screens and controls to test the status of the repairs even as he watched the package stride through the hangar. It was a gentle moment and a half as the distant footsteps picked up by the exterior mics gave way to the steady sound of boot-on-ground as the package strode into the belly of the ship and, as the man predicted in his psych analysis, strode past the more comfortable passenger area to enter the cockpit.


"Captain. Gregory Khan, pleasure to meet you. You're my ride to Earth?"


"I'm your ride down the entire rabbit hole, Alice." The man chuckled.


"...pardon?"


The man glanced over his shoulder and toggled the ramp shut and gestured to the copilot chair, turning his own seat around. "Have a seat, Major."


Khan's face tightened slightly, but a musical trill chimed from his omnidex and unclenched his jaw - likely the strange orbiting Pokemon noted in his dossier, curiously absent since the completion of the mission in Kuldar. "It was Sergeant, actually," he replies, dropping into


"Then enjoy the promotion. My treat."


Khan chuckled. "Sure. Thanks." He paused. "See, at first I thought you were propositioning me - then I figured I was probably just too keyed into homoeroticism from my squad. But I still kind of feel like you're flirting with me, and I just feel like it'd be polite to say this ain't that gonna be that kind of trip."


The man blinked, and rubbed his temple. "Okay. I'll skip the usual pretext." Khan made a face of confusion and he reached over, tapping a sequence on the controls that engaged the first set of retrofits installed on the ship: and heavy shutters slid into place over the cockpit, the airlocks, the cockpit door and the interior bay door.


"Oh fuck," Khan muttered shooting to his feet. "Never know how these fuckin' pretty boys are gonna react, but you aren't smashing this ass that easi-"


"System Engage: TIME WARP, Nightly. Access Code: Yatagarasu."


"Unable to comply: insufficient access rights for this system's Nightly builds. Please prov-"


"Override: Echo Nova Nova Delta Foxtrot Echo Sierra Whiskey Tango Alpha Four Two Two Three One Seven, Protocol: Unspeakable Evil."


Khan's eyes flicked back and forth between the man and the blinking console, both hands firmly clamped on pokeballs and hovering the release catch.


A half breath later, "Welcome back, Commodore Taylor. Please wait while I reinitialize your Omnijack settings..."


Taylor put one leg over on his knee, the red lightsuit flickering out in a shower of voxels to reveal a crisp Federation uniform underneath the synthleather jacket, a handful of medals stuck to the left breast and rank chevrons proudly displaying his rank on each arm. "I'm serious about that promotion, by the way."


Khan snapped to attention immediately and saluted, barking out, "Commodore."


Taylor waved a hand as the brown hair on his head vanished as well, revealing short-cropped silvery hair and his previously covered eye to be a glowing golden orb constantly roaming and focusing on everything in its field of view. "At ease, Major. You probably have a few questions, but as I said, I'll skip the pretext."


"My name is Commodore Xavier Chantraraj-Taylor, from the Office of Naval Intelligence. You are currently in a prototype system, mathematically proven to be within the legal realm, capable of replicating the memory altering effects of Malamar. In the next 30 minutes, I'll explain to you my thoroughly non-existent department at ONI, our mandate, what we'd need of you, and other pertinent details."


Khan hesitated, lowering his salute slowly as Taylor spoke. "And if I refuse?"


Taylor shrugged. "I wipe your memory, you continue to think you walked in here and I propositioned you poorly, and we have an uncomfortable flight to Earth. You wouldn't be the first. You're far from the last, so I hope you weren't feeling particularly special."


Khan frowned slightly, looking out the sealed cockpit screen to a random point of empty space. "...this is almost as bad as that time we got pinned with the-"


"The Rolling 440s under Atlas' Spine, yes. I'm aware of the parallel."


"...how do you know about that? Nobody below Admiral should have access to those mission logs." Taylor gave him a dry smile by way of response, and Khan sighed. "Well, fuckin' bleach my hair and put me in a dress. Alice is down for the ride."


Taylor nodded and leaned back in his chair. "Then let me tell you about Solvent."