Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Artifact

2953-04-16 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Artifact 

Obviously, though the general gist of the claims of the Fiddlehead Three should be more than apparent by the two prior episodes, but I will provide Commander Lund’s retelling of their explanation here for two reasons. 

Firstly, Lund thought their story as amusing as it was interesting, and secondly, because the details that I am permitted to present here (some have been edited out of this retelling by Lund himself) are those I think represent this story as unlikely to be a cover story for a bunch of deserters. I am not wholly convinced, but I would suspect their account is more likely to be true than not. A Xenarch artifact capable of removing three humans from time for two days would be an incredible find indeed, if they hadn't needlessly expended it.

“So, am I to presume that you... misplaced this, erm, object?” Gunther Lund pressed when the silence had once again lengthened past what was normally considered awkward. 

“Well, it...” Visscher glanced between her compatriots. “Sort of exploded.” 

“On my station?” Lund arched one eyebrow. There had of course been no alarms indicative of any explosion in the period these miscreants had been aboard. 

“There was a button of sorts, inside a slot you could stick your finger into. We... We pushed the button. And-” McCormick’s shoulders slumped. 

“You pushed the button, you mean!” Bodinsen snapped, and he started to rise before his guard pressed a firm hand down on his shoulder. “I told you we needed to get it analyzed, but-” 

“Get it analyzed? Who was going to do that, and not take it away?” Visscher scowled. “We hit it with every sensor in the standard crew kit. It seemed safe.” 

Bodensen was quick with a response. “So would a thermite grenade. Or a bio-containment canister.”  

Gunther began to suspect this argument had been had once before, and he made a show of writing a note about recommending better tracking the use of standard shipboard tools during off-duty periods on his slate. “What did this... item look like?” 

There was a brief pause, but this time, Bodinsen broke it quickly. “It was a sort of cone or horn shape, about fifty centimeters long, slightly curved near the point, with a slot running the length. That’s where we found the button.” 

This, Gunther wrote down almost word for word. “What was it made of?” 

McCormick responded this time. “We couldn’t find out. Some sort of polymer, maybe. Sort of looked like pearl, but it was pale green.” 

“Any markings? Controls other than the button you pushed?” 

“Not that we found.” Bodinsen shrugged off the hand holding him in his chair. “And we looked damned hard.” 

Gunther noted this as well. He had long ago stopped asking why Navy ratings did the unwise things they did; three of them found a device with a button, and they inevitably pushed it. The surprising thing was that they spent days – maybe even weeks – puzzling over its origins before they did the inevitable. 

“We, ah. Went into that storage bay to push the button.” Visscher’s face reddened. "That way we had stuff to hide behind.” 

“And less witnesses, living and electronic.” Gunther nodded. “You aren’t the first miscreants to think of that. What happened next?” 

“As soon as I pushed it, the cone just sort of... burst.” McCormick sighed. “There was a loud noise, and a blast of green smoke, and... that was it. Your toughs collared us nearly the moment we got clear of the smoke and caught our breath.” 

Gunther nodded as he wrote this down. “The security personnel first on scene did not report any smoke, or any signs of an explosion, except that two storage containers full of computer components were pried open and rifled through.” 

Bodinsen cleared his throat. “If it were a normal explosion, we’d all be perforated. None of us was more than two meters from the thing when McCormick jumped the damned gun and pressed that button, and there’s not a scratch on any of us. We didn’t see any smoke either, after we got out of it.” 

“Wait, containers?” Visscher frowned. “We didn’t touch your supplies. We didn’t have time or tools for that. We were only in there about half an hour. That must have been unrelated.” 

“I can assure you nobody else was in that bay between when you arrived and when you were apprehended.” Gunther raised one eyebrow. “Hiding in a stack of cargo containers filed with electronics could easily block the security monitors, but I’m sure you knew that.” 

“I uh. Suppose we could have guesed it.” Visscher shrugged. “I’ve worked on security monitors. But we weren’t-” 

“They have no way of knowing if we were hiding in a stack of crates or not, if nobody else was in that bay” Bodinsen sighed. “And without the device, we’ve got no strong defense. The desertion charge sticks.” 

Gunther shrugged and smiled. “It’s looking that way, yes. But your story is very interesting. I am curious if there are any other details you remember. I rather doubt they could hurt, at this point.” 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Anomaly

2953-04-02 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Anomaly 

The trio exchanged uneasy looks for a long moment. None of them seemed eager to answer, even in the face of a capital charge at court-martial.  

