NAME: Dennis Trevor Heldane
AGE: 27
HEIGHT: 4'11"
RATING/RANK: Midshipman
SPECIALIZATION: Electronics Technician 'C' Class (ET)
BILLET: General Electronics Repair / Damage Control
APPEARANCE: (picture upload later)
Dennis is a short, scrawny, frail Caucasian man with pasty, pale skin. He is bald and clean shaven. Above his thin, black eyebrows the skin of his forehead is wrinkled from a history of angry scowls. Dennis walks with a limp which is the product of a clinically induced neurological disorder. He has slash scars on his arms and shoulders from self-injury and close work with sharp objects in confined areas. Dennis often has large, dark bags under his brown eyes from lack of sleep and his upper lip tends to curl to the right in a nervous tick often fueled by stimulants. His hands are calloused and chapped from lack of moisturizing and exposure to hot, dry environments.
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Dennis Trevor Heldane
"I will not give in! I have come too far and lost too much only to admit defeat now!"
0 · 408 views · located in 
EDF Atlas
a character in “Echo Legacy: Burdens of Honor”, as played by Hadespwr
Description
Personality
Dennis has an attitude that straddles a divide between a pessimistic emo scene kid and a psychopathic âdo-or-dieâ dynamo. He is detached in his natural state and always appears to be under extreme duress, which he often is. Dennis is simultaneously a submissive soul and a powder keg with a short fuse; heâll let others(especially his military superiors) walk all over him but once he is pushed too far he will explode with psychotic rage. The probability of this occurring is particularly high whenever Dennis tries to take on too many tasks at once, something which he is of wont to do ever since he was reassigned to the EDS Atlas. Dennis is prone to suicidal ideation and this has triggered several medical crises aboard the Atlas already. Despite this pathological habit Dennis has never actually committed to any kind of radical action. Due to this behavior, Dennis's reputation amongst Atlas crew is that of a prankster and an attention seeker, the latter of which may very well be valid.
Dennis is very nervous around groups of people and women, especially strong willed ones. His nervous ticks and stuttering become especially pronounced when he feels he has âno way outâ and this can lead to passive-aggressive behavior and violent verbal outbursts. He often feels looked down upon by his peers because of his somewhat lackluster abilities and history of spinning pathological lies. In addition, Dennis is socially isolated from much of the Atlasâs crew, officers and attachĂ©s because he occupies a very narrow spectrum of ratings within the EDN that are normally reserved for Academy cadets; Dennis never was promoted to the rank of Warrant Officer which most techs are. This isolation from both the commissioned officers and the enlisted has not done well for Dennisâs social health. To the commissioned officers Dennis is a simply a higher tier subordinate, experienced enough to associate with professionally but not personally. He is someone who couldnât hack the duties and responsibilities of ârealâ officers; in their eyes Dennis is a failure. To the enlisted Dennis is akin to that 5-year senior who is trying to be a part of a community he already missed the chance to join. The enlisted have accepted and moved on with their careers; an active duty midshipman is on the other hand caught in a vicious cycle of indecision. To the enlisted Dennis is hairballer who won't accept the cards he has been dealt in life. Even amongst the sparsely populated Warrant Officer ranks aboard the Atlas Dennis is the low man on the totem pole. His reluctance to participate in social gatherings makes him a curious enigma and his poor reputation amongst the crew prompt the other CWOâs to keep their distance from the social deadweight of Midshipman Heldane.
Despite his history Dennis has undergone several dramatic changes since his assignment to his new billet. His suffering is being channeled into an almost inhuman drive to succeed born of a fear of failure, and a desire for recognition amongst his comrades. Dennis calls this new determination that sometimes takes hold of him âthe Engineâ and he can be overheard talking with the Engine, debating even, as he walks the corridors of the ship, reads in his room, or attends to his work. Dennis is becoming more outgoing, especially with the marines with whom he is beginning to spar with with/get thrashed by. Despite this though Dennisâs social phobias still constrain his behavior around women. Since his station on the Atlas, Dennis has dedicated himself to becoming a person worthy of the respect given to any other crewman. He seeks to reforge his most hated nicknames into badges of honor.
Equipment
- One set of EDN dress blues and whites
- Several duty slacks
- Back, hip and torso slings for tools
- Glasses
- Assorted personal items and technical manuals
History
The life of Dennis is a tale of suffering and self-loathing. His domineering mother drove off his father while Dennis was still very young. Dennis lived under the dictatorial rule of his mother through his childhood and became a quiet, troubled boy who was described as his instructors as âsharp, but distantâ. When Dennisâs chronic under-performance in school escalated to noticeable levels his mother put him through intense mental health screening. Although all theoretical at the time, the therapists diagnosed him with a wide variety of disorders from simple ADD to more intense BPD to flat out ASD. Dennisâs condition only got worse as he struggled on through his life; psychiatrists began treating Dennis with a cocktail of psychoactive drugs in order to minimize the impact of his still unconfirmed conditions.
By the time Dennis sat down for his SAPS placement he had already been on a dozen different drugs with assorted side-effects. Most of the drugs did nothing, some helped and a select few worsened his condition. Dennis barely scraped by the placement threshold which would be a chronic pattern that would dictate the rest of his lifeâs achievements. Dennis was about as surprised as the proctors when the results came back: Dennis was slated for recruitment into the EDN as a technician. If Dennis managed to make it through the next two years without falling off the edge he would be sent off to Luna for boot training and tech school.
Two harrowing years later, with a combination of uninterested recognition and jealous scorn, Dennisâs mother sent him off to Luna without a sincere goodbye. Neither one of them could have known it would be the last time Dennis would ever see his mother alive. Dennisâs mother committed suicide just hours after his shuttle left the Kennedy Space Center, and nobody had the heart to tell him until he arrived at Luna station. Luna station was not the emancipating paradise Dennis had imagined it to be. He was still socially isolated from his peers and the military doctors continued his regimen of medications, which Dennis was beginning to grow weary of. The drug load was also beginning to have negative affects on Dennisâs nervous system. He developed tardive dyskenesia in his lower body causing him at times to walk and march with his feet splayed out like a duck. In PT and drills this clinically induced disability combined with his lifelong stuttering was consistently picked at by the instructors in front of the rest of Dennis's training unit. This is the origin of Dennisâs cruelest nickname: Quackstep.
Dennis passed his 'C' class electronics technician qualification at the age of 20 and was promoted to the rank of Midshipman giving him access to higher level training. With hope in his heart, Dennis registered for 'A' class nuclear technician certification or 'nuke school' at Ganymede where he believed the nickname would not haunt him. However this would not be the case, 'Quackstep' followed Dennis to nuke school which had a very demoralizing affect on Dennis. It was so demoralizing in fact that Dennis's self-esteem completely collapsed. He became truant, submissive and self-destructive and more than once he was sent to sick ward with self-inflicted wounds the scars of which he still bears today. Going on the advice of one of the counselors, Dennis reapplied for 'A' class certification but again failed due to behavioral issues.
Dennis served aboard several vessels, picket ships mainly, for two years as an electronics technician but due to his sub-par performance was never promoted to a fully fledged Warrant Officer. The brass didn't see why they should reward a soldier who was bad at his job with the title of his occupationally proper rank. Dennis was in the middle of yet another transfer to the EDS Atlas--an aging carrier where command was dumping all the misfits, screwballs and loose parts in anticipation for mothballing--the Triton Massacre occurred. Nearly all of Echo Companyâs techs were killed during the attack giving Dennis a rare if macabre opportunity to prove his worth to the EDF and humanity as a whole.
After the Massacre, Dennis began to change. Although Dennis never knew the members of Echo Company there is a visceral revulsion most humans experience when they see their fellow man slaughtered before them. For Dennis it kindled in him a kind of somber kinship with the rest of humanity, a sense of belonging in human society. Most importantly, the horror of the Massacre planted a seed of self-worth in Dennis, the idea that he could do better, overcome his own challenges for the greater good of the human race.
Yet such changes do not happen overnight and old habits die hard. There was an initial âhoneymoon periodâ aboard the Atlas when xenophobic fervor was the order of the day and people went about their tasks with militaristic zeal. Then the grinding reality of labor set back in and for Dennis this meant further isolation, public scorn, and self-loathing. This negative attitude combined with the enormous stress of being one of only five qualified âCâ class electronics technicians aboard the Atlas pushed Dennis to the raggedy edge and within weeks his suicidal ideation and psychotic breakdowns had earned him two involuntary incarcerations in the med ward.
