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+--- Thread: Flight of the Spirit of Neutrality (/showthread.php?tid=116038)
Flight of the Spirit of Neutrality - Zed26 - 05-31-2014
It was going to be a bad day. Macon had known it all along...
The station's pulse cannons had already ripped through their shields and the ships aboard the flight deck were being torn to shreds. Macon was just glad the slimeball of a former captain had had the foresight to strap on some extra plating so they were slightly tougher than an eggshell. Still, they might as well have been trying to fly a big asteroid with thrusters strapped on. It was definitely as large as some he'd seen, but only half as graceful.
At the other end of the bridge, Rusty's puffy fists were furiously punching at every button on the defense console until the display flashed a sliver of blue. "Shield restored," the computer enthused over the comms as he slumped back into the uncomfortable lime-green egg chair for a brief respite before he'd inevitably have to do it all over again in a few seconds. It looked like the ship's reserve batteries had all been drained and the auto-repair nanobots had all been expended. This was going to get rough.
At least they didn't have to worry about being instantly spaced by a bomber's antimatter cannon while flying a fighter craft - their brand new Eagles were now burning wrecks, flying piecemeal out the hangar bay doors. Right on cue, a wing of Rocs screamed out of Barrier Gate, furiously launching a hail of disruptor missiles as Macon mashed the cruise button while swinging the flight stick in a wide circle, causing the carrier to gyrate with uncharacteristic, but ultimately useless, alacrity.
“Clayton,” Macon swiveled around in the hot-pink velvet armchair and barked, “do us a favor and actually make yourself useful. Shoot some guns! I don't care if your aim's damnawful, just scare 'em to keep their antimatter and little zappy balls from draining the shields.” Clayton stared slack-jawed at the weapon console, focusing on picking his nose to keep his mind off the urge to hyperventilate.
Macon took a deep breath and pantomimed to Clayton, encouraging him to do the same, concentrating all the while on maintaining a soft smile despite the deafening grinding of massive shards of ice against the ship's unshielded hull, “Look, if we make it out of this alive, I'll post your stupid crayon drawings up on the cold fusion reactor, okay?”
Clayton's eyes flashed from behind his tinted glasses as he eagerly plopped into the faded leather recliner behind the console, scrolling through the turrets, trying to synchronize them into groupings. The hail of Nova torpedoes had already blasted off the carrier's countermeasures and all four energy turret banks. All that remained were a staggering number of flak cannons around the vessel and two heavy missile launchers. Explosive munitions? The previous owners must've watched too many vintage holovids...or just expected to fight off "incoming torpedoes" indefinitely. What's more, the cannons were primarily stuck on the rear-end of the ship. This thing was made to run, but that was to be expected.
Macon nodded firmly as he continued to wiggle the ship's tail at the bombers, “C'mon kid, we've already eaten enough of these things.”
Fumbling with the controls, Clayton launched off a simultaneous volley of flak, scattering only half the torpedoes. The proximity warnings wailed throughout the ship as Rusty tried desperately to shift power back to the shields and raise them before the next impact ripped more turrets off...
* * * *
Two hours ago, Macon had been holed up in a backroom gambling den and losing miserably at a game of dice. The guy across the table that had been winning all of his money stuck out like a sore thumb in this part of Barrier Gate, not only because of the immaculately clean white suit, but the air around him. An unnatural aura pulsed around the man, as if he was untouchable anywhere, anytime, and his nonchalant gaze indicated that he was fully aware of it. This was a man who got what he wanted. Macon had watched the massive ship glide through the Barrier Rim ice field and wondered how the heck the guy had pulled it off.
Did they just break down a bunch of stations and cobble together a ship? Did he pay to import a fleet's worth of ship parts from house space after winning one of those big plasfoam checks from Datapads Clearing House? What did he even use it for?
"Well, gentle sir," the man rolled a matching white fedora across his arm and onto his head before tipping it at Macon, "it looks like you have been relieved of your last credit and our business here is finished. Good day."
Macon clenched his teeth and snarled, "No! We're not done. I've got some shipments due soon, plus my transport and an Eagle. High stakes, let's go!" The man simply smirked and shook his head before smoothly lilting out the back door. Setting his jaw, Macon followed behind through the winding alleyways, repeating his offer over and over. Almost a half-hour through, he paused to consider changing up his strategy - maybe some intelligent persuasion and a soft touch, and by that, he meant the hair trigger on his overcharged stun gun.
Once he had been suitably persuaded, Macon rummaged through the man's pockets and retrieved what he had been looking for - the datapad and ID for that moored ship...the Aquilon. The wry smile spreading across Macon's face abruptly gave way to a terrified gape as blaster fire burned around him. The man in white must've had some sort of long-range transponder, but who were these guys? They swarmed the streets, seemingly by the thousands - all decked out in full combat gear and armed to the teeth.
Marines!
