Chapter 4 - Suit Up

Looking over the three suits, you struggle to imagine how you'd even put the heavy suit on. It might work, but it looks like it would pinch in weird places if you put it on wrong. You shake your head and walk over to the sheer looking suit with the plugs and the bubble helmet.

"What's this one for?" You ask, the White Device. It is silent for a moment and you glare down at it. "Device. Respond." It wants to be treated like an 'it', maybe you should just order the thing around.

"This Normal Suit is an Adaptive Interface suit." You aren't sure but the Device almost sounds relieved. "Colloquially referred to as a 'Plug Suit', it functions as an intermediary with certain heavy forms of machinery."

"Would that be useful in this situation?"

"The only devices that suit can interface with are the illegally modified cargo tugs." The device manages to make your monotone voice sound bitter. 

"Illegally Modified?" You ask. There's a soft flicker and you see that outside the panel, lights are coming on. You walk over to the transparent panel and see into a vast cargo space. Almost right in front of you, hanging from the ceiling, are over a dozen ball shaped objects. They have engines and robotic arms, and guns. Every last one of them looks armed and either has guns or some kind of rectangular packs on them.

You pinch your eyes and see the packs opening up, missiles flying out of them through the night black of space.

You open your eyes and are staring down the barrel of one of the guns. You scream and step back. The pod moves away.

"This unit has erred." You hear the White Device make what you guess is an apology, "The Pilot was staring, therefore this unit brought one of the pods closer for inspection."

"How much control do..." You pause, "What relevant functions are available for use?" You phrase the question more mechanically. Still there is a long pause.

"The most relevant functions available are as follows: Control over Life Support, Pathfinding, Limited Control over Engineering."

"How 'limited'?"

"If this unit shuts off the ship's reactor, it will not be able to turn it on again, and The Pilot lacks the memories to restart it."

"Okay, fine." You walk back over to the rack with the thermals and pull on a layer. Even with the gel soaking into the fibers, it feels much warmer, and more comfortable. You certainly aren't flopping about anymore. You go over to the Flight suit and quickly pull on the pants. As you lock the belt you can feel it tighten, but not enough to cut off pressure to your body. "Is this what the skin suit would have done?" You ask.

"Affirmative, however without the appropriate modifications, it would have caused bruises and potential damage to blood vessels."  You shudder. How tough were modified humans? "Augmentations allow humans without the appropriate gene therapy to remain competitive in Imperial industrial work." That thing, answering with your voice again.

"What sort of modifications have I had then?"

"This unit doesn't understand the inquiry." The answer is clipped.

"I went in for surgery. I got shot in the head, in the face, and all over me. What sort of implants do I have?"

"Mechanical implants were unnecessary. The Pilot's Exceptional Genetic Pattern allowed for the growth of replacement organs"

"I regrew my own organs?" You ask, incredulous.

"Negative. The Pilot's Genetic Pattern allows for perfect organs to be created, using his Pattern as a template. Zero rejection chance in recipients." 

"What about my head?" You throw out another question while you chew on the previous answer. Again, the White device pauses.

"Nothing has been added to the Pilot's head, beyond replacement teeth, tissue, and bones." Again, a short clipped response.

You shake your head and grab a boot and pull it over a thermal covered foot. Like the pants, it starts to tighten after you lock the last clasp closed. This feels familiar, right. And you instantly reach for the next boot and repeat the process. You pull on the Flight Jacket and it tightens against your skin. Briefly you feel some pressure over your scars but it quickly passes. You pull on gloves and they fit you, just as the saying goes.

Then you reach for your helmet.

You see your reflection in the face of the helmet. That worn face stares up at you and you blink hard. 

Your eyes open and suddenly, you're in a dark room. There's music playing a steady beat thumps on and a passionate horn is blowing strong. There's smoke of some kind in the air and it makes everything feel warmer. You can see the far wall, it's light up by a wet bar, and someone with lush curves is serving drinks to equally curvaceous figures.

