Lt. Commander Jo Marshall - Party In A Dropzone

[Jo Marshall]

((Comms Office, Listening Post, Denak IX))

 

The wonderful thing about the planet Denak IX was the complete lack of anything there, which, by definition of being nothing, could not explode. Hopefully.  

 

Bolian Petty Officer Marix Watni, a veteran of such recent disasters as the USS Njörðr and a rather boring conference on Deluvia IV, had requested the position on Denak's communications outpost to give his shot nerves a reprieve. Out there, in the wilds of the planet with nothing on it, the chances of encountering a faulty inertial damper or thoroughly tedious professor were slim. The only other thing occupying his sacred planet space was a natural hot spring built over a geyser, attracting the wild variety of Tyrellian bathers and holidaymakers all year round. 

 

Watni: Gooooooooooooooood morning, Tyrellia! Welcome to the first Gorkon Triathlon! This is your favourite listening post technician, Petty Officer Marix Watni, and as a personal favour, I’ll be communicating the events across the planet and through the system. Today's race is sponsored by YanCo and Slug'O'Cola! So, whether you're tuned out or tuned in, enjoy a frosty glass of Slug'O'Cola from your nearest replicator!

 

Running a hand over his bald blue head, Marix rocked back in his comfortable chair and watched as the sensors registered the incoming trajectories of the two runabouts, with their associated teams on board. Pressing the communication control once more, and swallowing down his glug of Slug’O’Cola, he announced it.

 

Watni: We’ve got incoming vessels now, folks! Let’s cut to the inside and see what’s going on!

 

 

((Cargo-1 Shuttlecraft, Denak IX))

The Type-9A cargo shuttle — chosen because it had the opening moving floor to shove officers out of much easier than any other did — careened through space towards the dividing line between the planet’s cold mesosphere and warm troposphere. At 60km above the surface, the shuttle would take a roll and send their happy divers on their way out into the thermal tide waves, just skimming the layers of CO2 radiative cooling. Once through the barrier into the troposphere, the drop would be cold, fast, getting warmer through convection, and littered with dust devils, so reaching the surface was the top priority. 

All of this Jo watched on a display panel inside the shuttlecraft, her stomach already flipping about like a fish out of water. Briefings were given, the plan was a steady one, and down on the surface. Emergency transporters waited with a definitive lock on everyone’s suits in case of mishaps. Still, she took a breath to steady those nerves and turned to the crew in there with her — the technicolour wigs of Corliss Fortune, and the infectiously excitable Maia Eden. Wide and excited grin notwithstanding, Jo grabbed onto the handrail and pointed to the display showing their path. 

Marshall: We’ll be coming up on the drop zone within minutes, at the same time, those suicidal Trill, ::she glanced to Maia with an apologetic grin,:: no offence, and Andorian in Cargo-2 will drop equidistant from the finish line. It should take us five minutes to drop to the surface in the targeted zone and from there, we’ll begin the 5km “run” overland to the vehicle location, then it’s the final 25km to the finish.  

Fortune / Eden: Response

Marshall: Get into your suits okay? No sudden need to itch your back in between your shoulder blades?

Fortune / Eden: Response

Brimming with the flurry of the triathlon ahead, it was easy to forget the small things, however, the semi-flexible dropsuits withstood intense temperature changes, lightweight enough that falling through the atmosphere toward a planet would feel like skimming on the air itself to the wearer, and stopped them from becoming hunks of charcoal on the way down.  

Marshall: Check each other’s gear and prepare for descent. Once we’re ready to go, Rosh will drop the floor and we’ll be off. 

Fortune / Eden: Response

Touching the communication control on the display monitor, the connection snapped over to Cargo-2, their sister craft on the other side of the finish line, shooting over the mesosphere at the same time. The video clicked over to a holoimage inside the other shuttlecraft, showing the adrenaline-junkie Serren Tan, and former Starfleet Rangers Toran Sevo and Piravao sh’Qynallahr. Whatever happened between there and the surface, no doubt it was going to be interesting. 

Marshall: =/\= How are you doing over there? Ready to jump? =/\=

Tan / T. Sevo / sh’Qynallahr: Response

Marshall: =/\= That’s what you said last time we nearly died and look at us now! Doing it all over again! =/\=

Tan / T. Sevo / sh’Qynallahr: Response

Marshall: =/\= Remember, it’ll be like being shot from a catapult, so remember your training and try not to vomit in your helmet. ::Then, it occurred to her and she clicked her fingers in the gloves, less effective at making the noise.:: Don’t take your helmet off to vomit either. =/\=

Tan / T. Sevo / sh’Qynallahr: Response

A balled-up fist smacked against the back of the panel up from the curly-haired marshmallow-loving pilot in the hotseat, mouth full of probable marshmallow, calling into the back section. He made Jo’s heart jump up into her throat, and the red and blue dropsuit registered the tick up in vital signs. At least they were working. She threw a glance to the display monitor, the readings of their descent velocity coming in hard but doable. It was time. Her stomach flipped anew. Clipping on her helmet, the visor displayed the vital HUD information of the suit and her nearby companions, and the suit attached to it with a gentle hiss of compression. 

Jackson: Coming up on the dropzone! Hold on to the grab rail and I’ll drop the gravity in five… four… 

Marshall: =/\= Alright, people! This is it! Good luck! =/\=

Fortune / Eden: Response

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Lt. Commander Jo Marshall

First Officer

USS Gorkon, NCC-82293

G239304JM0