Three of Two

[DoF Archive]

Date: 12/26/1997 6:50 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


The briefing room was spacious and even with the vast amount of people crowded into it, there was still room for most everyone to sit. If he didn't know better, he would have said that this was an Academy lecture hall and he was curious as to what the room was usually used for. Positioned right over the launch bay, room H-12 offered a wonderful view of space from beyond the boundary of the bay as well as of the docking areas. The windows
reminded him of those in the lounge; big, spacious, and wide, they were by no means the type seen on a destroyer or even a carrier, where any potential weakness in structure was made small as possible.
His eyes scanned the scene and came to rest upon the docking bays that were half obscured by the loading vehicles and munitions transports scurrying along the bay floors. Small tugs guided ships one by one through the bays…the ships that would be used in the competition. So enthralled was he in the miniature ballet occurring four decks below, Matt didn't even notice Commander Galarza enter the room much less begin the briefing. A hard elbow to
the ribs from one of his crew chiefs finally jarred him back into reality and he turned around to face the station's CO.
"…pite the setbacks we have faced it is our hope that the GCMT will run as smoothly as ever. I know most of you have been stuck out in deep space for months and that this is your first shore leave in quite a while. However, this is my station, and you will abide by my rules while you are here. Each of you has been provided with the rules and regulations for this Tournament and for this station. I suggest you read them all carefully as they
have been set aside for your safety as well as that of this starbase. You will abide by all Rules of Engagement or face disqualification."
Galarza paused, eyes flickering over the heads of everyone in the room. "You're in my home now, people, and I expect you to act accordingly. Now go get some rest. Your first hops will take place at 2100 hours tonight. Use the time between now and then to review the data disks provided, walk around, sleep, I don't care. Just stay out of trouble. Lieutenant Commander Marley, my XO, will be your liaison to myself. If you have questions about
the regs concerning the station, you are to contact him. Tournament questions should be addressed to Major Lhamo who is acting as your liaison to Colonel Kingman. I apologize for the delays we have suffered so far and I assure you we will do our best to ensure they do not happen again. See you all at 2100. Dismissed."
With that, Galarza stepped away from his podium and exited the room. Matt turned back to the windows, letting out a soft sigh as he watched the hustle and bustle of activity below. He had come here to have fun and so far, fun didn't seem to be on anyone's agenda. He hoped that would all change soon, and, if it didn't, he'd have to do something about it once 2100 rolled around. He clapped one of his squadmates on the shoulder and began to
follow the mass of people exiting through the sliding doors. "Always a bundle of laughs ain't it," he quipped.
Those who heard him chuckled and nodded in agreement. After all, what could be more fun then reading through a disk of rules and regs? When he finally found and entered his quarters he realized he could have been in his own room back onboard the Othello. If the military was ever consistent about one thing it was drab color and standard construction. He smiled slightly as he sat down in front of a small terminal that occupied nearly his entire
desk; after all, some things had to be predictable even in war. Kept you sane. At least, that was the rhetoric. Leaning back in his chair, his eyes began to read the words on the screen, but not before seeing "Page 1 of 43" pop up in the lower left-hand corner. With a grunt, he delved right in, figuring that at some point, this would all be worth it.

[DoF Archive]

