Tales from the Service: A Search for Cermytes

2953-04-23 – Tales from the Service: A Search for Cermytes 

A reader noted in response to last week’s episode that we are far more likely to learn about Cermyte prevention from the Kyaroh or the Grand Journey than from the Incarnation. This is, while entirely sensible, probably untrue. Confederated Navy prison facilities hold tens of thousands of Incarnation prisoners of almost every rank, about ten percent of which are actively cooperative in intelligence gathering projects. Surely the mechanism used is something some of the numerous IN technicians are trained for, and their technology stack is, though adapted to the trade networks of Sagittarius, far more comprehensible to a Reach spacer than those of the Kyaroh or the Journey. 

There was little briefing after the last shift had finally filed out. Belluomo divided his team into four pairs for the search, and Clara Liang found herself partnered up with the grim, taciturn Ruslan Boyko, a waste disposal tech who’d been aboard Janda Dunewhite longer than herself.  

This was perhaps the optimal partner for the day’s drudgery, given that Clara, sleep deprived as she was, was in no mood for small talk even before learning that they’d spend the next eight hours prowling around in tight spaces looking for alien bugs. Most of the rest of the crew had an annoying habit of talking while they worked. Clara wondered if, back when sleep had been easier to source, she might have been the same. 

They all knew the procedure for diagnosing and containing a cermyte infestation well enough. Cermytes tended to cluster around a food source – that is, an untended polymer mass – in a dark and relatively warm pressurized space, so once they were detected, the center of their colonization needed to be located, isolated, and evacuated. This wouldn’t kill them – Cermytes could live without air for more than a month – but it would slow them down. Without air, they would be dormant and all but immobile, and a crew in vacsuits could exterminate them in relative leisure. 

Most of the time, one extermination wasn’t enough; there always seemed to be a few individuals which escaped to form the nucleus of a new colony a few weeks later. A crew could struggle for months to finally be rid of the pests. 

The sector Clara and her associate were assigned to cover was the grid of maintenance passages between decks five and six, where high-voltage conduits ran from the reactor aft of the hab spaces to the various weapons systems at the bow. The walk and climb toward this area gave Clara time to finish her coffee.  

Boyko glanced over at Clara as she noisily crushed the disposable cup and crammed it into her pocket, a scowl on his lips. “Must you?” 

“I don’t think cermytes hear like we do.” Clara shrugged. “At least there’s no indication they do in the breifing materials I’ve seen.” 

“But we can hear them.” Boyko gestured up to the overhead paneling barely ten centimeters above his dark hair. “Eyes can’t look everywhere at once.” 

“If they’ve big enough to hear, we’re in serious trouble.” Clara shuddered. She’d heard stories of individual cermytes almost a meter long, even though the maximum size listed in the data breifs was only about thirty centimeters. Even that was bigger than any bug had any right to be. Oddly, the fact that these creatures didn’t seem to have any way to harm humans made them even more unsettling to her imagination. No matter how big they were, the only danger they posed was the danger inherent in damage to Janda Dunewhite. 

“Still. Quiet.” Boyko switched on both his wristlights and swept the beams down the first corridor. The right-hand wall was dominated by a trio of huge power conduits, and numerous smaller power and communication cables interlocked along the right wall like a complex trellis of many-colored vines. There were about a dozen of these main passages, with several cross-corridors connecting them. “Watch left and down. I’ll handle right and up.” 

Clara activated her own wristlights and played them down the high-voltage conduits as the pair proceeded forward. She knew this area relatively well; she’d spent many shifts tracing a faulty cable through that seemingly unorganized tangle on the right, which Boyko was busy scrutinizing. If there were cermytes in this area, that whole network would need to be stripped out, inspected for cladding damage, and re-installed. Critical pathways would probably need to be taken apart even if no pest had ever entered the sector, just to be on the safe side.  

As they reached the solid bulkhead at the forward end of the habitation area and turned right to work their way over to the next passage, Clara thought she saw something moving at the edge of her light-beam. She snapped both of her lights onto the spot in an instant, but there was nothing there, cermyte or otherwise. 

Boyko paused and raised one eyebrow as Clara slowly lowered her lights. 

“Coffee must be making me jumpy.” Clara gestured toward the darkness ahead. “Come on. Let’s get this done.” 

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Tales from the Service: An Infestation of Cermytes

2953-04-23 – Tales from the Service: An Infestation of Cermytes 

 When Clara Liang got to her duty station five minutes prior to shift start, the second shift technicians were all still there, talking to their crew chief in low tones. This was unusual – normally the only one who stuck around to brief the third shift team was the duty chief. Still, she paid them no mind, focusing instead on draining as much of the bitter coffee in her carafe as possible.  

