Through Time, Darkly

[Vogel]

This is nuts

The Minuteman light fighter slowly cruised into the tiny maw that was the N101s hangar.

Im nuts already

His running lights reflected back on the interior walls, firing off photons that never should have arrived in Sirius for untold years.

Cant get any worse, can it? Bad question

A brief scan of his cockpit instruments. Attitude good, closure good, landing struts deployed, distance to touchdown twenty feet.

Easing ever so gently back on the throttle, James Doyle nudged the nose of his fighter down onto the floor of the bay, the forward strut letting out a kind of sighing hiss as hydraulics compensated for the force of impact. Abruptly he cut power to the engines and pulled back on the stick, finishing the zero-G landing maneuver by setting the aft struts down.

With the flick of a thumb atop the throttle, Doyle initiated the struts magnetic clamps. Two brief metallic bangs resulted as all three pads gravitated towards and held fast on the hull of the research vessel.

Landing complete. Textbook grade.

He idly wondered whether or not it was up to modern standards.

With a sigh to match the hydraulics, Doyle shut down the weapons systems, sensors, fusion engine, and main computer, all the while making sure everything responded appropriately. Usually such stinginess over preflight and postflight checks was a mark of military training, but out here it served another purpose: if something went wrong he was a thousand light years, not mention a thousand years, too far away for support. Nothing had broken down yet, thank God, but that was no insurance policy.

The bay doors had finished closing behind him; on cue, breathable atmosphere was pumped inside the hold, and the lights came on to full intensity. Green markers over the nearest doorway indicated that the hold was safe for entry.

This is it, I guess

Doyle swallowed hard; he never liked this part, no matter how necessary it was for his continued existence in this place.

He reached over with his right hand and unlocked the canopy. Servos slid it backwards along the hull, exposing the pilot underneath. Slowly, achingly, the ex-Lieutenant unlatched his breathing apparatus and took off his helmet. The smell of recycled air, oddly cleaner than what was provided in his ship, wafted through his sinuses.

One leg up and around, the second leg following, then down to the floor. He dismounted with practiced efficiency, and then stifled the oncoming pained lurch with the same. Once again he was cut off from his life line; his body simply could not handle being separated from its point of origin. Feelings of nausea and dizziness immediately followed, but Doyles mind fought to keep them at bay.

Need to stay focused, now more than ever.

He was taking an awfully big risk, he knew that very well; up to this point he had never been this exposed, this weak in front of anybody who knew of his past, of his true identity. Better yet, these people were scientists, and while they claimed to be operating independently of Big Brother there was little doubt in his mind that they would turn him right over when the time came.

An Alliance standard issue M2 sidearm was snug in a holster on his right thigh just for that reason; the safety was already off.

James Doyle suppressed a groan as he straightened his back, bringing him up to full stature.

He was a dead man, but he still had to make an impression.