Lieutenant Doz Finch - A Simple Case of Floating Through Space
D. Finch
((Flashback: Many Decades Ago - Hull, USS Bonestell))
Doz Finch’s long and curly brown hair cushioned the inner wall of her helmet, giving it that extra sense of stability and perhaps a smattering of false hope that nothing could go wrong in such harsh environmental conditions. It wasn’t the first time she’d spacewalked, not in the slightest, for she had become something of a thrill seeker since her first jaunt on the roof of the ‘stell. Yet that innate fear, miniature but in infinite numbers, still crept in now and then of that all too real possibility that the suit could rip, the helmet could crack, or a wandering asteroid, even pea-sized, could rip through her at a moment's notice.
That was part of the fun, she’d decided, as she clomped and stomped her way across the window frame of one of the senior officers quarters in the direction of Murphy, who’d decided to take a shortcut to the drop off point, tyrant that he was. The bushy hair may have been a comfort, but it was also a bit of a nuisance too, interfering with the two ambient lights fixed at either side of the visor, giving her the sensation that she was inside a room with a flickering lamp.
Murphy: I hope you’re ready to jump, little madam! Is your tether attached?
Finch: Might be! Then again, might not be!
Murphy: Not a problem if it isn’t! You’ll only float off and never be heard from or seen again.
Finch: I wouldn’t be missed. There’s plenty of other engineers who can screw panels in when I’m gone.
Murphy: Ah but you screw them in so well!
His crisp laughter filled her helmet through the speakers as she gently lifted off the hard exterior of the ship with a tapping of the tip of her boot, floating gracefully in his direction. She landed with a bit of a thump into his side, as they both tried to keep their balance in the bated-breath-moments before they would jump off the hull into the nearby starry soup of space. Her brown eyes met his blue betwixt shimmering glass, as they took a final anticipatory exhale.
Murphy: You ready?
Finch: Ready as I’ll ever be.
((Present Day - Near the Borg Sphere, Unimatrix Seventeen))
They had departed through the cloaked threshold of the USS Gorkon that had been escorted by the D’Deridex-class Devoras, a marvelous but strange combination of ships indeed, and were floating quietly and gracefully in the direction of the half-finished sphere parked outside one of the many labyrinthine complexes of the gigantic Unimatrix Seventeen.
They were tethered carefully to one another in their white environmental suits, pushed along by the careful and coordinated movements of their integrated maneuverability thrusters. Her brown eyes squinted through the visor of the helmet, beyond the data streaming across it in translucent patterns and digits, to the sight of the rather skeletal looking sphere, almost like a cadaver picked apart by starved creatures if one couldn’t see the technological potential—but Doz knew all too intimately the potential, having scrutinised every bit of information and research available on what the spheres from her own timeline were capable of in seasoned hands, both good and bad.
There was no bristle of hair interfering with her helmet's lights this time, however, instead a white-speckled bob that had grown out from its usual spiky exhibit, cocooning her neck and ears from any sudden jolted movements of the tether. It had surprised her, and thrilled her beyond measure, when the Admiral had asked her to lead this particular team—the sense of purpose meant everything to the older woman, and the responsibility that came with it, whilst heavier than normal in her breastbone, was one she intended to carry with stalwart determination.
Soon enough, a chirp sounded.
Reynolds: =/\= Reynolds to Finch. =/\=
Finch: =/\= Yes, hello! Finch here! =/\=
Reynolds: =/\= How’s the approach? =/\=
Finch: =/\= Smooth sailing so far, Admiral. We estimate we’ll reach our target in around fifteen minutes. =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=
They continued floating through space, the whip of the tether only occasionally tugging when one or two of them veered slightly. She peered to one side, squinting in Gnaxac’s direction at the man in his pocket-sized suit, and then to her other side at Nera, a wide grin projecting outwards in his direction, if he could see it from his angle. She wondered how he was feeling in that moment, Nera, as an Ensign not only in terrifying territory, but hurtling through space with nothing to keep him safe but an EV suit and probably prayers to the Prophets.
Reynolds: =/\= From what we can tell, there aren’t any audio or visual monitoring systems in the Unimatrix itself. There’s barely any security at all, in fact. I suppose it's a combination of not expecting anyone to infiltrate, and not needing the redundancy when they can monitor everything through their drones. =/\=
Finch: =/\= That certainly makes our jobs a lot easier. =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=
Reynolds: =/\= It’s half-built, so hopefully they haven’t populated it yet. But if they have, you’ll need to shut them down before you can recover it. We don’t want drones springing to life when we’re trying to fix Johnson’s mess. =/\=
With Gnaxac’s nimble ability to fit into crevices, paired with his astute engineering skills, and Nera’s recent experience with drone autopsies and his likely understanding of their behaviour in and out of consciousness, she felt more than satisfied that they were well equipped to deal with whatever tricky situation unfolded before them. Not to mention, she’d forced a hot steaming brew down her gob prior to launching into space, which always did have that tendency to make her feel invincible.
Finch: =/\= We’re hoping to land on one of the outer edges of the sphere, facing away from the Unimatrix. There seems to be a good vantage point there to the inside, so we'll know what we're up against sooner rather than later. =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=
Reynolds: =/\= Good luck. Reynolds out. =/\=
Finch: =/\= The very same to you! Finch out. =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=
And so as the channel closed, all that remained behind for the minutes that bled slowly on afterwards were the sounds of each other breathing through the miniature speakers embedded into their helmets; the arms of their suits had been equipped, as was standard issue, with small display screens depicting information similar to a scanning device. So aside from the information pouring into her visor, such as the sphere's proximity, its size and dimensions, and other tactical information, she was able to input new information by lifting her right arm and tapping it in.
As she peered down at it with a bit of an awkward twist, still floating forwards as they had been for a little while, she spoke through chewed lips.
Finch: =/\= Now then, gentlemen. How are you both feeling? =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=
She chuckled and nodded, the weight of space around her slowing the movement. It was ethereal, majestic and sublime floating there together. Just the three of them falling elegantly through blackness, on a backdrop of scintillating stars like scattered diamonds.
Well, if one ignored the monstrosity they were heading towards.
Finch: =/\= It’s a cracking experience and it never gets old, floating in space. The circumstances are a bit of a shame, but I’ve every confidence luck is on our side with this particular task. =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=
Finch: =/\= Suit diagnostics are automatic, so if we encounter any technical hiccups with them, we should know about it almost immediately. =/\=
Gnaxac / Nera: =/\= Response =/\=