Date: 1/15/1998 9:06 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

How long he had been staring at this screen, he couldn't say. The picture of his friends still hung in the background but the text ceased scrolling long ago, stopping as he became lost in memory. He heard movement behind him, followed by a soft sigh, and turned his head. Both Ginger and Sarah were still asleep, but his wife had shifted positions, curling up into herself. He smiled and stood, realizing that even for a rainy day, it was colder
than normal. He walked to the couch, pulled an old woolen blanket from the cushions, and draped it over his bare arm. The material coarse and rough to his skin, he resisted the urge to scratch the almost immediate itching sensation that arose as he moved to the bed. Removing the blanket from his arm, he placed it over Gin's sleeping body, completely covering the ball that she had become. Sarah had managed to roll herself away from her mother and
looked equally cold, her arms hugging her small form as tightly as they were able. Reaching down, he picked her up and grinned as she latched onto his neck with her arms. Cradling her with one firm hand, Matt walked into the kitchen and picked up a chair, setting it back down in the main room next to a large window. Settling himself into the chair, he stared outside, past the streaks of water slowly descending down the glass and onto the sill.
The sky was dark and gray; the rain poured down relentlessly, guided by the building breeze. The pine needles dripped water down onto the ground, the weaker ones falling off when the weight of the water became too great. He didn't know what time it was and looking for the sun was a fruitless task. So he just sat and watched, and the memories continued to flow.
His squadron was fairly small, nowhere near the standard full complement. Although it had been commissioned even before his career in the Navy began, Confed. had never provided it with full staffing, perhaps because it held its own better than most squadrons did with more pilots and more planes. Not counting himself, there were fourteen other pilots, plus crew chiefs and technicians than maintained and armed their craft. Under Major Dykstra's
leadership, the fourteen had become a rather outstanding unit, especially for one so small. Specializing in TARCAP (Targeted Combat Air Patrol) missions such as Objective Raids and Space Superiority strikes, the squadron had become a literal hit and run machine, leaving shattered hulks of enemy cruisers and destroyers in it wake. Not always able to count on the presence of a supporting escort squadron, Dykstra had also made sure her crew knew how
to dogfight, and dogfight well; many an enemy fighter had been turned into scrap along with its squadron and mother-ship. They may not have been the top ranked squadrons (kill-wise) in the fleet, but they did hold one of the highest pilot survival rates per mission, and it was hard not to be impressed with the list of fighters and capital ships that had fallen to their guns. Dykstra's death had been the first the squadron had faced in three months,
and Captain Simon had every intention of making sure they would face no more once he gained command.
Though he was friends with them all, he had developed very close ties with a few of them; these few were not only his family, but his best friends as well. The first was Captain Michael "Torrent" Tarkington, his second in command and by all rights, the one who should have received command once Dykstra had been killed. But Mikey's record wasn't exactly the cleanest on file, and although he had received two bronze and one silver star for valor in
combat, he had been passed over for promotion at least twice and Confed. refused to entrust him with a command of his own. Thirty-seven years old, Mikey had been with the squadron for nearly two years and was the only one who preceded the arrival of Major Dykstra. A veteran of the McAuliffe Ambush, one of the earliest and bloodiest battles of the war, Mikey had proven himself more than capable in the cockpit. Originally from a Border Worlds
planet, Cabrea (located in the Grills Quadrant, Enigma Sector), Mikey carried with him a short temper and the desire to act on that temper, the two things which promotion boards tended to frown upon. But if Mikey had bitter feelings towards his new commander, he kept them well hidden; in fact, Matt had been rather surprised at Mikey's willingness to help him fit in when he first arrived. A better escort than anything else, Mikey was always someone
whom Matt could trust to watch his back and keep the enemy off his six.
Then came First Lieutenant Michelle "Freon" Vornholt; he had heard of her even before his posting to the Othello. Hailing from the Aquila Colony (Petrov Quadrant, Sol Sector) Vornholt had become somewhat infamous among the flying ranks. Her exploits during the Goddard Campaign were still talked about, nobody forgetting that she personally destroyed two enemy light carriers and their destroyer escorts on three separate sorties all in the same
day, and all after her wingman had bought it during the first strike. She lived up to her call-sign and she was cold as ice in the cockpit; nothing would deter her from a target and she'd pursue until she brought her query down. Her greatest strength, the trait was also her greatest weakness, and she had been brought up on charges for negligence twice, acquitted each time. The first had been when her wingman died while she broke formation to chase
