Equilibrium at Gamma Apodis

Mac was occupying his seat while listening to those damn Frank Sinatra music chips. "Hey! I must have dosed off. What's the date?" I asked.

"It's still 'October 18, 2777,' Sir. Do you want to know the 'time' as well?" asked Mac sarcastically.

"No, you butthead! Why don't you go get some chow or turn in?" I asked.

Then, we heard it: A transmission that was a combination high frequency howl of space noise interspersed with muffled voices in an alien dialect. I developed a strong feeling that the both of us had experienced this situation before. "Let's punch in the translator! This could be a distress call," I said as I tuned my ears to the transmission being received.

"Hot Damn! Some excitement at last," said Warrant Officer McIntyre.

The static of interstellar space roared out of our translator's speakers. Interlaced within the noises came the following verbal translation: "Hole patched. Equilibrium restored. Jumping—Transmission too distorted to translate!" said the computerized voice.

Checking my console I immediately checked our current position in space: Yes. We were cruising within the Pavo/Ara turnaround, well within our patrol area two parsecs outside the Apus Quadrant.

Reaching across the flight deck I tapped Mac upon his shoulder: "Ah-ha, just as I thought! A spurious communication from a passing alien ship. I'm going to bed. You have the bridge, Mac. Just keep your hands off of Claire, okay?"

"I could care less about that O'Hara bitch, Major. Keep that between me and you okay? Serious!" said Mac.

***

Once I made it to my cabin I felt the need to do morning Gongyo which was part of my family's life long Buddhist practice. I prepared my altar, reverently lighted two sticks of incense then opened my butsadan to expose my personal, miniature traveling version of my Buddhist practice's Sumi ink inscribed scroll—the Nicherin Shoshu object of worship.

As I was in mid-prayer a thought flashed briefly within my mind. Waiting until I had finished my morning prayers I acted upon that transient though. I went to the cabinet that held the lone recorder that stored the images from our "eyes" that were an interregnal part of our covert video monitoring suite installed within our individual orange Kevlar flight suits.

***

Unlocking that genetically secured space I pressed the "Review Data" button on the control panel. What I viewed made my jaw drop: Before my eyes appeared the crystal clear images of debris cluttered passageways inside an alien vessel, with scenes interspersed of what appeared to be the inside of a hanger bay with our ship sitting in the center of it!

***

From the darkened sensor plate of Mac's flight suit I took in the view of a large control space! My heart began to beat faster as more scenes unfolded before my eyes. I saw the figures of Homo-sapiens appearing denizens. I saw Allan and Dean standing with some very pale, very beautiful women in a space that appeared shattered as the result of some form of attack. In another view from my video sensors I saw a petite female vigorously thrusting upon my lap while in the company of two mature women, viewed from an oblique angle.

***

There was one view in which we were being addressing in the company of a regal looking couple and their Entourage in what appeared to be a hangar. The female was statuesque and stunning. One man had an understanding air about him. The other had an air of menace about him. Just from viewing his body language alone I felt ill at ease. As for the regal looking woman she appeared to be in a great deal of distress, yet she was attempting to smile through what appeared to be incredible pain!

***

I could see that I had shaken her hand and that of the two males within what looked like a hanger bay. But, how could this be? We were still well within our designated patrol area. We had never deviated from our flight profile. Our computer and current subspace beacon fixes I accessed to validate my feelings had confirmed this fact! What was puzzling was that I could not understand what these denizens were saying to us, yet I had responded to their attentions as if I had.

***

As I reviewed what was being shown on that view screen I had no memories of an encounter with any of these denizens. From the view of Jamison's exposed suit sensor I saw incredible scenes of equipment and two nude eye-catching females standing within what appeared to be a vast, well-lighted supply space/chart room.

***

With fear and concern pounding in my chest I ran a diagnostic check of our ship's sensor and mission logs. There loomed a strong possibility that our ship may have been compromised. I checked all the log entries of the Blackthorn from one week prior to the present: No anomalies had been logged. We were still drifting in our standard SigInt mission profile at the Pavo/Ava turn around. Everything was . . . so boringly routine.

***

That made me feel better—but then there were these videos! I gave each recording very close scrutiny according to these video file's time stamp which ranged from October 18 through October 28, 2777— ten days of covertly recorded data from a point in time we had not yet reached.

***

As I sat pondering this situation I glanced down at the inner most bottom of my butsadan. I noticed what appeared to be a very light, tissue thin sliver of golden paper. I reached down and picked it up. I opened it. I read it—or at least I tried to read it.

It was a listing of symbols and items scribbled in an alien-appearing language that I could not read. But the one line I did take note of I fully understood: "Myoho-Renge-Kyo—Nicherin," located down the center of that sliver of golden paper I had lifted from the bottom of my butsadan.

***

I began to feel a slight pressure within my mind. It seemed as if I were being urged to perform an 'action.' Without hesitation I did just that: Pressing the "Delete All" button effectively erasing all the files I had viewed.

I reached down to handle that strip of golden paper once again but discovered that it had vanished. I checked the deck, I looked all over the area yet I could no longer find it. Then my eyes fell upon the blank, blue lighted surface of that video view screen. "Damn it! I wanted the crew to see this. Now it was too late," I said.

There was no way to retrieve the data once it had been erased. The input from the suit worn covert surveillance systems were only recorded at this station.

***

The pressure within my head vanished; replaced by a strong 'urge' to sleep. I secured the view screen's cabinet. Surrendering to my fatigue I allowed my frame to recline upon my rack. The last thought I had before fading into sleep's gray oblivion was: Only nineteen more days of boredom to go.

***

Epilogue

October 18, 2777; 0846 hours: I had finished my transcription. Glancing up I took note of the time. I was surprised that no one had attempted to disturb or page me as I sat here talking to myself; endeavoring to transcribe this unbelievable, yet so vivid experience onto flash micro disc before it faded from my memory. The entire event seemed too damn real to be a dream! It was something for me to contemplate.

"Computer: End transcription," I ordered.

"Transcription ended!" said the mechanical voice.

***

Rising from my rack I took a seat before my altar. Out of the corner of my eye I took note of a flimsy, lime green chiffon type woven material pressed tightly between the support pedestal of my rack and the port bulkhead.

Reaching for the delicate, silk-textured non-woven fabric I examined it, sniffed at it—the delicate aroma issuing from it sent my pulse rate racing. Draping it upon my lap I began to chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo—diamoku, while entertaining another transient thought: "No one is even going to believe this—no one."

Then there's this filmy material now draped across my lap—just where did it come from? I'll lock it away inside my super secured safe. If I showed it to the crew it would serve no real purpose. After all; morale was improving. Why rock the boat with something that could not be readily explained?

I'm Major Steward McClintock, commanding officer of the CSS Blackthorn, SS-1010. I just hope that our next mission would not be as perplexing as this one.

**End**