When the silence again began to lengthen, and they realized they would be handed no lifelines, Visscher shook her head and opened her mouth. “How could we have left the station? It doesn’t make any sense. You have airlock and suit access records.” 

“An interesting point, but one unrelated to the matter at hand.” Commander Gunther Lund spread his hands in mock helplessness. “In any event I have techs examining those records now for evidence of your tampering.” 

“We didn’t touch your files. Or your spacesuits.” McCormick scowled. “We never left your station. At least...” He glanced to Visscher. “Not intentionally.” 

“Owen!” Visscher hissed. 

“What? You think we can possibly make this any worse?” 

“The only higher offense in the code than what you are facing is treason.” Gunther smiled cheerfully as he delivered this bit of trivia which they probably already knew. Navy ratings were forced to learn the Discipline Code as part of their training regimen. “And those inquiries are always a messy business, because Intelligence wants to get involved.” 

Despite this being no new information, the flustered trio were taken aback by the observation, just as Gunther had anticipated. In point of fact Naval Intelligence was already involved, though it was remotely for the moment. They usually didn't maintain any personnel aboard a small outpost like Fiddlehead Station. 

“Look, Commander...” Bodinsen peered over at Gunther’s uniform nameplate. “Commander Lund. We didn’t desert. It was an accident.” 

“That will be most difficult to prove, given that this ‘accident’ took place while you were concealing yourself from the security system... for two days.” Gunther pretended to make a note on his data-slate. “But that’s a matter for your advocate. I’m just trying to write my report for the court, in my capacity as the station commander.” 

In truth, if the trio were thinking rationally, they’d probably realize that on such a small station, any court martial couldn’t convene until another vessel docked for resupply. Three outsiders thrust unexpectedly into a position of judgement would of course lean heavily on the report and treat any testimony that it did not back up as suspect. Gunther, of course, had made something of a hobby of keeping miscreants off balance and far removed from their full rational faculties. 

“We didn’t desert.” Visscher shook her head. 

“Other than deserting, what else were you not doing around four-fifteen, second shift, on Seventeen March?” Gunther arched one eyebrow. “Perhaps we can reach satisfactory answers by process of elimination.” 

“We weren’t being careful.” Bodinsen sighed. “I knew that thing was trouble the moment you showed it to me, McCormick.” 

“Thing?” Gunther sat back and steepled his fingers. He knew the dam had cracked. 

“It could have been anything. Or nothing. We had to know.” McCormick shot back. “And I wasn’t going to hide it under my bunk for the rest of our tour until we knew it was safe.” 

“Then why didn’t you let me hide it?” Bodinsen smacked a palm to his forehead. 

“Because you would have spaced it the moment we weren’t looking.” Visscher sighed. “And maybe we should have let you.” 

“Damned right you should have.” Bodinsen sat back in his chair. “It wasn’t right for that Marine to bring it aboard, and it was even less right for you to let him pass it off to you when he got off the ship. It could have been waiting to kill the whole crew, for all you knew.” 

“But we didn’t know!” McCormick’s protest was growing more feeble. “It could have been the next big discovery! We could have all been rich!” 

Gunther was no stranger to mad get-rich-quick schemes among the ratings – even in wartime, some fraction of the Reach’s spacers were always plotting insane things in their spare time – but this time, something strange was afoot. “Am I correct, then, in guessing that this item you are blaming for your disappearance is an alien artifact of some kind?”  

As if they’d forgotten he was present, all three suddenly turned to look at Gunther with alarm. 

“We think so.” Bodinsen’s answer, reluctant as it was, drew glares from the other two. “No way to be sure now.” 

The claim of the Fiddlehead Three is sensational to say the least – that they were sidelined from time itself for nearly two days by the influence of an alien artifact whose provenance they cannot establish and whose very presence they cannot conclusively prove – but the fact that they simply vanished in a matter of moments from all station security systems for two days, and reappeared just as suddenly – gives credence to their story. 

We have covered some strange properties of Xenarch artifacts in this space before, but not recently. Certainly I would not put this claim past the capabilities of a device of this provenance, and I would think three deserters would have a more reasonable story prepared – and some sort of plan to make good their escape – if they actually did intend to desert. 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Three

2953-04-02 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Three  

This week we have a curious story. I am not aware of any other outlet covering it, but Naval Intelligence has seen fit to let us publish it. Deserters are a part of nearly every conflict, including this one, but this may be a case of accidental desertion. 

The accused, a trio of enlisted spacers from the light cruiser Vincennes, claim that they did not desert deliberately – indeed, that they have no memory or record of the intervening days in which they were missing, during which their vessel departed the supply depot it had been berthed at - and there are some curious facts of the case that seem to back this up. 

