Fett had loaded the normal cargo as well as... his special crates, filled with a potentially volatile product, others with the livestock used to produce it.
He thumbed the controls and opened comms to O-N0.
"If there is any breach, remember, hull integrity is paramount. In theory you and the ship should be resistant, but it's not been tested for genetic variation."
Silence. Pregnant indignant silence.
Convoy 325 Out of Varonat
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Darth Fett
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- Joined: Fri Jul 13, 2018 3:44 pm
Re: Convoy 325 Out of Varonat
Fett’s voice hung in the channel like a flint waiting for spark. No reply.
He let the silence steep.
He disengaged the comms and reclined slightly, eyes flicking from nav readouts to the silent bank of lifeform containment monitors, each blinking in a low amber rhythm. Nothing tripped alarms. Yet. A careful arrangement of stabilizers, mist sedatives, and temperature dampers kept the “stock” asleep, for now.
The transport rumbled lightly as it entered the midstream currents of the hyperspace corridor. Route Kappa-Jade-997 had a tendency to shear thin vessels from their frame bolts if their structure lacked stress dispersing alloy. Fett's Action V could manage it... barely. He had paid dearly for the thread reinforcements, grafted like bones welded to bones. Beneath the floorboards, in the ventral cargo grid, several crates pulsed slightly. A fine, powdery mist leaked from the seals of one. imperceptible to the ship’s human scale systems, but not to the smaller things living in the space between electronics.
Above, Fett’s breath clouded briefly in the chill of the nav chamber. The cold was spreading faster than normal. He made a note to recalibrate the central climate node before the return trek. Assuming, of course, the central node remained intact by the time they reached their destination.
He let the silence steep.
He disengaged the comms and reclined slightly, eyes flicking from nav readouts to the silent bank of lifeform containment monitors, each blinking in a low amber rhythm. Nothing tripped alarms. Yet. A careful arrangement of stabilizers, mist sedatives, and temperature dampers kept the “stock” asleep, for now.
The transport rumbled lightly as it entered the midstream currents of the hyperspace corridor. Route Kappa-Jade-997 had a tendency to shear thin vessels from their frame bolts if their structure lacked stress dispersing alloy. Fett's Action V could manage it... barely. He had paid dearly for the thread reinforcements, grafted like bones welded to bones. Beneath the floorboards, in the ventral cargo grid, several crates pulsed slightly. A fine, powdery mist leaked from the seals of one. imperceptible to the ship’s human scale systems, but not to the smaller things living in the space between electronics.
Above, Fett’s breath clouded briefly in the chill of the nav chamber. The cold was spreading faster than normal. He made a note to recalibrate the central climate node before the return trek. Assuming, of course, the central node remained intact by the time they reached their destination.
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Darth Fett
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- Joined: Fri Jul 13, 2018 3:44 pm
Re: Convoy 325 Out of Varonat
Halfway into transit, the lowband sensor chimed.
Not a full alarm, a warning ping. Internal atmosphere differential, negligible. Fett didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at the control panel. He knew the pattern: a slight pressure drop, the kind caused by a biological respiration cycle, an exhalation that warmed and shifted the contents of its crate by no more than two centimeters. Two centimeters was enough.
He tapped a sequence into the deck terminal beside his seat, pulling up the magnetic clamps overlay. Crate seven-delta-three had shifted out of alignment. A tenth of a meter. Something inside it had either thrashed or unfurled. Or both. He doublechecked the biometric dampers. Still green. The signal could have been a fault in the clamp itself. The ship had been retrofitted by hand, but some of the welds were hasty, and the margin of error lived in those imperfections.
The nav corridor outside distorted slightly. Hyperspace shimmered in mottled waves through the viewport, occasionally flickering with veins of static. Fett stared at the viewport longer than he should have. Somewhere out in the dark between systems, something pressed against them. Not visibly. But the Force murmured when ignored. When pushed back. And the murmur had become a groan.
He shut down the external feeds and opened the environmental relays to O-N0.
The droid’s voice came filtered through static, dry as ever. “The terrrrrrrrrrrrrtiarrrry refrigerrrrrration node is reporting anononononomalous frost development, uncorrelated to power fluctuations. Suggest replacing the vent casing before it ruptures. Also, two of the livestock are exhibitinginging elelelelevated stress responses.”
“They're supposed to,” Fett said flatly. “Stim agitation cycles were part of the sedation pattern. Just isolate the ventilation leaks. If any of the livestock break, they’ll kill each other before they reach the corridor. Keep the feed lines sealed and the rest should stay calm.”
There was a pause. Then a low, mechanical, “understood.”
But the pause had lingered too long. It would wait until they reached Rhen Var.