The following series of events flew by in a rush - especially considering Macon had to concentrate on flying the ship at the present moment. Fully detailed flashbacks would simply have to wait, but they included diving through a restaurant to pick up his mechanic, Rusty; grabbing a kid, Clayton, making crayon doodles on a place-mat while playing with a handheld flight simulator and using him as a human shield to buy a little time (sadly, his parents were killed by the marines in a barrage of blaster fire); and dashing aboard his newly-acquired carrier under a hail of gratuitous explosions and station defenses - not looking back even once.
* * * *
Macon snapped out of his abridged flashback and checked the datapad, scrolling through to find the ship was registered as the Spirit of Neutrality. "Cripes, that's a dumb name. Hey Rusty, can you think of-"
Another torpedo had ripped through the hull, but the computer had long since stopped informing them that the "shields failed", as the generator had been sheared off completely. In the seconds that had passed, Clayton was getting better at staggering the cannon fire and had even managed to space a few overconfident bomber pilots with the missiles, probably because they figured sporting those fancy cloaks would save them. Still, the hits continued, and even those obnoxious yellow orbs from the bombers were starting to take bits off the carrier's bronzed chassis.
Macon continued to scroll through the datapad for anything - hidden shield batteries and nanobots, the escape pods, absolutely anything. He snapped his fingers in Rusty's direction, "The shields are gone, go run through this place and try to find something that'll get us NOT killed, cripes, do I have to be the admiral aboard here?"
Rusty rolled out of his seat and gave a sarcastic half-salute before lumbering down the halls. It didn't take too long for him to come across the big door at the core of the ship with "J.D." stenciled over. As the multiple blast doors and reinforced alloy iris gave way, Rusty found it - whatever it was. At a glance, it looked like one of Ageira's jump gates turned inside-out, but there wasn't any time for a further inspection. Rusty grabbed a nearby manual and flipped through. Fortunately, it was printed in large text with simple diagrams and he punched the "charge" button. The device hummed as a soft white glow swirled around the ship, drowning out even the clanking of the H-fuel cells being rapidly consumed.
"Hull breach imminent," the computer blared across the ship. Rusty closed his eyes, rocking anxiously against the console and counted, "One Manhattan...two Manhattan..." After thirty agonizing Manhattans, the computer chirped and Rusty punched the "jump" button, nearly breaking his wrist in the process.
In an instant, the white light enveloped the hulking Aquilon. A whooshing noise swept through the halls as Macon fell over onto the shag carpet covering the bridge, overtaken by the strangest sensation of...speed. Managing to regain his balance after vomiting a few times, Macon clambered into the pilot's seat and gazed out the window.
Outside, a massive neutron star pulsed amidst a rocky field and looming clouds. The nav map indicated there was a Zoner base nearby and Macon plotted a course, but first...
"Hey guys," Macon waved the datapad as Rusty stumbled onto the bridge, "we're about to dock for repairs. And after that...well...I've got a feeling we won't be heading back to the Core anytime soon. It looks like we ticked off the wrong people and the House Zoners have gotta be combing the systems for us." He paused, "If we're free roamers out here, living on the edge, maybe trading with this hunk of metal, maybe exploring, maybe defending ourselves - does that make us Zoners now?"
Clayton shrugged, but Rusty raised his swollen hand, "We'd better change up our registration. Got any ideas on a name Macon?"
Macon rubbed his chin, "Is a Zoner from a House really a Zoner? Hey, what about a 'Houser', yeah, that sounds good." He glanced at the condensation forming around the hull panels, as if the entire ship were crying in anguish, "We'll have them weeping their Zoner tears soon for everything they've done - Clayton's parents, our homes, our livelihood. So, she'll be..."
The Houser's Lament
Macon nodded, quite pleased with himself, as he attempted to use a credit card to pry open the ship's computer panel and hack the registration. After a frustrating two million credits worth of cards, three crowbars, and a plasma torch, he finally managed to break in. As Macon attempted to tap in the new name, the console glared back at him angrily:
ERR Rename time limit
Rusty peered over his shoulder and punched the chair, "Damn it. Seems the old captain had already been messing around with stuff. I can try to crack it, but it'll take a while - maybe a week or more. In the meantime, try to think of somethin' less dumb?"
Macon shrugged and hiked his thumb down toward the hall, "We'll just have to spend less time docked so they don't get a lotta time to run our registration. Let the Zoner Marines come - the thing that shot us across six systems can get us outta a bind. We can do anything and go to every system in this mobile station - we're Zoners, and we're free." He settled into his chair and motioned for his crew to do the same, "Alright fellas, first Freeport 5, then...anywhere."
It was going to be a great day. Macon had known it all along...
RE: Flight of the Houser's Lament - Zed26 - 05-31-2014
Entry #1: Artist's Representation
![[Image: lT9ypKw.jpg]](http://i.imgur.com/lT9ypKw.jpg)