Commander Gunther Lund felt every eye in the room on him as he eased his not inconsiderable bulk into the chair at the end of the long table. His assistant placed a slate in front of him, and he made a show of reading it, though it contained nothing he hadn’t read the day before. When it came to this sort of thing, it was generally beneficial to make the culprits sweat for as long as possible. They could imagine far more creative punishments than a station commander could ever mete out. 

The trio of station security officers standing behind the chairs of each of the three detainees had seen this treatment before, but they still managed to look uneasy and shift around nervously every time, as if this were new. Gunther appreciated that of them, but he didn’t know whether they were somehow nervously expectant every time, or if they’d figured out the game long ago and were playing along. It seemed inappropriate to ask. 

Fiddlehead Station was, as military outposts went, a tiny speck on a big map, little more than a hollowed-out asteroid. It had been built as forward resupply depot for patrols which the high command didn’t want to route all the way back to Sagittarius Gate, and it had gained few comforts in its two years of existence. Its permanent population was barely a hundred souls, and its recreation facilities were best described as bare-bones, though with capacity to entertain perhaps four times the normal population when a pair of large ships occupied the only two docking berths that had been built out from the asteroid surface. When there was gossip-worthy trouble on board, everyone knew of it in minutes. 

In the case of the trio shifting uncomfortably in their seats at the other end of the table, Gunther had heard the first rumor of their miscreancy more than an hour before the case documents had arrived on his desk, and that too had been nearly a full shift ago. Presumably, they’d been cooling their frenetic energy in the brig’s drunk tank since then. Gunther never bothered to ask about detention details; that wasn’t his job. 

After several long, silent minutes, one of the trio cleared her throat. “Our crew advocate isn’t present. According to Section 6-B of the Discipline Code-” 

“The Navy Code will be followed to the letter, Technician Visscher.” Gunther tried to look and sound bored, but really, he rather liked this part. “We needn’t be worried about anything in Section 6 today.” 

Visscher and her nearest neighbor, a rotund gunner by the name of McCormick, looked relieved in an instant. By contrast, the third member of their little group, a thin, hawk-nosed technician whose name was apparently Bodinsen, proved himself to be a little bit smarter; his concerned frown only deepened. 

Gunther was only too happy to let silence descend on the room again if the trio did not start talking on their own soon. When they realized this, they exchanged uneasy glances. Visscher, evidently, was their chosen spokesperson. “If this isn’t a disciplinary hearing, then can we go?” 

“Not a disciplinary hearing?” Gunther frowned and pretended surprised. “Why, I suppose technically it isn’t. But no, you may not go.” 

“Vincennes is due to undock in a couple of hours.” The smart one, Bodinsen, had a reedy voice matching his appearance. “Your toughs took our comms, but I’m sure the shift chief is screaming-” 

“Oh, I do hope he has calmed down somewhat by now.” Gunther shuddered. “Lieutenant Sparks was clearly under a lot of stress when we last spoke.” He wondered if he could play this game out any longer without impacting the rest of the day’s schedule. Probably not; it was time to play the other card. “That was nearly two standard days ago, though. When Vincennes headed back out on patrol.” 

“Two days?” McCormick tried to start to his feet, only for the security officer behind him to force him back down. “You had us in that hole for more than two days? They went on without us?” 

“Feigned outrage is no defense for desertion, you know.” Gunther tapped his pudgy fingers on the slate. “Under Section Eight, Subsection D, of the Navy discipline code, I am required to inform you that you are facing capital charges.” 

In the moment of shocked silence that ensued, all three faces paled visibly. Then they were all talking at once – Bodinsen was holding up his hands and trying to say something about how this must be a joke, McCormick was struggling to stand with fists balled and voice raised, and Visscher was shaking her head and muttering some sort of denial. Their associated security officers kept them all in their chairs – barely, in the case of McCormick – until all three protests subsided once again into silence. 

“In addition to the top-line charge, you are facing rather minor court martial charges for destruction of Navy property.” Gunther smiled slightly as he said this, as if smashing a packed strike frame worth nearly fifty thousand credits to worthless bits was a minor thing. “But this will obviously be dropped if capital punishment is applied to your case.” 

“That’s impossible.” Visscher’s voice was barely a whisper. “We’ve only been on this station a day, at most.” 

“In total, yes.” Gunther nodded sagely. “Station monitor systems reported that you came aboard for perhaps ten or twelve hours after Vincennes arrived, but you went off the monitors after that until they flagged you this morning in storage number nine.” 