At the end of his second medical intervention, Lt.Col Kaito Narita himself visited Dennis in med ward to straighten the wayward sailor out. In a stern, petrifying, one-way ten minute lecture the steely Atlas XO reminded Dennis pointedly that he had a sacred duty as a soldier. In times of war and peace alike soldiers must set aside their personal problems to act in defense of civilization and in this case, the entire human race. A soldierâs life is hard; a soldier may be asked to kill, may see his comrades die around them, may suffer horrible wounds and die in agony unsung by civilization far from home. The essence of a soldier is sacrifice, he must be willing to sacrifice everything including his former life, to protect the lives of others. In doing so a soldier joins a greater brotherhood that has stood firm and held the line for eons beyond remembrance. This brotherhood is his new family, his new home, and if he is willing to do what is necessary to join their noble ranks a soldier will never be alone. Any soldier who cannot put the troubles of their former life behind them is a traitor, and on the Atlas they hang traitors.
For Dennis it was an eloquently simple and grim warning: shape up, or ship out in a body bag. Since then he has never had another visit to sick bay even during the times he probably should have. Every so often now Dennis is possessed with a dogged tenacity bordering on the insane. He refuses to give up in the face of adversity and is learning to fight his impulsive emotions. Dennis remains the lowest of the low but he is trying to climb out of the pit of despair and isolation he fell so far into. He is desperately trying to claw a modicum of respect for himself in the social ladder of the EDS Atlas, and overcome the life he left on Earth. Whether or not any one will take or has taken notice of his efforts remains to be seen.
So begins...
Dennis Trevor Heldane's Story
- Seen 7 Times • Page 1 of 1
Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDFS Atlas CIC
A tickling bead of sweat slowly crept down the nose of the intently focused technician as his eyes remained steadily locked on the work before him. With an MUT in one hand and a solder clamp in the other, the tech anxiously licked his lips as he ever so cautiously brought the freshly stripped copper wire endings closer to the PCB terminal he intended to fuse. The wires made gentle contact with the terminal and with graceful flow the MUT maneuvered around the other circuits to get the best angle of approach on the point of contact. It was a very delicate operation, the system was powered up (or 'hot' as techs called it) and if that iron got too close to something it wasn't supposed to the arc would short out the--
The ET's hand twitched, and a fizzling crack issued from the PCB as a small geyser of acrid, white smoke plumed into the face of the tech as electricity arced between the wire and the MUT which then jumped to a resistor nestled way too close to the terminal.
"D-d-d-DAM-" Dennis managed to bite his tongue to hold back his stuttering obscenity. Not like it would have mattered had he actually cursed at the top of his lungs. The CIC was a calm and professional place yet Dennis's consistent, and often involuntary, outbursts had gone unheeded for some time now within the cool confines of the brain of the vessel. Dennis wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing; any captain who runs a tight ship--which Ramirez certainly did--would discipline such breach of protocol readily, and she had done so for Dennis in the past. Now it was almost like his vulgarity was treated like standard operating procedure amongst the bridge crew. Actually the more Dennis thought about it the worse the implications were; it was like being treated like some non-housebroken pet.
After glancing around to see if anyone had taken notice of his slip up Dennis wiped his nose with a forefinger and turned his attention back to his task. He uttered a silent curse as he evaluated the damage. The stricken resistor was scorched black and one of its own terminals had been repelled away from the PCB from the shock, its wiring snapped like much-too-taught fishing line. That was the second resistor Dennis had busted today, in this very room, on this very board! He was sure that Chief Wisetale would give him all hell for that...provided he even bothered to read Dennis's logs anyway which the tech was uncertain of. Despite the plethora of ranks, ratings and occupational specialties reflected in the DC and maintenance staff of the Atlas, amongst the tech specialists there were only two categories: the 'nukes'; the 'A' certified nuclear technicians and engineers who inhabited the reactor and engine rooms; and the 'pukes' the 'C' class technicians who inhabited...everywhere. Well, no self-respecting 'C' class technician, such as Dennis himself, would call themselves a 'puke' (they referred to themselves as 'techs') but that was simply the title thrust upon them by the nukes who had passed nuke school and viewed themselves as superior to the others. The nukes were universally the bosses of the other techs and they made sure every other tech on the ship knew the appropriate technophilic pecking order. That pecking order also meant that the documentation, logs and reports of the non-nukes were in a much lower priority slot than the nukes themselves. Unless the tech really screwed something up then a nuke would make sure a 'puke' knew why he or she was called such.
Heaving a sigh, Dennis set down his tools then cracked his knuckles and cranked his neck a bit. Unlike his legs and lips, the twitch in his hand was not due to his disorder, but pure fatigue and stress. There was a lot of work to be done on the Atlas's electrical systems regardless of what the ship had been through. Like every human who inhabited the giant, flying, metal cigar the Atlas had her own needs; as she protected the crew, so they would need to protect her. The Atlas had a soul, more soul than any of the intra-system cutters Dennis had served on in his career, and that soul had a way of telling the crew when it needed attending to.
And right now, that soul was very, very angry. So angry in fact that Atlas had tried to kill them all not just but a couple days ago.
Now there was a wondrous mess of things to clean up after that fiasco; the electronics had been acting up ever since the system overload that led to all the fire alarms going haywire and every tech on the Atlas was pulling double shift to get the ship's systems back to ready status. The LADAR(LAser Detection And Ranging) suite was one such trouble spot, and it was the one billeted to Dennis. A lot of the transistors had blown during the power surges the ship experienced when the Atlas computer network went psycho, trying to boost the strength of the sensors by pumping extra power to the system. Now the techs had to rebuild a lot of the RCB's piece by piece including the control board Dennis was currently working on. He'd been struggling with it for hours on end and now finally at the tail end of the work a simple, god damned slip of the wrist had almost set him back half that work time. He hit the master power switch for the system, stopping the juice. Tearing off a piece of solder tape from his harness, Dennis used the solder clamps to crudely wrap the wire endings of the resistor and fused it with his MUT.
"CIC, block A, going hot, repeat, going hot." Dennis garbled into his comm bead informing all the techs not to touch any block A wiring lest they be fried to a crisp. After hearing "all clear" Dennis punched the master power again. Clamping the copper wires again and adjusting his MUT, Dennis repositioned the hot wire. The solder couldn't be done cold because this particular soldering technique required current running through both contact surfaces in order to properly seal and Dennis mentally cursed whoever came up with that idea. Focusing with extreme intensity Dennis again maneuvered the MUT into position and this time, everything went according to plan. The satisfying sizzle of metal ablating to metal greeted his ears. Dennis leaned back from the board with a relief-filled sigh; finally this billet was done. He conducted some diagnostic checks with his MUT and the control interface of the LADAR to see that everything was in working order. Seeing nothing amiss, Dennis updated the system and his personal log, packed the RCB back into it's holding tray and slid said tray into the shelf, all while making sure no loose wires got caught in the shelf rollers.
Dennis checked the next task on his billet, his last task for the day before he could get some well deserved (or at least much needed) rest. Adjusting his glasses ever so slightly for better focus he read the log and cursed under his breath. The lower deck airlocks were still tweaking out and the control system needed some repairs to resolve this issue. Dennis hated going down there, there were a lot of civvies running around on the lower decks. No matter how many times the crew informed the civvies to stay out of the maintenance ducts there was always a group of ignorant kids or some lost soul who wandered into those areas. On several occasions since the captain's announcement Dennis had been harassed by the civvies. Some of them just honestly wanted information, but many more were just venting on the first uniform they saw. Screw that! Dennis didn't have a very good idea of what was going on himself! That knowledge was restricted to the o-gangers (officers) in charge around here.
Well, it was restricted until the captain made it clear to everybody on board the ship that they would be a long way from home for a very long time. That didn't really matter much to Dennis, it's not like he had a home to go back to. Hell, it's not like he had a home at all. After all his time here he still walked the halls staring at his feet, too afraid of the scornful glances he received from his 'fellow' crewmen and officers. They saw a reputation and not a man, something that Dennis was still trying to rebuild and he was beginning to wonder if it was futile. The XO had told him long ago that they were all soldiers, they were all part of the same brotherhood and the captain had recently reinforced this notion with her ship-wide speech. It was a brotherhood Dennis desperately wanted to be a part of, but always was on the outside looking in. He was trying harder than anyone to cast off the title of outcast and actually be one with this community, the "family" of Atlas that did not exist on the patrol cutters.
And he had been trying in vain to join that family for five, fucking, years.