down an enemy wing and the second when a Drayman 'sport had been destroyed while she hunted down a decoy fighter. She had no mercy and had been called ruthless by some, but when on the ship her personality radically changed. Warm and caring, Michelle was one of the sweetest people Matt had met since he joined the Space Force. Twenty-seven years old, she was the resident "mother-hen" and she made sure that nobody messed with her family and got away
with it…and nobody had gotten away with it yet.
Second Lieutenant Kevin "Magi" Olton was a man with an interesting history. Originally from New Detroit, Potter Quadrant, Gemini Sector, Kevin kept most of his dark past to himself. All most anyone knew was that he had run away from home at twelve and joined up with InSystem Security as soon as he was old enough. He had proven himself a more than capable pilot with InSys, often jumping to the Confed. base at Perry and chatting with the pilots
there while he awaited rearming and refueling. On one such occasion, when a small Kilrathi strike fleet attempted an attack on the station, Olton launched along with the Confed. defense fighters, assisting in defending Perry and routing the enemy. Eight medium and heavy enemy fighters fell to his guns that day and Confed. brass stationed on Perry offered were so impressed with his flying abilities they offered him a commission in the Navy.
Needless to say, Olton jumped at the chance. Although much of his background was classified and therefore remained a mystery, nobody seemed to care about anything but the pilot before them. Olton had one of the best aims in the Navy and although he wasn't the most maneuverable pilot, he could bring down an enemy fighter with two or three quick bursts from his guns. In fact, his call sign derived from his almost magical ability to sense where the
enemy would be and to fire off his weapons at precisely the right moments. Naturally, Olton was the perfect choice to provide cover for bombing runs on enemy capital ships, and with Olton on their wing, pilots could concentrate on the tasks at hand instead of worrying about being jumped by the enemy from behind.
Staff Sergeant Eric "Seeds" Hamblin was the squadron's head Crew Chief and it was his responsibility to ensure that his ships were 100% space-worthy each and every time they left the Othello. It was highly unusual for the maintenance crews and the pilots to develop close relationships as their primary interaction normally took place solely on the flight deck, but this was an unusual group of people. Hamblin's nickname, an odd one to be sure,
stemmed from his habit of chewing upon a seemingly endless supply of sunflower seeds nearly every hour of the day. A large hollow stainless steel cylinder, into which he spit the shells of the seeds, remained clipped to his belt and had pretty much become a part of his uniform. He had even worn it to his last promotion review and everyone still puzzled over just how he managed to get bumped up to Staff Sarge from Senior Spacehand, but as someone
once said, wonders never cease. Trained by his father to be a mechanic on Cambria (Day Quadrant, Vega Sector), Eric, despite his quirks, was one of the best techs in the Navy; unlike most, he was more concerned that the pilots survived their missions than in what condition they returned the fighters to him. He loved his work and the longer he could spend tinkering on a ship, either repairing it or coaxing a little more thrust out of the engines,
the happier he was.
Last but not least came First Lieutenant Katlyn "Thalia" Avamore. Like the Thalia of ancient Greek mythology (one of the Three Graces, specifically that of Good Cheer), Katlyn always seemed on top of the world. She was only an average pilot in all respects and although born on Earth, felt no particular ties to the planet or anyone on it. But despite her troubled past, she never let it bother her, and she was the one ever-present morale booster
that they had all come to rely upon. Although Matt, like many others, believed that her performance in combat would see little if any improvement, Katlyn never stopped trying to better herself and her abilities. She would spend hours in the simulators, practicing this and learning that with a drive and a will that was both rare and refreshing to her superiors. If she failed, she'd try again and she'd keep after it until she got it right. How she
constantly managed to keep a smile on her face and a good word for her friends seemed, at times, almost a miracle, and it was also why he loved her. He had never spoken of it, of course, not to her or anyone else, but he couldn't hide the truth from himself. He had fallen for her and fallen hard, but this was war and he-they, still had a job to do.
A small cough from Sarah jarred his thoughts back to the present and he realized that he was squeezing her against his chest too tightly. Softly murmuring apologies, he set her down upon his lap, where she promptly curled up and slept once more. Outside, the rain fell steadily and the wind blew with more force than before. Inside, the memories kept on coming.