“Wait.” Bodinsen held up his hand, struggling against the pressure of his guard. “Around what time did we... leave the station?” 

“The monitors last detected you on board at about four-fifteen, second shift.” Gunther tried to make this seem like a dull detail; in point of fact, it was something about which he had been quite interested in his reading about this case. “If you would like to get this inquiry started, you can tell me what you were doing around that time.” 

Details

Tales from the Inbox: The Treasure Hunter’s Competition

2953-03-19 – Tales from the Inbox: The Treasure Hunter’s Competition 

A chill evening breeze was blowing when Judith Stirling followed Derrick Kaluza down the boarding ramp onto the surface of the nameless world that held his prize. She had expected the place to be hot, so the chill brought her up short and took her breath away. 

Kaluza, unbothered by the wind that whipped his long brown jacket and disheveled his gray hair, strode down onto the rocky outcrop that served as a landing pad to speak to the Zakharov officer who had been sent to meet them. Judith wondered if the treasure hunter was bothered by the fact that the commander himself wasn’t waiting there, or if his dreams of the wealth of a Grand Journey wreck had driven such things entirely out of his mind. 

By the time Judith had caught up with Kaluza, the officer sent to greet them was pointing down the line of the ridge, toward the dark hump that dominated the darkening sky. Had Judith not seen orbital images, or the cam-feeds of the first few assault troopers who’d arrived on scene, she might have given this dark form little mind, mistaking it for a hill for which the ridge was only an outcrop. 

Kaluza turned to Judith and grinned. “This is it. At last.” He had to raise his voice to be heard, as Tarah’s shuttle which had deposited them took that moment to raise its engine power, signaling that it was moments from takeoff. “It’s mine.” 

Judith gestured away from the landing area, toward the distant lights and sounds of her mercenary company at work. “Do you really think anyone else will come to claim it?” 

As soon as they had hurried to a safe distance, Kaluza nodded grimly. “This is too valuable for the secret to be sold only once. Someone else knows. We just beat them here. By a day or two if I had to guess.” 

Judith grimaced. Kaluza had already given Zakharov what he knew about the other mercenary outfits his competition might hire, so there didn’t seem to be much else to say on the topic. Most of them were of no concern, but there was always the chance of someone hiring Sovereign and paying them enough money to move serious hardware back across the Gap to complete the contract. Given the theoretical value of the find, of course, that couldn’t be ruled out. 

As the shuttle lifted off, Kaluza started following the faintly glowing trail-markers that led from the cleared landing site to the base camp, where Zakharov’s troops had been setting up defenses for the better part of a local day. The bastion was close enough to the hulk for an easy walk from one to the other, but not so close as to risk damage to the prize if it should come to a stand-up fight. Soon the mercenaries would build an increasingly broad network of listening posts, sensor stations, and bunkers outside the main perimeter, rendering the position increasingly hard to assault from the ground or to reduce from the air. 

If any late-comers got a good look at Zakharov’s position on the ground and elected for an orbital bombardment, Sigismund and the strike squadron would be responsible for keeping them out of ideal firing positions overhead. Only Sovereign of the likely opposition companies had the kind of firepower to have a serious chance of pulling this off, so Judith considered it unlikely.  

The marked path brought the pair within the camp proper around the base of a lumpy rock outcrop, so they seemed in a single step to go from the gloom and wind of the ridge to the lights and noise of a camp of war. Mercenaries in beige fatigues or equally drab-colored armor-suits bustled about setting up prefab structures, weapons platforms, and other necessaries. A few suited troopers stood guard at various posts, floodlights on their shoulders scanning the darkness beyond the camp. 

Judith, who’d seen Zakharov set up numerous field bases like this one, identified the headquarters in a moment and gently guided Kaluza in that direction. Harlan Zakharov would be there, handling the inevitable complications had arisen since planetfall, and he would be entirely unhappy to see that their employer had elected to come down to the surface personally. That was his problem now. Under other circumstances, Judith might have delayed Kaluza as long as possible having him inspect the defenses and talk to the troopers who’d gone right up to the wreck and even poked their heads into the holes rent in its sides. Tonight, though, was payback for all the time she’d been forced to spend in Kaluza’s company over the last few weeks. 

They entered to find the short, thick-set Zakharov standing in front of a tactical holo-display. In addition to his normal trio of lieutenants, Judith was surprised to see a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman flanked by two armed Zakharov troopers. She was taller and thinner than Judith, and her simple white tunic without insignia gave no indication of who she was, or why she was present. Judith could only imagine that this was a stowaway who’d gotten aboard Sigismund back at Maribel and only just now discovered. 