EDFS Atlas CIC
A tickling bead of sweat slowly crept down the nose of the intently focused technician as his eyes remained steadily locked on the work before him. With an MUT in one hand and a solder clamp in the other, the tech anxiously licked his lips as he ever so cautiously brought the freshly stripped copper wire endings closer to the PCB terminal he intended to fuse. The wires made gentle contact with the terminal and with graceful flow the MUT maneuvered around the other circuits to get the best angle of approach on the point of contact. It was a very delicate operation, the system was powered up (or 'hot' as techs called it) and if that iron got too close to something it wasn't supposed to the arc would short out the--
The ET's hand twitched, and a fizzling crack issued from the PCB as a small geyser of acrid, white smoke plumed into the face of the tech as electricity arced between the wire and the MUT which then jumped to a resistor nestled way too close to the terminal.
"D-d-d-DAM-" Dennis managed to bite his tongue to hold back his stuttering obscenity. Not like it would have mattered had he actually cursed at the top of his lungs. The CIC was a calm and professional place yet Dennis's consistent, and often involuntary, outbursts had gone unheeded for some time now within the cool confines of the brain of the vessel. Dennis wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing; any captain who runs a tight ship--which Ramirez certainly did--would discipline such breach of protocol readily, and she had done so for Dennis in the past. Now it was almost like his vulgarity was treated like standard operating procedure amongst the bridge crew. Actually the more Dennis thought about it the worse the implications were; it was like being treated like some non-housebroken pet.
After glancing around to see if anyone had taken notice of his slip up Dennis wiped his nose with a forefinger and turned his attention back to his task. He uttered a silent curse as he evaluated the damage. The stricken resistor was scorched black and one of its own terminals had been repelled away from the PCB from the shock, its wiring snapped like much-too-taught fishing line. That was the second resistor Dennis had busted today, in this very room, on this very board! He was sure that Chief Wisetale would give him all hell for that...provided he even bothered to read Dennis's logs anyway which the tech was uncertain of. Despite the plethora of ranks, ratings and occupational specialties reflected in the DC and maintenance staff of the Atlas, amongst the tech specialists there were only two categories: the 'nukes'; the 'A' certified nuclear technicians and engineers who inhabited the reactor and engine rooms; and the 'pukes' the 'C' class technicians who inhabited...everywhere. Well, no self-respecting 'C' class technician, such as Dennis himself, would call themselves a 'puke' (they referred to themselves as 'techs') but that was simply the title thrust upon them by the nukes who had passed nuke school and viewed themselves as superior to the others. The nukes were universally the bosses of the other techs and they made sure every other tech on the ship knew the appropriate technophilic pecking order. That pecking order also meant that the documentation, logs and reports of the non-nukes were in a much lower priority slot than the nukes themselves. Unless the tech really screwed something up then a nuke would make sure a 'puke' knew why he or she was called such.
Heaving a sigh, Dennis set down his tools then cracked his knuckles and cranked his neck a bit. Unlike his legs and lips, the twitch in his hand was not due to his disorder, but pure fatigue and stress. There was a lot of work to be done on the Atlas's electrical systems regardless of what the ship had been through. Like every human who inhabited the giant, flying, metal cigar the Atlas had her own needs; as she protected the crew, so they would need to protect her. The Atlas had a soul, more soul than any of the intra-system cutters Dennis had served on in his career, and that soul had a way of telling the crew when it needed attending to.
And right now, that soul was very, very angry. So angry in fact that Atlas had tried to kill them all not just but a couple days ago.
Now there was a wondrous mess of things to clean up after that fiasco; the electronics had been acting up ever since the system overload that led to all the fire alarms going haywire and every tech on the Atlas was pulling double shift to get the ship's systems back to ready status. The LADAR(LAser Detection And Ranging) suite was one such trouble spot, and it was the one billeted to Dennis. A lot of the transistors had blown during the power surges the ship experienced when the Atlas computer network went psycho, trying to boost the strength of the sensors by pumping extra power to the system. Now the techs had to rebuild a lot of the RCB's piece by piece including the control board Dennis was currently working on. He'd been struggling with it for hours on end and now finally at the tail end of the work a simple, god damned slip of the wrist had almost set him back half that work time. He hit the master power switch for the system, stopping the juice. Tearing off a piece of solder tape from his harness, Dennis used the solder clamps to crudely wrap the wire endings of the resistor and fused it with his MUT.
"CIC, block A, going hot, repeat, going hot." Dennis garbled into his comm bead informing all the techs not to touch any block A wiring lest they be fried to a crisp. After hearing "all clear" Dennis punched the master power again. Clamping the copper wires again and adjusting his MUT, Dennis repositioned the hot wire. The solder couldn't be done cold because this particular soldering technique required current running through both contact surfaces in order to properly seal and Dennis mentally cursed whoever came up with that idea. Focusing with extreme intensity Dennis again maneuvered the MUT into position and this time, everything went according to plan. The satisfying sizzle of metal ablating to metal greeted his ears. Dennis leaned back from the board with a relief-filled sigh; finally this billet was done. He conducted some diagnostic checks with his MUT and the control interface of the LADAR to see that everything was in working order. Seeing nothing amiss, Dennis updated the system and his personal log, packed the RCB back into it's holding tray and slid said tray into the shelf, all while making sure no loose wires got caught in the shelf rollers.
Dennis checked the next task on his billet, his last task for the day before he could get some well deserved (or at least much needed) rest. Adjusting his glasses ever so slightly for better focus he read the log and cursed under his breath. The lower deck airlocks were still tweaking out and the control system needed some repairs to resolve this issue. Dennis hated going down there, there were a lot of civvies running around on the lower decks. No matter how many times the crew informed the civvies to stay out of the maintenance ducts there was always a group of ignorant kids or some lost soul who wandered into those areas. On several occasions since the captain's announcement Dennis had been harassed by the civvies. Some of them just honestly wanted information, but many more were just venting on the first uniform they saw. Screw that! Dennis didn't have a very good idea of what was going on himself! That knowledge was restricted to the o-gangers (officers) in charge around here.
Well, it was restricted until the captain made it clear to everybody on board the ship that they would be a long way from home for a very long time. That didn't really matter much to Dennis, it's not like he had a home to go back to. Hell, it's not like he had a home at all. After all his time here he still walked the halls staring at his feet, too afraid of the scornful glances he received from his 'fellow' crewmen and officers. They saw a reputation and not a man, something that Dennis was still trying to rebuild and he was beginning to wonder if it was futile. The XO had told him long ago that they were all soldiers, they were all part of the same brotherhood and the captain had recently reinforced this notion with her ship-wide speech. It was a brotherhood Dennis desperately wanted to be a part of, but always was on the outside looking in. He was trying harder than anyone to cast off the title of outcast and actually be one with this community, the "family" of Atlas that did not exist on the patrol cutters.
And he had been trying in vain to join that family for five, fucking, years.
Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas CIC
With his equipment packed up and the logger updated, Dennis was just showing himself out the pressure lock. His eyes and mouth softened into a neutral scowl as he put on his best "nothing to see here" face as to avoid any unnecessary eye contact with the rest of the crew. He hastily made his way to the airlock when every action he was engaged in was suddenly arrested by one word.
"Midshipman," the unmistakable voice of captain Ramirez chimed in cold, scientific efficiency from the tactical display.
The title of 'midshipman' was the same as any other rank, rating; just an occupational title. From Dennis's perspective, given his history, it meant so much more than that. 'Midshipman' had become Dennis's identifying title amongst the top brass; seen through the lens of his uniform and not his person, because that person carried too much baggage to form a healthy relationship. Just like the wires and metal Dennis himself worked on, so too was he treated by his superiors as an unfeeling machine.
Yet Dennis certainly felt emotion and right now he felt fear. The captain had an air of authority about here that was unquestionable even amongst the more socially acceptable members of the crew. For the lowly Dennis though Captain Ramirez was more than authority, she was a high tower of judgment and discipline that lorded above him as an alpha lioness asserts power over a pride-less male cub. There was an old Terran saying that Dennis had long ago committed to memory: "there's always a bigger fish". Well on the Atlas, they were all fish, and Ramirez was the kingfisher that circled the waters above them with ever piercing eyes. Eyes that now stared down and clearly through the soul of one Dennis Heldane. The very thought made his right upper lip begin curling into that infamous rictus smile with sharp, jittery twitches. If he didn't fight it now then...
Mind over matter. Dennis silently mouthed. His face transformed into the hardened gaze of a soldier as quickly as it had deformed just a second earlier. He wheeled around to face his commanding officer and saluted smartly. "Yes SIR!" Dennis replied with a tad more force than necessary. It wasn't in spite, he would never raise his tone in anger to a superior. It was something Dennis did for himself, to keep himself from stuttering during periods of extreme stress.