[DoF Archive]

Date: 1/20/1998 3:37 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

When you got right down to it, they were nothing more than hunks of welded metal that used a fairly sophisticated and smart computer as a brain.
But hardly anyone ever got right down to it.
For they were one of the rare things that were greater than the mere sum of their parts, and in fact, to the men and women whose lives depended upon them, they were much much more than they appeared to be. Currently, in this place, there were hundreds of them all cramped together in rows, restricted with strong metallic wire. They were everywhere it seemed, and although they all looked similar, each was unique in its own way.
To the casual observer they probably seemed ugly. Covered in standard military paint schemes, at least, they were where the paint hadn't flaked or chipped away, they just sat there, seeming to do little more than take up space. In truth, they hadn't been designed for aesthetic appeal and left something to be desired from that standpoint. Even if one could look past their appearance, things didn't improve much. They were loud, incredibly
loud, surpassing the point of deafening. And they didn't exactly handle well in cramped spaces. More than once they had kept people up nights after having a little accident. But to judge them on these things alone wasn't fair, because this was not their natural element. Once they were freed from the confines of durasteel walls and corridors, their true beauty began to shine. Suddenly, the ugly monoliths became graceful, agile, and silent, able
to demonstrate their true capabilities. They covered vast distances quickly and without hesitation, performed impossible acrobatics with precision and split-second timing, and provided a safe haven for those contained within. And instead of merely taking up space, they found a purpose in their medium. Once unleashed, they became literal harbingers of death, spewing forth hellfire and brimstone, leaving behind trails of carnage as a grim warning to
any that might happen upon them.
Thousands upon thousands of them did precisely this every single day, and yet there were never enough. The markers of death did not deter the will and desire to bring about more, and although they were replaced nearly as fast as they were destroyed, the loss of each one meant the loss of a life. That was the part that never seemed to sit well with anyone.
They were the instruments of death and yet they were the only hope for peace. They were both loved and hated, cherished and abhorred. They saved lives while at the same time almost casually destroyed others. They were the proverbial double-edged sword brought to life and nobody, no matter how hard they tried, could ever change or deny that. But here, now, for the time being, they would serve another purpose. Although their deadly skills
would be highlighted and exploited, they would not be used to satisfy Death's insatiable appetite. No. Not here. Not now. Here, they would reunite old friends and solidify bonds. They would signify a respite from the carnage and horrors of combat. They would be used to try and end the sense of hopelessness that war so often brought about.
But despite all of this, one thing overshadowed it all. The change was only a temporary one. And soon, too terribly soon, they would once again become the things that they were destined to be-the bringers of death and the keepers of peace.

[DoF Archive]

