The Reign is Over – Part 3

So, WordPress has decided to update (rather drastically) the GUI for generating new posts.

To say I hate it is to do a disservice to the word. 

I loathe the change with the gnawing anger of a thousand nerd-raging proud boys standing in front of a Indian restaurant.

The new interface is the constant eyesore of a painting that refuses to remain straight no matter how many times you un-tilt it.

It’s bad.  Really, REALLY bad, and the hard truth is that I have to stare at it for hours and hours every single evening when it comes time to make the words happen. 

I’m exaggerating (slightly) because it’s been this way for about two weeks and I’ve still managed to produce.  But my goodness each time that I open it up and look at the new layout, I am filled anew with fresh revulsion.

I sue for peace regularly on my platforms.  I admonish and chide my followers to always make sure that they do not spill digital blood upon my social carpet, so to speak.  Yet I cannot fathom a scenario where I would save this new interface should it be offered up as a sadistic choice.  The Green Goblin is free to drop this thing off a bridge whenever he pleases.  It shall not be missed.

On to the story, which I promise is far more action packed and contains 100% less kvetching. 

The Reign is Over – Part 3

Lieutenant McNamera’s elation as heat and turbulence rocked the transport died very swiftly. 

The transport would not stop shaking.

With mounting frustration, McNamera realized that the heat had lasted too long for it to be simple backwash.  The transport had been hit, and although the engines were steady, their rattling began to ratchet upwards with disquieting speed.  They must’ve lost a section of stability thrusters. Or worse.  McNamera’s eyes shot wide as she tried to hail the bridge of the transport and got nothing but static.

They had been operating under radio silence, and her communications channel had not reopened after the ISF Hidalgo’s support forced them out of any attempts at stealth.  There was only one explanation; the bridge was out of commission.  

She dared not unstrap herself, dared not risk a pilot-less transport without the armor of the troop bay or the security of the inertia couch she was tethered to.  She glanced around, seeing the veterans in her command coming to the same panicked realization of the danger they faced. 

They were going down.  Hard.

If there was any ordinance left for Reignover to fire, what she was about to do next would surely get them all killed in short order.  But they, and this mission, were doomed unless she did something.

She grabbed the emergency extraction kit from her belt, took out the (highly illegal) tight-wave communications generator she definitely hadn’t been given by the Captain of the Hidalgo prior to launch, rammed her clearance through the device, and fired an SOS to the Hidalgo which was floating several hundred thousand kilometers off-ring in the shadow of Europa. 

Instantly, the Captain of the Hidalgo filled the helmet viewer which had flipped down to cover her left eye once she sent the signal.  A gruff man of nearly eighty stared at her, unflappable with his neatly pressed uniform and cane holding him upright in the command chair.  He motioned with a finger, and McNamera started.

“Captain Walsh, we’ve taken fire and I can’t hail the cockpit.  Can you get close enough to snag us with a grav lance?  I know we’ll be sitting ducks, but I don’t think we’re any better off as street pizza.”

The enormous, bushy eyebrows which dominated half the old man’s face rose, and for an instant she could just see the startling hawk-eyed blues which missed nothing.  He nodded, once.  Then a spindly hand shot down to the arm of his command chair, and an electronic voice began barking orders for him. 

The Hidalgo moved out of the shadows, spinning her impulse drives to full with reckless disregard for safety.  It would take them a smattering of seconds to be within the distance required to spear the transport with a gravity lance.  If they didn’t crash before they arrived they could still make their destination.  If anyone tried to take a shot at them, however, McNamera had just turned her whole assault squad into fish in a barrel.  A very slow-moving, easy to shoot barrel, at that.

The shaking of the transport had mixed in a healthy dash of dive, which was working itself into a solid plummet.  A spin was thrown in too, for good measure, and a young cadet who couldn’t hold back his terror anymore started screaming.  More screams joined the first, curses and pleading prayers following after.  The veterans tried to be stoic, but the terror in their eyes showed the lie their demeanor was trying to sell.  They were all about to die.  Horribly.

The hand of an ancient titan clasped the transport within its granite grip.  The ship immediately stopped moving, stopped spinning, stopped trying to bring its cargo to an early grave.  The engines ceased with the unquestioned certitude of a kitten scooped into its mothers mouth.  Shouts turned to sobs, turned to cheers.  McNamera let go of the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, eyes bright with barely restrained tears. 

She had saved them.  For now.

To be continued…

Lancefully,
The Unsheathed Quill