âIt has been brought to my attention that there are a number of guests down below who are unpleased with the amenities weâve provided. Why donât you accompany me down below and weâll see about putting a few mints on the pillows?â the captain invited/ordered coolly. Again this sent Dennis into a slight panic. His current billet assigned to him by Chief Wisetale had Dennis slated to fix the airlocks on the lower decks and now the captain herself issued him a conflicting order? It wasn't easy serving two masters with differing agendas, but one must naturally differ to the higher power. Of course Dennis had no idea what the captain had in mind for him to do. He was an ET not a jack of all trades, what was he to do if she assigned him some HVAC job, or logistics, or--god forbid--public relations?
There was an easy answer to this question. Over millennia of military history there was a simple answer to every order. No matter the circumstances, no matter the conflicts, no matter the cost in material or human life, there was one, two word answer to any order. It was the answer that Dennis, like millions of soldiers before him, elected to choose.
"Yes sir."
EDF Atlas CIC
With his equipment packed up and the logger updated, Dennis was just showing himself out the pressure lock. His eyes and mouth softened into a neutral scowl as he put on his best "nothing to see here" face as to avoid any unnecessary eye contact with the rest of the crew. He hastily made his way to the airlock when every action he was engaged in was suddenly arrested by one word.
"Midshipman," the unmistakable voice of captain Ramirez chimed in cold, scientific efficiency from the tactical display.
The title of 'midshipman' was the same as any other rank, rating; just an occupational title. From Dennis's perspective, given his history, it meant so much more than that. 'Midshipman' had become Dennis's identifying title amongst the top brass; seen through the lens of his uniform and not his person, because that person carried too much baggage to form a healthy relationship. Just like the wires and metal Dennis himself worked on, so too was he treated by his superiors as an unfeeling machine.
Yet Dennis certainly felt emotion and right now he felt fear. The captain had an air of authority about here that was unquestionable even amongst the more socially acceptable members of the crew. For the lowly Dennis though Captain Ramirez was more than authority, she was a high tower of judgment and discipline that lorded above him as an alpha lioness asserts power over a pride-less male cub. There was an old Terran saying that Dennis had long ago committed to memory: "there's always a bigger fish". Well on the Atlas, they were all fish, and Ramirez was the kingfisher that circled the waters above them with ever piercing eyes. Eyes that now stared down and clearly through the soul of one Dennis Heldane. The very thought made his right upper lip begin curling into that infamous rictus smile with sharp, jittery twitches. If he didn't fight it now then...
Mind over matter. Dennis silently mouthed. His face transformed into the hardened gaze of a soldier as quickly as it had deformed just a second earlier. He wheeled around to face his commanding officer and saluted smartly. "Yes SIR!" Dennis replied with a tad more force than necessary. It wasn't in spite, he would never raise his tone in anger to a superior. It was something Dennis did for himself, to keep himself from stuttering during periods of extreme stress.
âIt has been brought to my attention that there are a number of guests down below who are unpleased with the amenities weâve provided. Why donât you accompany me down below and weâll see about putting a few mints on the pillows?â the captain invited/ordered coolly. Again this sent Dennis into a slight panic. His current billet assigned to him by Chief Wisetale had Dennis slated to fix the airlocks on the lower decks and now the captain herself issued him a conflicting order? It wasn't easy serving two masters with differing agendas, but one must naturally differ to the higher power. Of course Dennis had no idea what the captain had in mind for him to do. He was an ET not a jack of all trades, what was he to do if she assigned him some HVAC job, or logistics, or--god forbid--public relations?
There was an easy answer to this question. Over millennia of military history there was a simple answer to every order. No matter the circumstances, no matter the conflicts, no matter the cost in material or human life, there was one, two word answer to any order. It was the answer that Dennis, like millions of soldiers before him, elected to choose.
"Yes sir."
Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas
The gauntly quiet metal corridors echoed with each step Dennis and the captain took as they made their way to the forward companionway. The hatch was located a mere twenty meters from CIC yet the agonizing walk there through the sudden silence seemed to stretch on for eternity. Normally every forward deck was abuzz with officers and crew whether it be intelligence and tactical officers ferrying documents, marines running CQB drills or maintenance and techs like Dennis himself doing their regular sweeps. For some reason though today was different. It was as if through some Byzantine conspiracy that Dennis was alone in the forward corridor with the captain. Deep-seated discomfort roiled within the scrawny-looking tech. He did everything he could to rationalize, distract and otherwise suppress the fear that was eating away at him by the second. He stared at the floor, he held his MUT in his hand, he reviewed his basic and technical training, and he mentally uttered his personal chants.
Walk the perimeter. Check your six. They invade your mind through your dreams. Samsung Technologies C4ISR Model B battle computer installed on capital ships as a fire control mechanism for directed energy weapons. Walk the perimeter. Check your six. They can't get in if you lock them out. Dennis reviewed internally as he fought his quivering upper lip with every step. Occasionally he glanced at his blank MUT as if checking a passive diagnostic suite. Dennis knew that if others saw him at work they were less likely to pay attention to him. It was a trick that worked in the past and it was working again now. He did it for himself as much as he did it for others, to distract himself from the reality that he was even being scrutinized in the first place. It was working.
The captain's question brought all that effort to a shuddering halt.
âScuttlebutt across the CIC is that the civilian population is asking about the possibility of integration with the crew given our âdifficultâ situation. Can you imagine trying to keep anyoneâs head on straight?â The commanding officer's voice carved through Dennis's mental stasis like a pulse gun through paper. In one blinding second every coping mechanism he had been bringing online in order to maintain his concentration came crashing down in a ruinous collapse.
Then the other questions came to Dennis that he had been ignoring. What was the captain planning on having him do? What could he do beyond what he had been tasked to? What would be the consequences if he failed? Now another question came to his tortured brain. What was the captain asking him? Did she want his honest opinion or was it a rhetorical question? Was there a right or wrong answer if she was asking for Dennis's opinion.
Better safe than sorry. Dennis thought as he threw together a response for the captain. "No sir, I think tha-that issue is a-a-ABove my pay grade." Dennis mustered the most dignified answer that came to mind as his face contorted in labor with each stutter. He hoped the answer he gave was the right one. They came to the forward hatch where a marine, Pvt.Salinger, stood at attention. She saluted smartly to the captain and opened the hatch. The captain climbed in and Dennis followed. They made their way down the companionway, five decks to the lower maintenance corridors. They exited the companionway again with the captain leading the way. Within minutes they came to the guarded freight doors leading to the port side cargo hold or the "Slums" as they were becoming known. The two marines on station saluted, then opened the doors at the captain's order.
Upon entering the slums Dennis was assailed by the crushing atmosphere of the despoiled, festering living arrangements. Simply the presence of so many people wore on him, and the idea that for every person there was a pair of eyes that could be trained on him. Or rather would be trained on him; he was standing next to the captain after all, a glorious beacon of authority in a land of lawless squalor. He took in the angry pain of this place, felt it at a visceral level. Felt that pain and anger being directed at him.
His lip jumped a little.
EDF Atlas
The gauntly quiet metal corridors echoed with each step Dennis and the captain took as they made their way to the forward companionway. The hatch was located a mere twenty meters from CIC yet the agonizing walk there through the sudden silence seemed to stretch on for eternity. Normally every forward deck was abuzz with officers and crew whether it be intelligence and tactical officers ferrying documents, marines running CQB drills or maintenance and techs like Dennis himself doing their regular sweeps. For some reason though today was different. It was as if through some Byzantine conspiracy that Dennis was alone in the forward corridor with the captain. Deep-seated discomfort roiled within the scrawny-looking tech. He did everything he could to rationalize, distract and otherwise suppress the fear that was eating away at him by the second. He stared at the floor, he held his MUT in his hand, he reviewed his basic and technical training, and he mentally uttered his personal chants.
Walk the perimeter. Check your six. They invade your mind through your dreams. Samsung Technologies C4ISR Model B battle computer installed on capital ships as a fire control mechanism for directed energy weapons. Walk the perimeter. Check your six. They can't get in if you lock them out. Dennis reviewed internally as he fought his quivering upper lip with every step. Occasionally he glanced at his blank MUT as if checking a passive diagnostic suite. Dennis knew that if others saw him at work they were less likely to pay attention to him. It was a trick that worked in the past and it was working again now. He did it for himself as much as he did it for others, to distract himself from the reality that he was even being scrutinized in the first place. It was working.
The captain's question brought all that effort to a shuddering halt.
âScuttlebutt across the CIC is that the civilian population is asking about the possibility of integration with the crew given our âdifficultâ situation. Can you imagine trying to keep anyoneâs head on straight?â The commanding officer's voice carved through Dennis's mental stasis like a pulse gun through paper. In one blinding second every coping mechanism he had been bringing online in order to maintain his concentration came crashing down in a ruinous collapse.
