All For Me Grog (Open, especially to UNIT & Torchwood)
Dec 13, 2013 17:16:00 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 13, 2013 17:16:00 GMT -5
Mutter's Spiral
The Orion Arm
Sol System
Cis-lunar orbit about Sol III
AD 2012
The event was detected by certain highly-specialized instruments aboard certain of the satellites orbited by the aboriginal inhabitants of the planet. It was a sort of gravitational oscillation, an ebbing and flowing of higher dimensions distorting local spacetime. And then, with a burst of exotic particles - most of which the locals still could not detect, even with their salvaged and reverse-engineered xenotechnologies - the event was over.
Even the keenest of instruments couldn't detect what was left behind. It didn't occult any stars or the reflection from the moon, and it generated no light of its own. Because, as a rule, that was not something galleons did.
Inside the "galleon", the Corsair stared with some concern at the Frankensteinian hexagonal instrument panel. She'd had to build it out of three different wrecked panels, and it was held together largely with spit and bailing wire and force of personality. "C'mon, boy," she murmured. "Just a little longer. Then you can rest."
To be honest, she could use a rest herself. Five days ago - well, it seemed like five days to her, although she hadn't yet been able to work out how long she'd been in that stasis chamber - she'd been a man. Then he'd been unconscious, waking up just long enough to work out that some berk had stolen his spine and his right arm. Then he'd fallen over, and woken up a much smaller woman.
A smaller woman, with no food and no TARDIS. Trapped on a charnel world littered with dead gallifreyoids and dead TARDISes. And so, feeling very much like a ghoul, she'd stripped the corpses of the dead capsules for the parts to build one semi-functional ship that could accept the backup godmind core she carried in her rapier hilt.
"Right," she murmured, flicking switches and engaging the spacetime locomotor systems. "Let's see if we can't make landfall."
The Frankenstein of a TARDIS she'd constructed had the cosmic energy receptors of a TT-41c, which was a good thing. When she'd started it up, it was able to draw exactly no power from the Eye of Harmony. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the Vortex Pathway, but still it didn't heat up.
So, once she'd managed to navigate back into the third universe (using power generated by disintegrating the planetoid she'd been on) and got the cosmics engaged, she'd set sail for Gallifrey.
Only to find it missing. Which solved one problem, although it presented certain others. For instance, had they actually lost the War?
But staring at empty space where the Homeworld should be answered nothing. So, she set sail for the next world that she might actually want to set down on for a bit. A lonely little flyspeck 250 million light years away. One that the Daleks had probably never noticed, which would be advantageous if the Time Lords really had lost.
Earth.
Twelve minutes later...
The Corsair was screaming.
"SHHHHHHH...."
Around four hundred miles above the planet's surface, a half-dozen jury-rigged relays blew simultaneously. The sudden surge of power liquified six meter-thick busbars of solid platinum. And power to the spacetime locomotors died.
"...IIIIIIIIIIII...."
Core functions were still blessedly intact. Internal geometries hadn't collapsed and life support hadn't failed, so she was able to still breathe to scream and still have an up and down to run about in.
"....IIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT!"
The trouble was, the ship was uncontrolled. She could dematerialize it, but it didn't have the power to make another vortex transit. Two of the cosmics had shorted out on the trip back from where Gallifrey should have been. So, her options were dematerialize and sit around for months while the capacitors recharged - problematic, since the cornucopias were offline - or she could go for an uncontrolled reentry.
Digging two fluid links out of the jury-rigged console, and a bar of platinum the thickness of her wrist, she raced from the control room. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to restore enough control to steer a little.
The sight was spectacular. A thirty meter object tearing a line of fire across the horizon. It shot across Asia and North America, observed by astronomers and amateur stargazers alike, who speculated on where it had come from and where it was going to land.
There were no answers, of course. It could have been any of the millions of uncatalogued NEOs. What attracted attention was the fact that it did not break up, did not burn up, and that it impacted the English Channel. A cloud of steam shot three kilometers into the night sky, and three meter waves reached Calais and London. One fishing boat - that's what George Croix claimed his business to be, anyway - reported seeing a pirate ship bob to the surface after the impact.