But your reflection comes back into view, as a gleaming woman wearing your helmet hangs, upside down, in front of you. Her breasts follow after and thick flesh that rolls like hills the size of your head ripple this woman the color of living bronze spins on the pole in front of you. Her skin shines in the flashes of light coming from different parts of the room. She's either slick with perspiration or oil, maybe both. There's a warmth at your side as you feel a hand run up your thigh, but you still stare at the dancer wearing your helmet.

You can feel yourself smiling and as the dancer slides down the pole to the surface of the booth table, you see your healthier reflection. But this time your steel silver eyes are bright and smiling. Your hair is as lush, but now hangs looks around your shoulders instead of being pulled into a braid. The dancer draws close to you as you feel your pants come loose. The dancer's hands draw you back to her tits, gleaming like gold in the dark room as she pulls and twists at the incredible gleaming nipples.

You flick your gaze down to see a green skinned hand with silver tattoos winding across it pull your cock out. The dancer descends onto your lap, one hand leaving her heaving chest pillows to grip your thick dick. The other presses against a deep gold nipple, and keeps pushing into it. A trickle of something clear and opalescant flows over her finger.

Both the Dancer's hand and the green one pump your cock as the dancer moves into your lap. She pulls her finger from her nipple, and urgently presses it toward your lips. You open your mouth to take it in.

"PILOT. ALERT!" You blink hard at the sudden back step into reality. "Be advised! Circumstances are developing." 

"Explain." you growl as you pull on the helmet. There is the pop of a seal, and as you stand you reach into the locker. pulling out a hexagonal pack. You pull it on and the straps tighten over your shoulders as it connects to the suit. The puff of air flowing through the helmet tells you the suit is working. lines of data flick over the smart material of the visor and you see a few in the corner.

0950; 1/23; AQ 100%; ENG 100%; SI: 100%

"White. Report. Now." You order the thing and pick it up from where you set it on a bench. 

"This unit erred. The ship's systems were, and remain, compromised. This unit had calculated this was a result of inferior illegal programming failing without constant operator upkeep. This unit erred in that calculation. Significantly. Advise you seek the ship's primary command station."

"Where is the bridge?" You ask. 

"Two Decks up." The White device informs you.

"Is there a lift I can use?" You look around the room for anything you might be able to use as a weapon, or an actual weapon.

"The lifts are not presently viable." The White Device answers.

"Why, are they broken?" You spot something hanging from one of the other lockers. You reach in and pull out a small hand weapon. A firearm. You check it over and at the press of a button it hums and a glow builds along the barrel of the weapon: A blaster.

"Negative, they have not had the bodies cleaned out of them." Wait, what?

"Wait, WHAT?" You hold up the White Device. "Bodies, what?"

"Six Hundred hours prior to your awakening, a singular point of cosmic radiation bypassed all solid, fluid, and energy based insulation and killed 13 registered members of this vessel's crew. Casualties included the Commanding Officer, the Executive Officer, the Second Officer, Both Primary Helmsmen, the three senior-most of the illegally modified tug pilots, The Chief Engineer, the Second Engineer, The ship's Security Chief, the Ship's cook and Ship's mascot: a Tabby."

You stare gobsmacked at the device, and it keeps talking.

"Since this program obtained access to this data, a program was written to augment the ship's sensors to search for this phenomenon should it reappear."

You holster your gun and run out the door, past the cryo rooms and into an open crew space.

"It has. Sensors calculate The Pilot has at least an Hour before it reaches the ship at current intercept speeds."

You see a doorway with stairs and bolt to them. You take the steps two, three, at a time and when you're one deck up, you start to hear alarms.

"Communications and Sensor Secondary Consoles. Continue forward."  You continue up the stairs, and see a pair of double doors unlocking in front of you. You take the last step across the threshold and your gut clenches.

Beyond the vacant consoles, beyond the seats and the control stations left unattended, there is flat plane of material. It is laced with a hexagonal design that ripples occasionally, giving away its nature as a giant screen, rather than a view port.

Beyond the vast inky black of space and a field of stars is displayed. It's almost beautiful, if your focus wasn't else where. Everything is open to you. Navigation, Shields, Power, Communications, Security, Flight Operations, it's all there.

You are on the bridge. What now?