Then the other questions came to Dennis that he had been ignoring. What was the captain planning on having him do? What could he do beyond what he had been tasked to? What would be the consequences if he failed? Now another question came to his tortured brain. What was the captain asking him? Did she want his honest opinion or was it a rhetorical question? Was there a right or wrong answer if she was asking for Dennis's opinion.
Better safe than sorry. Dennis thought as he threw together a response for the captain. "No sir, I think tha-that issue is a-a-ABove my pay grade." Dennis mustered the most dignified answer that came to mind as his face contorted in labor with each stutter. He hoped the answer he gave was the right one. They came to the forward hatch where a marine, Pvt.Salinger, stood at attention. She saluted smartly to the captain and opened the hatch. The captain climbed in and Dennis followed. They made their way down the companionway, five decks to the lower maintenance corridors. They exited the companionway again with the captain leading the way. Within minutes they came to the guarded freight doors leading to the port side cargo hold or the "Slums" as they were becoming known. The two marines on station saluted, then opened the doors at the captain's order.
Upon entering the slums Dennis was assailed by the crushing atmosphere of the despoiled, festering living arrangements. Simply the presence of so many people wore on him, and the idea that for every person there was a pair of eyes that could be trained on him. Or rather would be trained on him; he was standing next to the captain after all, a glorious beacon of authority in a land of lawless squalor. He took in the angry pain of this place, felt it at a visceral level. Felt that pain and anger being directed at him.
His lip jumped a little.
Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas, Cargo Bay "Slums"
It had all happened so fast. The last minute Dennis was doing his best to answer any technical questions directed at the captain by the civies, now he had a shotgun leveled right at his face by a girl with short-hacked black hair who looked no older than eighteen. Certainly not a soldier, certainly not law enforcement, she was holding the weapon all wrong and from the looks of it she was somewhere halfway between wanting to be here holding this tiny officer hostage, and being as far away from this place as possible. Maybe it was the latter that spurred the action which led to the former, or at least planted the seed. The mob had pushed her to germinate that seed. What was it called, Dennis had read it somewhere. Group absolution, that was it. Group absolution and individuation. The power of the presence of the group could make human beings do things they would never do alone. Statistically, 98% of human beings were viscerally unprepared to engage in human aggression in a predatory manner on their own. But the power of the group, the mob, the tribe could overrule such instincts.
With an ever so surprised look on his face, Dennis risked a slow pan to the right and saw six, no seven civilians pointing guns at him and the captain. The others seemed ready to back up the guns with pure manpower from the looks of it. Panning to his left he saw three more within a couple feet of the marines, guns trained on them. Clearly the civilians had made a mistake though, they did not tell the marines to drop their weapons. Dennis turned back to look at the girl before him and the crowd behind her. God they seemed angry, they looked mad as a bull. Only desperation created that kind of anger in a group like this.
They just wanted just wanted to go home, Dennis was sure. The tech's eyebrows hardened as a bolt of anger shot through him.
Well fuck, he wanted to go home too, only he didn't have the luxury of a home to go back to. He never had a home, he had a jail with amenities at first then he had a bulk-press barracks. Now he had a flying, metal cigar filled with nearly a thousand or so people who all hated him.
What the fuck did the civies want so badly that they had to raise their weapons against the men and women who were sword sworn to defend them? The ones who in bleeding to death unsung on land or choking on nothingness in silent agony in the void, who endured hardships these God damn civies couldn't imagine so they could live their cushy life? What the hell bad happened to them in life? Oh, you had to sit aboard a cold tin can, twiddling your thumbs and eating gruel while you waited for your ticket home for a few months. Wow, that's such a sad story, sorry you couldn't get your blankets warmed by the heater every night. What did they know about hardship? About Dennis's hardship? Brutalized by a dictatorial parent, bullied throughout his life and career for the flesh he had been encumbered with. Then ever seeking the respect of others, trying and failing and trying and failing, each time worse than the last and doing so only because he had nowhere else to go. No one else to talk to. He didn't have a shoulder to cry on. He was a soldier without an army, one that disowned him. Can this girl imagine that? Belonging to a family that doesn't want you, but you must stay with because you have nothing else? Because you are obligated to do so by the law?
Tell me, what do you know of pain!? Dennis scathed mentally. His lip was quivering in anger now and his gaze was hotter than molten steel. He thought about checking his anger, knowing that others would depend on how he handled himself. Then suddenly he found he didn't care, he didn't care what happened to the captain, that damn o-ganger, those jarhead brutes. They had disowned him, why should he feel responsible for them? Why the hell was this woman pointing her gun at him anyway? It wasn't his fault they were all in this situation. Dennis just tried to do his job, took his orders and didn't complain about them. It was those fucking o-gangers, the ever so high and mighty brass, lords and masters of all they surveyed. They pointed at the sound of the guns and the rest of them marched to death and glory. So what gave this bitch the right to point a weapon at him? It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right. By all the power at his disposal, Dennis was to right wrongs.
Anger has a way of blurring time, blurring action. Dennis's body moved without provocation at a speed nobody was prepared for, not the captain, not the mob, not the marines, not the girl. Before he knew it, Dennis had wrestled the shotgun from the girl and knocked her cold with a back swing. She lay curled in a twitching mass on the floor, her spine had snapped. Dennis remembered now he felt it when the butt of the shotgun connected with the side of her head. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing. Maybe it was because of adrenaline that he didn't feel bullets sear through him. That coming to mind, he checked himself, not a scratch. Was he invincible?
His lipped stopped twitching.
Then Dennis looked up and saw the wide-eyed horror on the faces of the mob--no--herd of terrified sheep as they looked upon the gurgling, writhing mess on the floor. %95 of humans cowered in phobic terror at the thought of human aggression directed at them. It was clear at that very moment that %100 of this crowd were composed of that %95. That made sense. The remaining %5 of that spectrum were the 'warrior breed', those who could confront violence, and commit to it. Most of those individuals became soldiers, police officers and other occupations that required the individual wield deadly force. True blooded warriors.
Then there was the %2 of society that was contained within that %5; the "%2 who like it". Psychopaths and the mentally deranged; humanity's "wolves" that enjoyed bloodshed. They felt no remorse for those they killed. They were incapable of empathizing with others. "Guilt" was not in their repertoire. Dennis smirked at the crowd as he stood over that twitching body. All the attention was focused on him, not on the captain, not on the marines, him. He did this, he left his mark. He loved it. Finally people were seeing him for what he was: a force to be reckoned with. The death of the girl was just that, a death. People die on the road to greatness.
Hopeful pride swelled in Dennis's heart. Had he done good today? Did he save the captain? Did he save the boat? Was he a hero?
Or was he just a murderer?
EDF Atlas, Cargo Bay "Slums"
It had all happened so fast. The last minute Dennis was doing his best to answer any technical questions directed at the captain by the civies, now he had a shotgun leveled right at his face by a girl with short-hacked black hair who looked no older than eighteen. Certainly not a soldier, certainly not law enforcement, she was holding the weapon all wrong and from the looks of it she was somewhere halfway between wanting to be here holding this tiny officer hostage, and being as far away from this place as possible. Maybe it was the latter that spurred the action which led to the former, or at least planted the seed. The mob had pushed her to germinate that seed. What was it called, Dennis had read it somewhere. Group absolution, that was it. Group absolution and individuation. The power of the presence of the group could make human beings do things they would never do alone. Statistically, 98% of human beings were viscerally unprepared to engage in human aggression in a predatory manner on their own. But the power of the group, the mob, the tribe could overrule such instincts.
With an ever so surprised look on his face, Dennis risked a slow pan to the right and saw six, no seven civilians pointing guns at him and the captain. The others seemed ready to back up the guns with pure manpower from the looks of it. Panning to his left he saw three more within a couple feet of the marines, guns trained on them. Clearly the civilians had made a mistake though, they did not tell the marines to drop their weapons. Dennis turned back to look at the girl before him and the crowd behind her. God they seemed angry, they looked mad as a bull. Only desperation created that kind of anger in a group like this.
They just wanted just wanted to go home, Dennis was sure. The tech's eyebrows hardened as a bolt of anger shot through him.
Well fuck, he wanted to go home too, only he didn't have the luxury of a home to go back to. He never had a home, he had a jail with amenities at first then he had a bulk-press barracks. Now he had a flying, metal cigar filled with nearly a thousand or so people who all hated him.