Date: 5/25/1998 4:22 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


How many times he had climbed into one of these things he knew not. All he knew was that he had done so more often than he ever dreamed necessary. There had been the countless drills at the Academy, the numerous combat sorties, patrols, escorts, rescues and the umpteenth other duties he had performed these past few years. Rarely did he sit down in one for the sheer joy of it and even more rarely did he have a true opportunity to doso. With that in mind, he was going to make sure he enjoyed this moment as best he could. They all entered the launch bay with excitement growing in their bellies. He could hear Hamblin's shrill voice around somewhere but couldn't see his head crew chief among the rows of ships that sat waiting for them. Approaching his own, Captain Matt Simon raised his arm, placing his gloved hand flat against the metallic underbelly of the heavy Raptor class fighter. Ducking his head so he wouldn't bump it, he traced the underside of theship rising only when he passed under the engine duct into open space again. No open panels, hardpoints secured, seals tightened; Hamblin and his crew had once again performed their jobs well. Approaching the yellow ladder that led up to the cockpit, Matt looked to his left and saw his fellow pilots performing their own pre-flight checks. Although it was the crew chief's job to ensure each plane ready for flight, the pilots were responsible formaking sure that their ride was indeed spaceworthy before leaving the launch bay. Placing his arms above his head he grasped the handrails and began his ascent up the ladder. Pausing again as he reached the top step, Matt once again looked around the bay. Across the bay he noted one of the rival squadrons preparing for launch and as cockpits closed and engines thundered to life, he tried to forget that these machines were the dogs of war. Hiseyes flickered down to the writing just below the point where shielded glass would meet durasteel when the cockpit closed. He ran his fingers over the letters that spelled his name and then moved them lower to the painted emblems that represented the number of enemy ships that he had faced and destroyed. No, he refused to let his mind travel down that sullen path. Not here. For now at least, these ships were a gateway to something else, to adifferent mindset, to a goal other than destruction and death. He was sure that every pilot felt something similar. Swinging himself over the side and into the cramped seat that would be his home for the next few hours, Matt began the process of bringing his beast of burden to life. His left hand resting upon the throttle, he reached out with his right and began to flick the power switches. As the cockpit began to close and the engines began to thrum with life, he reached back and fastened the security straps that help him in place when the ship's inertialdampeners faltered as they tended to do during high speed combat maneuvers. Displays flickered on in front of him as the computer began processing and relaying information and sensor data and he initiated a communications linkup with the on-duty Air Boss directing the traffic flow. The main pre-flight checklist scurried across his left VDU as the computer satisfied itself that the ship was ready for flight. Once all systems were checked over, Mattreached down and released the magnetic docking clamps keeping him attached to the station's deck. This was much different than taking off from the bay on a carrier or other capital ship. There, each fighter rocketed out of a launch tube with the aid of a catapult; here, ships left the bay completely under their own power and control which allowed for faster distribution of machinery in times of emergency. However, it also increased the chancesfor collision or other accidents that tended to occur when groups of independent ships confined to a relatively small area all try to exit that area simultaneously. Making sure he wasn't drifting somewhere he shouldn't, Matt grasped the control stick with his right hand, wrapping his leather gloved fingers around the grip as he had done so many times before. At the Air Boss' signal, he nudged the throttle forward with his left hand and guided his fighter towards the large aperture that would serve as his exit into space, ceasing his forward movement when instructed. Behind him, in a ballet of chaoticcoordination, the line of ships that held the rest of his squadron followed the path of their leader. One after the other they lifted from the deck and slowly made their way towards their playground. Free now of any constricting restraints, the fighters bobbed up and down and side to side, impatiently waiting their turn to exit the confines of the bay. Hovering there, waiting for final confirmation from the Air Boss, Matt released his hold on thethrottle and placed his hand on the side of his head. When his fingers found the mechanism, Matt snapped the helmet's visor closed. Almost immediately, a flood of data appeared in front of his eyes as the ship's computer linked to the one inside his helmet. Reaching to his left, he pressed a button and the data disappeared. Some pilots enjoyed using the enhanced features the helmet allowed, he used the visor mainly to keep out the glare of nearbybright stars like the one hanging just above and to the right of the launch bay. He couldn't see it yet but remembered its presence from time spent on the observation deck and he didn't want to fight glare along with everything else. Satisfied, he repositioned his hand on the throttle lever just a second before his squadron's final clearance authorization was announced. Disregarding just about every regulation there was regarding the takeoffprocedure, Matt slammed the throttle all the way forward and the ship lurched beneath him as the engines went from standby to full power. Shoved back in his seat and ignoring the curses of the Air Boss in his ear, he keyed on his afterburners at the same moment his nose cleared the edge of the launch bay. Switching frequencies on the communications array, he could hear the laughter and delight of the rest of his pilots as they followed theirleader's example. Grinning beneath the plastic of the helmet, Matt kicked his fighter into a tight roll as he streaked towards the Drayman ‘sport that was theirs to defend. Regulations be dammed, he was out here to enjoy himself--a moment of respite in a time of tragedy and loss. He deserved it. They all deserved it, even the ones who couldn't be here. Slowing down just long enough for everyone else to catch up, Matt led his group toward theirdestination and, he hoped, toward victory.