She’d slept poorly, as usual. It had been months since she’d been transferred to Janda Dunewhite and assigned to the third shift, but she doubted she’d had more than a dozen proper nights’ sleep in that time. There was no real reason this should be the case; yes, third shift was the closest thing you could get on a warship to a night shift, but that wasn’t really close at all. The crew deck for third shift, like those for the first and second shifts, was on an appropriate light-dimming schedule to encourage the belief that the second shift was “night” and the third was “morning,” so it shouldn’t have been any more difficult than adjusting to the day-night cycle of a new planet. 

At first, Clara had blamed the three others who shared her cabin – she had lay awake listening to all of them breathe enough times to be able to identify each of them in the dark. Really, though, they were less trouble than her bunkmates from Sugiyama – they never talked or even read on their slates after lights out. 

The medical team had offered Clara sleep medication on several occasions, but she rarely accepted them. Her father had been a Navy tech, too, and he had never slept properly after returning from the service, courtesy of a hard-to-kick dependence on the pharmaceuticals to fall asleep. She had no intention of following in his footsteps quite that closely. Not that it was too different being dependent on caffeine to function most shifts, but she’d kicked coffee twice before, and figured she could do it again. 

As the rest of the small third shift crew filtered in, Clara noticed a few uneasy looks directed at her from the tight knot of second-shift technicians. Now, their presence had gone from unusual to concerning. What could they want that the usual method of briefing and handoff between crew chiefs couldn’t have handled? 

At last, Chief Belluomo, Clara’s own superior, hurried in, barely sixty seconds to the shift change.He stopped short, noticing how crowded the duty station was.  

At Belluomo’s appearance, the outgoing crew chief detached himself from his compatriots and hurried to meet his opposite number. The rest of the second and shift crews watched uneasily as the pair talked in low tones. Clara couldn’t hear any of what was said, but the expressions on both their faces suggested that it was bad news. 

Eventually, Belluomo nodded grimly and stepped aside. The second shift chief walked to the end of the room and held up his hand for attention. It was hardly necessary; most everyone present was looking at him, expecting imminent bad news. 

“A moment, please. If you don’t know me, I’m Chief Ramsey, head of the second shift for this station.” The man began. 

Clara wondered if she would have known his name, were she not so sleep-deprived. Probably she would. Ramsey was too young to have been a long-serving crew chief in the peace-time Navy, but he was a tall, broad-shouldered man with the sort of square face that seemed more fitting in the Marines than in electrical maintenance work. 

“Normally I let your Mr. Belluomo hand over my report from the prior shift, but today...” Ramsey sighed. “Today one of my techs spotted a cermyte in the maintenance-ways between frames thirty and thirty-four.” 

A collective shudder ran through the room. Cermytes were a new hazard for Reach spacers: these Sagittarius-native pests were only too happy to colonize the out-of-the-way spaces of any starship, and they bred rapidly, They could digest most artificial polymers, and seemed to go after the cladding of high-voltage electrical cables with particular relish, even if it meant sometimes they were burnt to a cinder by shorting freshly de-cladded cables. Rumor had it that the Lost Squadrons had picked them up somewhere, and they had spread through the fleet alarmingly fast ever since. 

“Are you sure?” One of the third shift technicians belatedly raised her hand. “Could it have been something else?” 

“I saw it.” One of the second shift techs stepped forward. “I know what I’m talking about. I was on the Whitcomb Scourge decon team.” 

Every rating in the fleet had heard of the infestation aboard the Scourge, of course. Rumor had it that it was supposed to be patient zero for the fleet’s cermyte problem. Supposedly, when the repair teams had gone aboard after the ship’s return and months in parking orbit at Sagittarius Gate, some of the vaguely beetle-like pests were more than a meter across, and it had taken plasma weaponry to clear them out. 

“The one I saw was a sub-adult. Maybe about four or five centimeters. We combed the area but didn’t find any damage. It’s possible-” 

“I think it’s likely we caught it early.” Ramsey nodded to the other tech he’d just interrupted. “Early enough to clear it out without a full decon. But we need to know where they are eating. That means a full sweep of every cable. But we need to keep this quiet so the rest of the crew doesn’t panic.” 

“Does the captain know?” Someone asked from the back of the room. 

“Not yet.” Ramsey shook his head. “I’m going to go tell him myself as soon as his shift starts. We’re days at minimum from any sort of problem.” 

Days away from a problem meant little when Janda Dunewhite was weeks from any friendly port, of course. Clara sighed and put down her half-finished coffee. The fear of running into a family of skittering, cable-chewing doom-bugs would be with her every time she went into the accessways, now, and that would keep her alert far more effectively than any stimulant. 