What the fuck did the civies want so badly that they had to raise their weapons against the men and women who were sword sworn to defend them? The ones who in bleeding to death unsung on land or choking on nothingness in silent agony in the void, who endured hardships these God damn civies couldn't imagine so they could live their cushy life? What the hell bad happened to them in life? Oh, you had to sit aboard a cold tin can, twiddling your thumbs and eating gruel while you waited for your ticket home for a few months. Wow, that's such a sad story, sorry you couldn't get your blankets warmed by the heater every night. What did they know about hardship? About Dennis's hardship? Brutalized by a dictatorial parent, bullied throughout his life and career for the flesh he had been encumbered with. Then ever seeking the respect of others, trying and failing and trying and failing, each time worse than the last and doing so only because he had nowhere else to go. No one else to talk to. He didn't have a shoulder to cry on. He was a soldier without an army, one that disowned him. Can this girl imagine that? Belonging to a family that doesn't want you, but you must stay with because you have nothing else? Because you are obligated to do so by the law?
Tell me, what do you know of pain!? Dennis scathed mentally. His lip was quivering in anger now and his gaze was hotter than molten steel. He thought about checking his anger, knowing that others would depend on how he handled himself. Then suddenly he found he didn't care, he didn't care what happened to the captain, that damn o-ganger, those jarhead brutes. They had disowned him, why should he feel responsible for them? Why the hell was this woman pointing her gun at him anyway? It wasn't his fault they were all in this situation. Dennis just tried to do his job, took his orders and didn't complain about them. It was those fucking o-gangers, the ever so high and mighty brass, lords and masters of all they surveyed. They pointed at the sound of the guns and the rest of them marched to death and glory. So what gave this bitch the right to point a weapon at him? It wasn't fair.
It wasn't right. By all the power at his disposal, Dennis was to right wrongs.
Anger has a way of blurring time, blurring action. Dennis's body moved without provocation at a speed nobody was prepared for, not the captain, not the mob, not the marines, not the girl. Before he knew it, Dennis had wrestled the shotgun from the girl and knocked her cold with a back swing. She lay curled in a twitching mass on the floor, her spine had snapped. Dennis remembered now he felt it when the butt of the shotgun connected with the side of her head. Adrenaline is a hell of a thing. Maybe it was because of adrenaline that he didn't feel bullets sear through him. That coming to mind, he checked himself, not a scratch. Was he invincible?
His lipped stopped twitching.
Then Dennis looked up and saw the wide-eyed horror on the faces of the mob--no--herd of terrified sheep as they looked upon the gurgling, writhing mess on the floor. %95 of humans cowered in phobic terror at the thought of human aggression directed at them. It was clear at that very moment that %100 of this crowd were composed of that %95. That made sense. The remaining %5 of that spectrum were the 'warrior breed', those who could confront violence, and commit to it. Most of those individuals became soldiers, police officers and other occupations that required the individual wield deadly force. True blooded warriors.
Then there was the %2 of society that was contained within that %5; the "%2 who like it". Psychopaths and the mentally deranged; humanity's "wolves" that enjoyed bloodshed. They felt no remorse for those they killed. They were incapable of empathizing with others. "Guilt" was not in their repertoire. Dennis smirked at the crowd as he stood over that twitching body. All the attention was focused on him, not on the captain, not on the marines, him. He did this, he left his mark. He loved it. Finally people were seeing him for what he was: a force to be reckoned with. The death of the girl was just that, a death. People die on the road to greatness.
Hopeful pride swelled in Dennis's heart. Had he done good today? Did he save the captain? Did he save the boat? Was he a hero?
Or was he just a murderer?
Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas, Cargo Bay "Slums"
The frail body of Dennis Heldane lay motionless, sprawled face-first on the cold, hard deck. Muscle and bone fought with unresponsive nerves to send messages to the brain. Messages of pain. Pain that outwardly the body did not show because the commanding organ was sleeping on the job. What a lazy-
Son of a bitch! Burst into a throbbing conscious jump-started by a body in pain. Despit the effort Dennisâs mind fluttered in and out of conscious thought and settled on a torturous middle ground of foggy ambiguity. Dennis could hardly make out the sounds around him. Most of what was heard was unidentified. Most of what was said was not comprehended. Dennis made no effort to rouse himself; he couldnât fight the agony. Every time a muscle group fired, neurons screamed in visceral retort. His head felt as if it was cajoled by a sledgehammer; he likely was suffering from a concussion. Nope, until he could receive proper medical attention, it was best just to lie here.
Plus the floor was much more inviting than cold steel with vengeful scowls behind it.
âYouâre not here to give orders anymore, Captain.â Dennis heard a gruff voiceâthe man who formerly had a pistol to the Captainâs headâclaim.
Although it was intriguing to hear someone, especially a civilian, try to cut the Captain down to size Dennis knew it was a futile gesture. The blast doors were not the only way into the cargo hold. Over a dozen kilometers worth of maintenance passages, emergency corridors and HVAC ducts honey-combed through just the starboard, aft of the Atlas and many of them had access hatches in this cargo bay. Dennis knew them well enough having come down here enough times and he was fairly certain that the XO was not unfamiliar himself. Once damage control was complete the Lt. Colonel would assume temporary command of the warship. First thing on his agenda would be to reconstitute the command structure. That meant getting the captain out alive and if he had to personally plunge a knife into every last troublemaker here, he would. Plus there were marines stuck in here, held at gunpoint like the other hostages. Marines ânever leave anyone behindâ, so the Lt.Col, a marine himself, would be leading a contingent of impetuous marines to liberate their beleaguered comrades. Then the XO would execute those here who just stood by and let this piss-poor plan of an uprising get under way.
Your funeral, buddy. Dennis remarked internally as the thought of Kaitoâs boot, slick with the blood of insurrectionists, stood upon the mob leaderâs head as the body lay still, riddled with bleeding holes. Then another voice, a cold, diamond-hard voice, cut through the thick silence, and Dennisâs delirium.
âCode White has been issued.â A voice Dennis knew all too well from his prior âvisitsâ to the infirmary. The doctorâs voice made his blood pressure and heart rate spiked and the pounding in his head intensified in response. The voice of Lt. Commander Medina; tinged with the metallic edge of all the self-righteous venom Dennis knew roiled within her.
Of all the damn quacks on board, why her? Dennis begged of an unknown, omniscient force as he reminisced on all those prior confinements that he had since managed to avoid. Medical attention was now far lower on his personal priority tree.
Of course he wouldnât have need of it had he not botched his aggressive negotiations so badly. If he had turned the weapon he acquired on the mob leader instead of basking in his glory like an idiot. The mob that downed him in furious revenge. Revenge bloomed from the blood of the martyr that Dennis had made in his efforts to acquire that weapon. A martyr who before was just a damn civie with a gun to Dennisâs head.
Dennis had tried to be the hero. He tried hard. Then he failed.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Despite his tenuous grasp on reality there was much Dennis as a tech could do at this point. He could open his radio frequency to all channels. He could trigger local fire alarms. He could shut down the local lighting. Anything to give other personnel the edge in putting down this angry mob. Yet, he just lay there doing nothing, attempting nothing. His action would probably just result in another mess, so why even try?
EDF Atlas, Cargo Bay "Slums"
The frail body of Dennis Heldane lay motionless, sprawled face-first on the cold, hard deck. Muscle and bone fought with unresponsive nerves to send messages to the brain. Messages of pain. Pain that outwardly the body did not show because the commanding organ was sleeping on the job. What a lazy-
Son of a bitch! Burst into a throbbing conscious jump-started by a body in pain. Despit the effort Dennisâs mind fluttered in and out of conscious thought and settled on a torturous middle ground of foggy ambiguity. Dennis could hardly make out the sounds around him. Most of what was heard was unidentified. Most of what was said was not comprehended. Dennis made no effort to rouse himself; he couldnât fight the agony. Every time a muscle group fired, neurons screamed in visceral retort. His head felt as if it was cajoled by a sledgehammer; he likely was suffering from a concussion. Nope, until he could receive proper medical attention, it was best just to lie here.
Plus the floor was much more inviting than cold steel with vengeful scowls behind it.
âYouâre not here to give orders anymore, Captain.â Dennis heard a gruff voiceâthe man who formerly had a pistol to the Captainâs headâclaim.
Although it was intriguing to hear someone, especially a civilian, try to cut the Captain down to size Dennis knew it was a futile gesture. The blast doors were not the only way into the cargo hold. Over a dozen kilometers worth of maintenance passages, emergency corridors and HVAC ducts honey-combed through just the starboard, aft of the Atlas and many of them had access hatches in this cargo bay. Dennis knew them well enough having come down here enough times and he was fairly certain that the XO was not unfamiliar himself. Once damage control was complete the Lt. Colonel would assume temporary command of the warship. First thing on his agenda would be to reconstitute the command structure. That meant getting the captain out alive and if he had to personally plunge a knife into every last troublemaker here, he would. Plus there were marines stuck in here, held at gunpoint like the other hostages. Marines ânever leave anyone behindâ, so the Lt.Col, a marine himself, would be leading a contingent of impetuous marines to liberate their beleaguered comrades. Then the XO would execute those here who just stood by and let this piss-poor plan of an uprising get under way.