“There you are.” Zakharov beckoned Judith and Derrick Kaluza in. “We have a problem.” He didn’t indicate the woman, but Judith knew instantly that was what her boss was referring to. 

Kaluza glanced between Judith, Zakharov, and the stranger, an irritated scowl already forming on his face. “Why are we bringing guests to a combat drop, Mr. Zakharov?” 

“We aren’t.” Zakharov gestured for the woman to step forward. “Miss Cathalain, this is my employer, Mr. Kaluza. The proper owner of the wreck by right of first claim. You’ll have to explain to him what you were trying to tell me.” 

Cathalain slipped away from her guards and approached kaluza. “I see.” She did not sound impressed. “You are correct that your hired guns were on location first. The legal claim is yours, if you can keep it.” 

Judith’s eyes widened. It seemed Kaluza had been right about company, and wrong about how long they’d have before it arrived. 

“If we can keep it?” Kaluza folded his arms, recognizing the implicit threat. “Who do you work for?” 

“None of your usual competitors.” Cathalain paused, glancing around the room. “Which is probably to your benefit, all things considered. As I was telling the mercenary, my friends set me down outside your perimeter a few hours ago to offer you a bargain.” 

Kaluza nodded, but his scowl and posture didn’t change. 

“You can’t use what you’ve got here, not the way my friends can.” Cathalain gestured up in the general direction of the wreck. “Sure, you’ll pry it to pieces and fill your cargo hold with the best bits, and make a fortune in the process. That fortune sounds pretty good right now, I’ll wager. But it would be a grand waste.” 

“A waste?” 

“You don’t know what that is. But whatever you think it’s worth, you’re low by a factor of a thousand at least.” Cathalain smiled. “But not to you and yours.” 

Kaluza was silent for several seconds. Judith, who had not seen this sort of bargaining tactic between mercenaries, was trying to work out who the woman worked for. It wasn’t Sovereign – for one, they never played coy and loved to strike fear into the opposition with those distinctive black and gold uniforms – but beyond that, she couldn’t think of any outfit it might be. 

Eventually, Kaluza nodded. “You want to buy off our claim.” He gestured to the tactical plot, where the angular stern section of the wreck was visible. “I don’t think there are enough credits in the Reach.” 

“Of course not. This is your claim to fame. Your path to a retirement of ease and influence.” Cathalain turned away from the treasure hunter. “In exchange for your claim here, my friends are prepared to show you wreckage of the same provenance on another body in this very star system. Not as intact as the vessel here, but equal in scale, and more easily scavenged.” 

Zakharov grunted. “She’s shown me no proof, Mr. Kaluza. Just empty promises.” 

“My friends in this matter are trustworthy to a fault.” Cathalain shrugged. “But they will not give you anything that could be used to find the other site unless your people depart this one.” 

“You expect me to fall for that?” Kaluza chuckled. “As if I was some freshly-minted-” 

“I expect you to fall if you refuse.” Cathalain spun on her heel and locked eyes with the man. “My friends will not lose this opportunity. It is too much to them.” 

Judith, who’d been silent so far, cleared her throat. “And who are your friends, whose word we are being asked to trust?” 

Cathalain looked at Judith for the first time, a smile tugging at her lips. “Have you not guessed?” 

“It’s not another treasure-seeker and his mercenaries. Or the government.” Judith held up her fingers and ticked them off one by one. “It’s not the Incarnation, nor the Hegemony, not this far Coreward. That leaves non-human interests, if I’m not mistaken.” 

Cathalain nodded, her smile growing. “Are there any of those you think your company can repel, if it comes to a fight?” 

Zakharov chuckled dryly. “We’d humble any of the Rattanai clans, and I don’t think Cold Refuge has any sort of ground-troops. Beyond those we don’t have a chance.” 

“Then you do not have a chance.” Cathalain nodded to Zakharov and returned to her guards. “I am not permitted to say any more.” 

Obviously, this strange envoy unnerved the mercenaries and their minder enough  that they did continue negotiations. By the tone of the account, it seems their claim was bought off, but that is not explicitly stated. If they ever discovered who it was who wanted what they had, it is also not included; I rather suspect they did not. 

[N.T.B. - This sounds too far afield for Kyaroh or Grand Journey intervention; my money is on this having something to do with the Reachers, but I can’t see why they’d want to get ahold of a wreck that wasn’t one of their vessels.] 

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