Patchwork Universe

Captain Gustav W. Ritter · Good Joined: 29 Feb 2004 Posts: 3 Location: The Kennels

Gustav sighed, and put down his pencil. 63 degrees elevation should do it, provided he left right now.

And he needed to get out. Three weeks trapped in this base on the edge of nowhere was wearing at his nerves. The base staff were pleasant enough, he knew they'd be disciplined if they weren't, but there was precious little to do. His own craft was being repaired, a process that seemed to require it being taken to pieces. A long overdue process he was sure, but it meant he was stuck with quarters on someone else's ship. While he technically had rank on the Fenris, the scrutiny of Commissar Datz meant he had to justify, unofficially, almost everything he said or did.

He reattached his belt, picked up his pack, his stick and the record box, and stepped out into the corridor. A few minutes walk saw him in the main secuirty corridor, and at the door. A cheery wave to the sentry, and he stepped through into the darkness of the airlock.

The door closed shut behind him. For a moment the darkness closed around him. Flooding through his nostrils and beseiging his brain. There came the inevitable dragging, the strange echoing suction, the heavy, drawn-out sigh. He breathed out slowly, reached forward for the wheel he knew must be there, and with a strength that owed more to desperation than he would like, started to turn.

The blessed light of the main hanger poured it, and he stepped out smartly, once again the image of cheery formality. Leaving the long brooding hulk of the Fenris behind him, he set out for the stairs, and ultimately the surface.

Captain Gustav W. Ritter · Good Joined: 29 Feb 2004 Posts: 3 Location: The Kennels

On a high ridge overlooking the sleepy settlement, he stopped, and glanced at his watch. For two long minutes he waited, getting a firm footing with his boots, and adjusting his scarf to just the right level of casual looseness. Then it was time. The sun's light started creasting over the high cliffs of the fjord, and he stood, the image of the veteran explorer, bathed in the dawn's light as he stood, apparently just cresting the ridge, trusty stick in hand. Some twenty yards downslope, the record box clicked in its waxed case, a photographic plate preserving the picture for the Commissar's satisfaction.

He sauntered down slope, and stuck his stick deep into the shallow scree next to the box, his scarf tied around one end. Having justified the trip, he then set off up slope. He probably a had a good few days before anyone had a good reason to go after him. He needed to get away, needed to think, and above all needed to get away from the Fenris, and his last mission, and the terrible cargo that waited, ready for the last trip home.