Your funeral, buddy. Dennis remarked internally as the thought of Kaitoâs boot, slick with the blood of insurrectionists, stood upon the mob leaderâs head as the body lay still, riddled with bleeding holes. Then another voice, a cold, diamond-hard voice, cut through the thick silence, and Dennisâs delirium.
âCode White has been issued.â A voice Dennis knew all too well from his prior âvisitsâ to the infirmary. The doctorâs voice made his blood pressure and heart rate spiked and the pounding in his head intensified in response. The voice of Lt. Commander Medina; tinged with the metallic edge of all the self-righteous venom Dennis knew roiled within her.
Of all the damn quacks on board, why her? Dennis begged of an unknown, omniscient force as he reminisced on all those prior confinements that he had since managed to avoid. Medical attention was now far lower on his personal priority tree.
Of course he wouldnât have need of it had he not botched his aggressive negotiations so badly. If he had turned the weapon he acquired on the mob leader instead of basking in his glory like an idiot. The mob that downed him in furious revenge. Revenge bloomed from the blood of the martyr that Dennis had made in his efforts to acquire that weapon. A martyr who before was just a damn civie with a gun to Dennisâs head.
Dennis had tried to be the hero. He tried hard. Then he failed.
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
Despite his tenuous grasp on reality there was much Dennis as a tech could do at this point. He could open his radio frequency to all channels. He could trigger local fire alarms. He could shut down the local lighting. Anything to give other personnel the edge in putting down this angry mob. Yet, he just lay there doing nothing, attempting nothing. His action would probably just result in another mess, so why even try?
EDF Atlas CIC
"What do you intend to do? Fly this ship? Handle the 1000 officers beyond this hold? We are in the middle of fucking nowhere! No response from commander! Weâre in enemy territory. Weâll all die and no one will care. No one will know. If you fully expect to seize this ship and then command it with your sorry lot you are sorely mistaken. They could just as easily open the hold and dump us all out. All of us. Including the innocents, which there are more of than you.â
The static-burst sight and sound of the young medical officer filled the CIC as the bridge officers watched with bated breath. As Medina released her weapon, she was immediately charged and secured by two men none too please with her show of heroics thus far.
"Fool girl is going to get herself killed," someone muttered from behind a dark panel in the CIC.
"If they were going to shoot Medina, they would have done so the first time she took down one of their men," Narita responded with a gruff smile. As much as he and the ship's chief medical officer dressed one another down and as much as he personally would like to take a swing at the woman, he had to admit that she would have made on hell of a Marine.
"Make a log entry. Effective immediately, I am declaring that Captain Ramirez is incapacitated and am hereby taking command of the Atlas. Note the time."
"Aye, sir."
-------------------------------------------------------------
Cargo Bay Slums
"Glad you could join us, doctor," Ramirez spoke. The area that had once served as the makeshift civilian medical clinic for the Slums was now used as a convenient way to hide away the high-profile hostages used in the impromptu attempt to take over the ship. Zip-ties bound hands together. If there was a way to escape, it certainly was doing a good job of hiding itself.
"Mr. Heldane took tough blow to the head. Lost some blood," the captain said, her eyes drifting between the crewman who'd accompanied her down into the Bay and the small exit to the curtain-enclosed area to which they'd be relegated. Two guards, both armed, including the one who'd taken the gunshot that claimed the life of a civilian, the body just on the other side of the curtain before being dragged away.
Somewhere beyond the curtain, a phone rang. The silver-haired man took measured steps toward the ringing device, making sure that his team shifted in position to compensate before he answered.
"Speak."
"This is Lt. Col. Narita. I demand to speak to the person in charge."
"You are speaking with me, Colonel."
"Very well. You know my name. Who are you?"
"You can call me Perses for now."
"The Titan of Destruction. Amusing. Very well, Perses. You are illegally holding members of my crew. I demand that you release the personnel immediately."
"You and I both know that I'm not going to do that, Colonel. Not until I get what I want from you."
"You and your crew are in an indefensible location with not alternate route of egress and surrounded by lots of very angry Marines. You aren't exactly in a position of power."
"Shame, shame, Colonel. Did you really think that the little rumble on your Flight Deck was an isolated incident?"
"You're bluffing."
"Let's test that assumption, shall we?"
Seconds later, fire alarms begin to light on the board in the CIC, causing one of the duty officers to bolt from her position and nearly trip down the stairs as she reported to Narita.
"Sir, a fire just broke out in secondary atmospheric control. I was able to shut down the system, but it's going to be offline for a while now."
Slowly, Narita raised the CIC phone back to his ear and caught the phone on the other end again.
"That was just a baby. His big brothers are attached to your engines, fire control systems, and maybe even one right under where you are standing. This is the part, Colonel, where you ask me my demands."
"...I'm listening."
"I want a group of Boomers large enough to take a group of 30 men down to the surface, packed with weapons and supplies. I want them waiting in your auxiliary hangar and ready to go within three hours, otherwise you find that your position commanding this ship becomes permanent and your first duty will be to explain the deaths of a whole bunch of civilians."
"That doesn't give us much time. I'll see what I can do."
"You do that, Colonel, and maybe I'll see about keeping these people alive while I'm waiting. Just don't make me wait too long."
With that, the silver-haired man hung up the phone and nodded to one of his associates, who took his position as the leader walked into the curtain-enclosed area and tossed a small medical kit down on the floor between Heldane and Medina.
"That should be everything that you need to patch him up," he said with a surprising sense of sympathy. "We aren't monsters, you see."
-------------------------------------------------------------
EDF Atlas CIC
Invoking the image of his predecessor, Narita pinched the bridge of his nose softly as he contemplated his options in silence. After a few seconds, he locked eyes across the table to the waiting face of his Wing Commander.
"You better get to work."
With that, Morrow bolted out of the room with half a plan and no time to waste.
"Ensign Grey, have a fire team assemble in the auxiliary hangar. And if you're not to busy, now would be a good time say a prayer."
-------------------------------------------------------------
EDF Atlas Flight Deck
"Make a hole, make a hole!"
The last time Aiden Morrow ran that fast, he'd been an Echo cadet contending for the Cup. The stakes were just a little higher now. Flying down the manual hatchway and barely touched the rungs of the ladder as he crashed onto the Flight Deck, he skidded in front of Jason "Digger" Mieczyslawa, grabbing the chief by the arm and jerking him to face the officer.
"You're with me, Chief. We've got about five hours of work and half that time to do it in," he spoke at a million miles an hour. "When's the last time you took a walk in space?"
"What do you intend to do? Fly this ship? Handle the 1000 officers beyond this hold? We are in the middle of fucking nowhere! No response from commander! Weâre in enemy territory. Weâll all die and no one will care. No one will know. If you fully expect to seize this ship and then command it with your sorry lot you are sorely mistaken. They could just as easily open the hold and dump us all out. All of us. Including the innocents, which there are more of than you.â
The static-burst sight and sound of the young medical officer filled the CIC as the bridge officers watched with bated breath. As Medina released her weapon, she was immediately charged and secured by two men none too please with her show of heroics thus far.
"Fool girl is going to get herself killed," someone muttered from behind a dark panel in the CIC.
"If they were going to shoot Medina, they would have done so the first time she took down one of their men," Narita responded with a gruff smile. As much as he and the ship's chief medical officer dressed one another down and as much as he personally would like to take a swing at the woman, he had to admit that she would have made on hell of a Marine.
"Make a log entry. Effective immediately, I am declaring that Captain Ramirez is incapacitated and am hereby taking command of the Atlas. Note the time."
"Aye, sir."
-------------------------------------------------------------
Cargo Bay Slums
"Glad you could join us, doctor," Ramirez spoke. The area that had once served as the makeshift civilian medical clinic for the Slums was now used as a convenient way to hide away the high-profile hostages used in the impromptu attempt to take over the ship. Zip-ties bound hands together. If there was a way to escape, it certainly was doing a good job of hiding itself.
"Mr. Heldane took tough blow to the head. Lost some blood," the captain said, her eyes drifting between the crewman who'd accompanied her down into the Bay and the small exit to the curtain-enclosed area to which they'd be relegated. Two guards, both armed, including the one who'd taken the gunshot that claimed the life of a civilian, the body just on the other side of the curtain before being dragged away.
Somewhere beyond the curtain, a phone rang. The silver-haired man took measured steps toward the ringing device, making sure that his team shifted in position to compensate before he answered.