We covered the discovery of this pest (though it had not yet been named) aboard Lost Squadrons vessels some time ago on this feed. Interestingly enough, Whitcomb Scourge was the vessel featured in our account of the pests, though it is not as far as I know the first on which they were discovered. 

Cermytes present a particular problem for warships, whose weapon systems require far more high-voltage cabling than would be necessary on a civilian ship. 

No doubt the Incarnation has come up with a simple solution for the cermyte problem, but I am not aware anyone has determined what it is. Certainly their vessels do not seem to be overly troubled by these vermin. 

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Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Artifact

2953-04-16 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Artifact 

Obviously, though the general gist of the claims of the Fiddlehead Three should be more than apparent by the two prior episodes, but I will provide Commander Lund’s retelling of their explanation here for two reasons. 

Firstly, Lund thought their story as amusing as it was interesting, and secondly, because the details that I am permitted to present here (some have been edited out of this retelling by Lund himself) are those I think represent this story as unlikely to be a cover story for a bunch of deserters. I am not wholly convinced, but I would suspect their account is more likely to be true than not. A Xenarch artifact capable of removing three humans from time for two days would be an incredible find indeed, if they hadn't needlessly expended it.

“So, am I to presume that you... misplaced this, erm, object?” Gunther Lund pressed when the silence had once again lengthened past what was normally considered awkward. 

“Well, it...” Visscher glanced between her compatriots. “Sort of exploded.” 

“On my station?” Lund arched one eyebrow. There had of course been no alarms indicative of any explosion in the period these miscreants had been aboard. 

“There was a button of sorts, inside a slot you could stick your finger into. We... We pushed the button. And-” McCormick’s shoulders slumped. 

“You pushed the button, you mean!” Bodinsen snapped, and he started to rise before his guard pressed a firm hand down on his shoulder. “I told you we needed to get it analyzed, but-” 

“Get it analyzed? Who was going to do that, and not take it away?” Visscher scowled. “We hit it with every sensor in the standard crew kit. It seemed safe.” 

Bodensen was quick with a response. “So would a thermite grenade. Or a bio-containment canister.”  

Gunther began to suspect this argument had been had once before, and he made a show of writing a note about recommending better tracking the use of standard shipboard tools during off-duty periods on his slate. “What did this... item look like?” 

There was a brief pause, but this time, Bodinsen broke it quickly. “It was a sort of cone or horn shape, about fifty centimeters long, slightly curved near the point, with a slot running the length. That’s where we found the button.” 

This, Gunther wrote down almost word for word. “What was it made of?” 

McCormick responded this time. “We couldn’t find out. Some sort of polymer, maybe. Sort of looked like pearl, but it was pale green.” 

“Any markings? Controls other than the button you pushed?” 

“Not that we found.” Bodinsen shrugged off the hand holding him in his chair. “And we looked damned hard.” 

Gunther noted this as well. He had long ago stopped asking why Navy ratings did the unwise things they did; three of them found a device with a button, and they inevitably pushed it. The surprising thing was that they spent days – maybe even weeks – puzzling over its origins before they did the inevitable. 

“We, ah. Went into that storage bay to push the button.” Visscher’s face reddened. "That way we had stuff to hide behind.” 

“And less witnesses, living and electronic.” Gunther nodded. “You aren’t the first miscreants to think of that. What happened next?” 

“As soon as I pushed it, the cone just sort of... burst.” McCormick sighed. “There was a loud noise, and a blast of green smoke, and... that was it. Your toughs collared us nearly the moment we got clear of the smoke and caught our breath.” 

Gunther nodded as he wrote this down. “The security personnel first on scene did not report any smoke, or any signs of an explosion, except that two storage containers full of computer components were pried open and rifled through.” 

Bodinsen cleared his throat. “If it were a normal explosion, we’d all be perforated. None of us was more than two meters from the thing when McCormick jumped the damned gun and pressed that button, and there’s not a scratch on any of us. We didn’t see any smoke either, after we got out of it.” 

“Wait, containers?” Visscher frowned. “We didn’t touch your supplies. We didn’t have time or tools for that. We were only in there about half an hour. That must have been unrelated.” 

“I can assure you nobody else was in that bay between when you arrived and when you were apprehended.” Gunther raised one eyebrow. “Hiding in a stack of cargo containers filed with electronics could easily block the security monitors, but I’m sure you knew that.” 

“I uh. Suppose we could have guesed it.” Visscher shrugged. “I’ve worked on security monitors. But we weren’t-” 

“They have no way of knowing if we were hiding in a stack of crates or not, if nobody else was in that bay” Bodinsen sighed. “And without the device, we’ve got no strong defense. The desertion charge sticks.” 