Before they thawed.
Not a full alarm, a warning ping. Internal atmosphere differential, negligible. Fett didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at the control panel. He knew the pattern: a slight pressure drop, the kind caused by a biological respiration cycle, an exhalation that warmed and shifted the contents of its crate by no more than two centimeters. Two centimeters was enough.
He tapped a sequence into the deck terminal beside his seat, pulling up the magnetic clamps overlay. Crate seven-delta-three had shifted out of alignment. A tenth of a meter. Something inside it had either thrashed or unfurled. Or both. He doublechecked the biometric dampers. Still green. The signal could have been a fault in the clamp itself. The ship had been retrofitted by hand, but some of the welds were hasty, and the margin of error lived in those imperfections.
The nav corridor outside distorted slightly. Hyperspace shimmered in mottled waves through the viewport, occasionally flickering with veins of static. Fett stared at the viewport longer than he should have. Somewhere out in the dark between systems, something pressed against them. Not visibly. But the Force murmured when ignored. When pushed back. And the murmur had become a groan.
He shut down the external feeds and opened the environmental relays to O-N0.
The droid’s voice came filtered through static, dry as ever. “The terrrrrrrrrrrrrtiarrrry refrigerrrrrration node is reporting anononononomalous frost development, uncorrelated to power fluctuations. Suggest replacing the vent casing before it ruptures. Also, two of the livestock are exhibitinginging elelelelevated stress responses.”
“They're supposed to,” Fett said flatly. “Stim agitation cycles were part of the sedation pattern. Just isolate the ventilation leaks. If any of the livestock break, they’ll kill each other before they reach the corridor. Keep the feed lines sealed and the rest should stay calm.”
There was a pause. Then a low, mechanical, “understood.”
But the pause had lingered too long. It would wait until they reached Rhen Var.
Before they thawed.
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Darth Fett
- Full Member
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- Joined: Fri Jul 13, 2018 3:44 pm
Re: Convoy 325 Out of Varonat
Somewhere in the ship’s second cargo spine, nestled near the thermal regulation chamber, crate three-beta-four hissed.
He didn’t need to see them. He had seen the mother once.
He stood now in the dorsal observation hallway, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down the narrow structural shaft that ran the length of the ship. It was dark, but he wasn’t looking with his eyes. Through the walls and wire bundles, his awareness swept the transport’s inner layout, touching subtle dissonances: the drop in temperature in hold bay five, the subharmonic vibration in the frame of cargo mount twelve, the unmistakable awareness of eyes.
Not watching. Existing.
His jaw twitched. He felt a hunger not his own.
He pivoted toward the comm again, but his hand hesitated. O-N0 didn’t need a check-in. It was already moving, probably preparing the carbon spray units on his own ship, maybe recalibrating the interior sterilization failsafes. It wouldn’t be enough if the breach happened too far forward. He knew that. He just needed the jump to finish before the creatures grew agitated enough to test the edges of their restraints.
Fett returned to his console, steadied his breathing, and reached out through the Force to encourage slumber while reducing the temperature. His presence flowed into the cracks and folds of the lower decks, a cold pressure across minds too rudimentary to understand threat, yet old enough to remember containment.
They stirred again briefly.
Then slept.
And below deck, in crate three-beta-four, a mouth folded inward and began spinning.
He turned his attention back and pulled out of hyperspace. They had reached their destination.
He didn’t need to see them. He had seen the mother once.
He stood now in the dorsal observation hallway, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down the narrow structural shaft that ran the length of the ship. It was dark, but he wasn’t looking with his eyes. Through the walls and wire bundles, his awareness swept the transport’s inner layout, touching subtle dissonances: the drop in temperature in hold bay five, the subharmonic vibration in the frame of cargo mount twelve, the unmistakable awareness of eyes.
Not watching. Existing.
His jaw twitched. He felt a hunger not his own.
He pivoted toward the comm again, but his hand hesitated. O-N0 didn’t need a check-in. It was already moving, probably preparing the carbon spray units on his own ship, maybe recalibrating the interior sterilization failsafes. It wouldn’t be enough if the breach happened too far forward. He knew that. He just needed the jump to finish before the creatures grew agitated enough to test the edges of their restraints.
Fett returned to his console, steadied his breathing, and reached out through the Force to encourage slumber while reducing the temperature. His presence flowed into the cracks and folds of the lower decks, a cold pressure across minds too rudimentary to understand threat, yet old enough to remember containment.
They stirred again briefly.
Then slept.
And below deck, in crate three-beta-four, a mouth folded inward and began spinning.
He turned his attention back and pulled out of hyperspace. They had reached their destination.