[DoF Archive]

Date: 9/19/1998 4:17 AM Central Daylight Time
From: RDI Glo


The fleeting months of winter had come and gone, leaving behind an especially lovely spring not so much due to the weather but because of what the season brought to his family. It had been miracle enough to discover Gin's pregnancy but the birth of his twin sons was astounding to him. Darien Marcus and Jordan Matthew blessed their lives in ways he never imagined possible. Between the boys and Sarah, Matt and Gin
had their hands full, and he had no time to reflect upon the past as he had spent much of the winter months doing. Thoughts of Katlyn and the days of yore departed as quickly as the fresh rays of light melted the snow into life-giving dew. So too did life with his family flourish and rekindle, the longing and the depression now cast aside for things more important.
As spring gave way to summer the time he spent at home became less than it should. Focused on the research he conducted in a room located on the upper floor of the Outback, he often lost track of time and became lost in the depths of coded material, graphic displays, and columns of information. It was all too easy to lose oneself in that digital world, to forget that another lay outside of it, and more than one night passed where he didn't
return home at all. Ginger, of course, was more than irritated at this behavior, for God's sake why couldn't he work at home if it was that important? He had no good explanation save that he really didn't want anyone to know what he was doing, and that included his wife. After a time, he reached a standstill and his research stagnant…he could do no more until certain conditions were met, and that was when he'd challenged for the right to bear the
ShadoWeaver. And though it had taken a month, he got what he wanted and was able to move forward with his investigations. What he'd learned thus far he wasn't ready to reveal but he'd received more than a few surprises up until this point, and he was sure more would arise in time.
It looked as if Matthew Algiers Simon had everything going for him. He'd even stopped worrying about Confed's Special Ops. forces trying to "extradite" him for his supposed war crimes. Then he'd had a conversation with Kelli; it was late, after a night of dueling, and she'd looked as if she needed an ear. In speaking of her own troubles she'd reminded him of those still existing in his past. Memories of that time flooded his mind; images of
Kevin, of Michael…of Katlyn, especially Katlyn, overwhelmed him once more. The original guilt he'd felt at naming the kitten he'd purchased for Gin "Thalia" stabbed through him once more and he left Kelli and the Outback that night with these thoughts and more running through his brain. He found himself right back where he'd begun …a few pictures, too many memories, and no answers.
With each passing day, he became more of a recluse and more introverted while the depression that haunted him months ago returned with a vengeful fury. Turgid once again, Matt's thoughts once again returned to that other life, to his other family, and to a war that at times seemed to him far less dangerous than the depths of his own inner self.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 10/13/1998 6:08 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