Gunther shrugged and smiled. “It’s looking that way, yes. But your story is very interesting. I am curious if there are any other details you remember. I rather doubt they could hurt, at this point.” 

Details

Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Anomaly

2953-04-02 – Tales from the Service: The Fiddlehead Anomaly 

The trio exchanged uneasy looks for a long moment. None of them seemed eager to answer, even in the face of a capital charge at court-martial.  

When the silence again began to lengthen, and they realized they would be handed no lifelines, Visscher shook her head and opened her mouth. “How could we have left the station? It doesn’t make any sense. You have airlock and suit access records.” 

“An interesting point, but one unrelated to the matter at hand.” Commander Gunther Lund spread his hands in mock helplessness. “In any event I have techs examining those records now for evidence of your tampering.” 

“We didn’t touch your files. Or your spacesuits.” McCormick scowled. “We never left your station. At least...” He glanced to Visscher. “Not intentionally.” 

“Owen!” Visscher hissed. 

“What? You think we can possibly make this any worse?” 

“The only higher offense in the code than what you are facing is treason.” Gunther smiled cheerfully as he delivered this bit of trivia which they probably already knew. Navy ratings were forced to learn the Discipline Code as part of their training regimen. “And those inquiries are always a messy business, because Intelligence wants to get involved.” 

Despite this being no new information, the flustered trio were taken aback by the observation, just as Gunther had anticipated. In point of fact Naval Intelligence was already involved, though it was remotely for the moment. They usually didn't maintain any personnel aboard a small outpost like Fiddlehead Station. 

“Look, Commander...” Bodinsen peered over at Gunther’s uniform nameplate. “Commander Lund. We didn’t desert. It was an accident.” 

“That will be most difficult to prove, given that this ‘accident’ took place while you were concealing yourself from the security system... for two days.” Gunther pretended to make a note on his data-slate. “But that’s a matter for your advocate. I’m just trying to write my report for the court, in my capacity as the station commander.” 

In truth, if the trio were thinking rationally, they’d probably realize that on such a small station, any court martial couldn’t convene until another vessel docked for resupply. Three outsiders thrust unexpectedly into a position of judgement would of course lean heavily on the report and treat any testimony that it did not back up as suspect. Gunther, of course, had made something of a hobby of keeping miscreants off balance and far removed from their full rational faculties. 

“We didn’t desert.” Visscher shook her head. 

“Other than deserting, what else were you not doing around four-fifteen, second shift, on Seventeen March?” Gunther arched one eyebrow. “Perhaps we can reach satisfactory answers by process of elimination.” 

“We weren’t being careful.” Bodinsen sighed. “I knew that thing was trouble the moment you showed it to me, McCormick.” 

“Thing?” Gunther sat back and steepled his fingers. He knew the dam had cracked. 

“It could have been anything. Or nothing. We had to know.” McCormick shot back. “And I wasn’t going to hide it under my bunk for the rest of our tour until we knew it was safe.” 

“Then why didn’t you let me hide it?” Bodinsen smacked a palm to his forehead. 

“Because you would have spaced it the moment we weren’t looking.” Visscher sighed. “And maybe we should have let you.” 

“Damned right you should have.” Bodinsen sat back in his chair. “It wasn’t right for that Marine to bring it aboard, and it was even less right for you to let him pass it off to you when he got off the ship. It could have been waiting to kill the whole crew, for all you knew.” 

“But we didn’t know!” McCormick’s protest was growing more feeble. “It could have been the next big discovery! We could have all been rich!” 

Gunther was no stranger to mad get-rich-quick schemes among the ratings – even in wartime, some fraction of the Reach’s spacers were always plotting insane things in their spare time – but this time, something strange was afoot. “Am I correct, then, in guessing that this item you are blaming for your disappearance is an alien artifact of some kind?”  

As if they’d forgotten he was present, all three suddenly turned to look at Gunther with alarm. 

“We think so.” Bodinsen’s answer, reluctant as it was, drew glares from the other two. “No way to be sure now.” 

The claim of the Fiddlehead Three is sensational to say the least – that they were sidelined from time itself for nearly two days by the influence of an alien artifact whose provenance they cannot establish and whose very presence they cannot conclusively prove – but the fact that they simply vanished in a matter of moments from all station security systems for two days, and reappeared just as suddenly – gives credence to their story. 

We have covered some strange properties of Xenarch artifacts in this space before, but not recently. Certainly I would not put this claim past the capabilities of a device of this provenance, and I would think three deserters would have a more reasonable story prepared – and some sort of plan to make good their escape – if they actually did intend to desert. 

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