"Speak."
"This is Lt. Col. Narita. I demand to speak to the person in charge."
"You are speaking with me, Colonel."
"Very well. You know my name. Who are you?"
"You can call me Perses for now."
"The Titan of Destruction. Amusing. Very well, Perses. You are illegally holding members of my crew. I demand that you release the personnel immediately."
"You and I both know that I'm not going to do that, Colonel. Not until I get what I want from you."
"You and your crew are in an indefensible location with not alternate route of egress and surrounded by lots of very angry Marines. You aren't exactly in a position of power."
"Shame, shame, Colonel. Did you really think that the little rumble on your Flight Deck was an isolated incident?"
"You're bluffing."
"Let's test that assumption, shall we?"
Seconds later, fire alarms begin to light on the board in the CIC, causing one of the duty officers to bolt from her position and nearly trip down the stairs as she reported to Narita.
"Sir, a fire just broke out in secondary atmospheric control. I was able to shut down the system, but it's going to be offline for a while now."
Slowly, Narita raised the CIC phone back to his ear and caught the phone on the other end again.
"That was just a baby. His big brothers are attached to your engines, fire control systems, and maybe even one right under where you are standing. This is the part, Colonel, where you ask me my demands."
"...I'm listening."
"I want a group of Boomers large enough to take a group of 30 men down to the surface, packed with weapons and supplies. I want them waiting in your auxiliary hangar and ready to go within three hours, otherwise you find that your position commanding this ship becomes permanent and your first duty will be to explain the deaths of a whole bunch of civilians."
"That doesn't give us much time. I'll see what I can do."
"You do that, Colonel, and maybe I'll see about keeping these people alive while I'm waiting. Just don't make me wait too long."
With that, the silver-haired man hung up the phone and nodded to one of his associates, who took his position as the leader walked into the curtain-enclosed area and tossed a small medical kit down on the floor between Heldane and Medina.
"That should be everything that you need to patch him up," he said with a surprising sense of sympathy. "We aren't monsters, you see."
-------------------------------------------------------------
EDF Atlas CIC
Invoking the image of his predecessor, Narita pinched the bridge of his nose softly as he contemplated his options in silence. After a few seconds, he locked eyes across the table to the waiting face of his Wing Commander.
"You better get to work."
With that, Morrow bolted out of the room with half a plan and no time to waste.
"Ensign Grey, have a fire team assemble in the auxiliary hangar. And if you're not to busy, now would be a good time say a prayer."
-------------------------------------------------------------
EDF Atlas Flight Deck
"Make a hole, make a hole!"
The last time Aiden Morrow ran that fast, he'd been an Echo cadet contending for the Cup. The stakes were just a little higher now. Flying down the manual hatchway and barely touched the rungs of the ladder as he crashed onto the Flight Deck, he skidded in front of Jason "Digger" Mieczyslawa, grabbing the chief by the arm and jerking him to face the officer.
"You're with me, Chief. We've got about five hours of work and half that time to do it in," he spoke at a million miles an hour. "When's the last time you took a walk in space?"
Midshipman Dennis Heldane
EDF Atlas Cargo Bay Slums
Lying still on his side, facing the blunt blandness of a plastic divider, the crumpled form of Dennis Heldane was motionless in self-imposed reverie. Internally he writhed and roiled with pain, more so from the old wounds to his soul than from his fresh one to the flesh. Wallowing in his own sorrow was a much abused coping mechanism of his. It was a way of shutting reality out, completely insulating the psyche. Heldaneâs logic was that if he denied all input from the outside, well then he certainly couldnât be expected to act within it. It was bullshit and he knew it, but suspension of disbelief was a powerful force. A cowardâs trick. In this state of mind he did not deny that he was a coward and this made things much easier for him. A coward lost the right to commit to action. A coward should not act for they would do more harm than good. Dennis proved that during his outburst when he stood before an armed mob and allowed his nerves to fray. Allowed someone to be killed hereby escalating the situation. For this he chastised himself, and mercilessly at that.
âP-p-please God ma-a-ke me stone.â He begged in near silence. Dennis was not a superstitious man by nature, he had seen enough suffering in his life to deny even the most remote possibility that any benevolent deity could possibly exist. In a proper state of mind he knew this most likely denied the possibility of cruel gods too. However, Dennis was an opportunistic believer. He did not engage in religious ritual or expand his knowledge of religion beyond what he already knew in desperate times and he never thanked any would-be gods for any miracle or blamed them for any disaster. In matters of the soul however when his will is strained Dennis tends to blame the gods he does not believe in for his predicament. What god would torture him with a twisted mind and encumber him with cursed flesh? Why no mercy? For what heinous crime which he may have committed in another life he did not have, was he paying the price for now?
Such irrationality strongly appealed to Dennisâs engineered helplessness.
Dennisâs silent self-victimization was crowded out by the verbal and physical confrontation between Lt.Cmdr Medina and the renegades. It was a curious thing to hear the doctor from a different perspective. Up until now Dennis had only heard her scorn her patients and with unnecessarily cruel intent, but doing the same to an armed man who probably wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in her head was something else. It was the difference between condemnation from a position of power, and defiance from a position of weakness. Dennis wished he had that kind of willpower. Yet it was not admiration or respect that began to well in Dennisâs gut but a far more sinister emotion. The amalgam of contempt and jealousy, the most insidious of the seven deadly sins that nobody ever openly admitted to.
Envy.
His pulse quickening with that special kind of hatred, Dennis found he could not remain still. God how he craved the doctorâs power! With not-at-all friendly competition, Dennis willed himself to stir.
âGet. Up.â He growled through clenched teeth and lurched upright on his rear and bracing against the wall rose up on resistive legs. Starring at the entry to the clinic where the doctor stood before the two guards, Dennis noticed the doctorâs hands were bound. The captain was there too, and her hands too were bound.
He also noticed that his were not.
EDF Atlas Cargo Bay Slums
Lying still on his side, facing the blunt blandness of a plastic divider, the crumpled form of Dennis Heldane was motionless in self-imposed reverie. Internally he writhed and roiled with pain, more so from the old wounds to his soul than from his fresh one to the flesh. Wallowing in his own sorrow was a much abused coping mechanism of his. It was a way of shutting reality out, completely insulating the psyche. Heldaneâs logic was that if he denied all input from the outside, well then he certainly couldnât be expected to act within it. It was bullshit and he knew it, but suspension of disbelief was a powerful force. A cowardâs trick. In this state of mind he did not deny that he was a coward and this made things much easier for him. A coward lost the right to commit to action. A coward should not act for they would do more harm than good. Dennis proved that during his outburst when he stood before an armed mob and allowed his nerves to fray. Allowed someone to be killed hereby escalating the situation. For this he chastised himself, and mercilessly at that.
âP-p-please God ma-a-ke me stone.â He begged in near silence. Dennis was not a superstitious man by nature, he had seen enough suffering in his life to deny even the most remote possibility that any benevolent deity could possibly exist. In a proper state of mind he knew this most likely denied the possibility of cruel gods too. However, Dennis was an opportunistic believer. He did not engage in religious ritual or expand his knowledge of religion beyond what he already knew in desperate times and he never thanked any would-be gods for any miracle or blamed them for any disaster. In matters of the soul however when his will is strained Dennis tends to blame the gods he does not believe in for his predicament. What god would torture him with a twisted mind and encumber him with cursed flesh? Why no mercy? For what heinous crime which he may have committed in another life he did not have, was he paying the price for now?
Such irrationality strongly appealed to Dennisâs engineered helplessness.
Dennisâs silent self-victimization was crowded out by the verbal and physical confrontation between Lt.Cmdr Medina and the renegades. It was a curious thing to hear the doctor from a different perspective. Up until now Dennis had only heard her scorn her patients and with unnecessarily cruel intent, but doing the same to an armed man who probably wanted nothing more than to put a bullet in her head was something else. It was the difference between condemnation from a position of power, and defiance from a position of weakness. Dennis wished he had that kind of willpower. Yet it was not admiration or respect that began to well in Dennisâs gut but a far more sinister emotion. The amalgam of contempt and jealousy, the most insidious of the seven deadly sins that nobody ever openly admitted to.
Envy.
His pulse quickening with that special kind of hatred, Dennis found he could not remain still. God how he craved the doctorâs power! With not-at-all friendly competition, Dennis willed himself to stir.
âGet. Up.â He growled through clenched teeth and lurched upright on his rear and bracing against the wall rose up on resistive legs. Starring at the entry to the clinic where the doctor stood before the two guards, Dennis noticed the doctorâs hands were bound. The captain was there too, and her hands too were bound.
He also noticed that his were not.
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