His report was, generally disregarded.
All For Me Grog
The Orion Arm
Sol System
Cis-lunar orbit about Sol III
AD 2012
The event was detected by certain highly-specialized instruments aboard certain of the satellites orbited by the aboriginal inhabitants of the planet. It was a sort of gravitational oscillation, an ebbing and flowing of higher dimensions distorting local spacetime. And then, with a burst of exotic particles - most of which the locals still could not detect, even with their salvaged and reverse-engineered xenotechnologies - the event was over.
Even the keenest of instruments couldn't detect what was left behind. It didn't occult any stars or the reflection from the moon, and it generated no light of its own. Because, as a rule, that was not something galleons did.
Inside the "galleon", the Corsair stared with some concern at the Frankensteinian hexagonal instrument panel. She'd had to build it out of three different wrecked panels, and it was held together largely with spit and bailing wire and force of personality. "C'mon, boy," she murmured. "Just a little longer. Then you can rest."
To be honest, she could use a rest herself. Five days ago - well, it seemed like five days to her, although she hadn't yet been able to work out how long she'd been in that stasis chamber - she'd been a man. Then he'd been unconscious, waking up just long enough to work out that some berk had stolen his spine and his right arm. Then he'd fallen over, and woken up a much smaller woman.
A smaller woman, with no food and no TARDIS. Trapped on a charnel world littered with dead gallifreyoids and dead TARDISes. And so, feeling very much like a ghoul, she'd stripped the corpses of the dead capsules for the parts to build one semi-functional ship that could accept the backup godmind core she carried in her rapier hilt.
"Right," she murmured, flicking switches and engaging the spacetime locomotor systems. "Let's see if we can't make landfall."
The Frankenstein of a TARDIS she'd constructed had the cosmic energy receptors of a TT-41c, which was a good thing. When she'd started it up, it was able to draw exactly no power from the Eye of Harmony. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with the Vortex Pathway, but still it didn't heat up.
So, once she'd managed to navigate back into the third universe (using power generated by disintegrating the planetoid she'd been on) and got the cosmics engaged, she'd set sail for Gallifrey.
Only to find it missing. Which solved one problem, although it presented certain others. For instance, had they actually lost the War?
But staring at empty space where the Homeworld should be answered nothing. So, she set sail for the next world that she might actually want to set down on for a bit. A lonely little flyspeck 250 million light years away. One that the Daleks had probably never noticed, which would be advantageous if the Time Lords really had lost.
Earth.
Twelve minutes later...
The Corsair was screaming.
"SHHHHHHH...."
Around four hundred miles above the planet's surface, a half-dozen jury-rigged relays blew simultaneously. The sudden surge of power liquified six meter-thick busbars of solid platinum. And power to the spacetime locomotors died.
"...IIIIIIIIIIII...."
Core functions were still blessedly intact. Internal geometries hadn't collapsed and life support hadn't failed, so she was able to still breathe to scream and still have an up and down to run about in.
"....IIIIIIIIITTTTTTTT!"
The trouble was, the ship was uncontrolled. She could dematerialize it, but it didn't have the power to make another vortex transit. Two of the cosmics had shorted out on the trip back from where Gallifrey should have been. So, her options were dematerialize and sit around for months while the capacitors recharged - problematic, since the cornucopias were offline - or she could go for an uncontrolled reentry.
Digging two fluid links out of the jury-rigged console, and a bar of platinum the thickness of her wrist, she raced from the control room. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to restore enough control to steer a little.
The sight was spectacular. A thirty meter object tearing a line of fire across the horizon. It shot across Asia and North America, observed by astronomers and amateur stargazers alike, who speculated on where it had come from and where it was going to land.
There were no answers, of course. It could have been any of the millions of uncatalogued NEOs. What attracted attention was the fact that it did not break up, did not burn up, and that it impacted the English Channel. A cloud of steam shot three kilometers into the night sky, and three meter waves reached Calais and London. One fishing boat - that's what George Croix claimed his business to be, anyway - reported seeing a pirate ship bob to the surface after the impact.
His report was, generally disregarded.
All For Me Grog