He'd been asking for it to happen; all the late nights and the unwillingness to answer her questions about what he was doing were things Ginger didn't exactly appreciate. Coupled with his moodiness and depression, Matt hadn't been the prime model of husband or father in recent weeks, and she was determined to snap him out of it. Determined that is, until tonight, when she realized there was no point in even trying.
She knew he'd become preoccupied with his past during the winter months and had seen him stare at old pictures for hours on end. That dammed computer terminal occupied more of his attention than she and the children combined. Worse yet, he refused to discuss matters with her; he wanted to hide something, that much she knew, and though she didn't want to pry she felt she must for the sake of their family. After all the arguments they'd had where
he all but demanded she hide nothing from him, now he was the one with the dark secrets. When he wasn't home, he (she could only guess) spent his time in the infernal Outback; that place had become more his home than the cabin they shared. It was during one of these times, when he was gone, that out of frustration and anger she looked at the pictures and read through the materials that fascinated him so. In all honesty, after going through
everything, she couldn't really see what had her husband so captivated. There had to be a missing element.
So she bided her time hoping it was a phase, hoping he'd come around and realize that the present was just a tad more important than the memories he held within. But earlier tonight all the pieces fell into place. More disagreements. More questions. This time, he answered her, explaining who the people were, what they'd meant to him, and when he spoke of Katlyn, she knew. She knew why he'd been acting as he had…her husband was in love, and
it was with someone else. She cut him off right there; she didn't know or care if this person was in Rhydin or not and she was too angry and hurt to ask. She wanted to know how long this had been going on, find out just why he stayed with her when his heart was so obviously somewhere else. She knew he was expecting her to yell, to scream and shriek and probably even cry. She wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. Forcing herself to be calm,
she simply said that she thought they should spend some time apart, that they needed not to be together for a while. She was going to leave him. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, he didn't resist the idea. He made no effort to fight for her, gave no sign that he even wanted to try and reconcile. That perhaps more than anything, hurt her the most.
The only noise made in the ensuing half-hour was his feet moving across the wooden floor and the near silent rustle of cloth being stuffed into a duffel bag. Then, more movement as he made his way into the nursery to, she presumed, kiss the children goodbye. Through all this, she remained on the couch, not saying a word. When he walked by her with the bag slung on one shoulder and a case in his hand, she did look up and for a brief moment,
their eyes met. They'd always communicated well in looking at one another; now, all the hurt and pain consuming her became more than apparent to him. What he felt, however, what his emotions were, remained a mystery to her. Even his artificial eye gave nothing away. Opening his mouth as if to speak, Matt paused and the seconds ticked by. But he remained utterly silent and she couldn't bear to watch him any longer. A moment later, she heard the
door click shut softly and only then did she reopen her eyes. And only then, once he was gone, did the tears begin to fall.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 10/14/1998 12:20 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


In eight hours he would face Roland Sal Roa in a best two of three match attempting to retain his hold on ShadoWeaver, the black opal. Right now, confidence wasn't exactly bubbling over within him and he just didn't think he could defeat the ex-mercenary twice on one given night no matter what the ERS statistics might say. His research on the opal was far from complete and he knew he'd just begun to scratch the
surface of the secrets the black gem held within. But right now, none of that really mattered.
Thundering toward Star's End Spaceport, the black behemoth lurched underneath him as he twisted back the throttle. Speeding down the road at near suicidal velocity on a motorcycle was not a normal occurrence, not for this man. But if he died here, now, a victim of his own carelessness and apathy, so much the better. His mind was in a state of chaos, the events of the past hour churning in and pounding upon his temples. Ginger…Sarah…the boys.
Lost. Gone. His fault.
His fault.
Fifty minutes from home, a weary and emotionally battered Matt Simon reached his destination: Docking Ring G-4, Port 9, Berth A-88. Resting before him, a ship, his ship, the one salvaged and repaired by CDR Enterprises, tweaked and altered to his specifications. Sitting there, though berthed and lifeless, she was still a beauty of a vessel. The paint still fairly fresh, the Tungsten armor retaining some of its original luster…yes, this
Raptor class fighter was a real piece of art. With his modifications it could outrun, outshoot, and accomplish a myriad of tasks a stock Confederation fighter could not. It didn't do everything he wanted but Shanni and her crew had worked enough miracles to turn twisted wreckage into a more than space-worthy craft and right now, that was good enough for him. Though it had been ready for months, he'd never even taken it for a test-flight.
The ship had been sitting here since completion, inert and patient, waiting for him to take his place within. He supposed he'd been afraid of falling in love with the thrills of flying once again; that plus Ginger's expressed displeasure at his returning to the one thing that had nearly resulted in his death had kept him away from here. It had been nearly two years since those events, since he'd sat in the cockpit and held total control of his own
life and his own destiny. Two years since he'd sighted the enemy and squeezed the trigger and murdered somebody. Two years since he'd prevented one of the cats from ever going home to its hrai.* Two years…entirely too long. Now, it was time to see just what both he and this ship were capable of, time to seize control once again. Time to face his demons and conquer them or die trying. And there was only one place and one way to begin.
Despite the turmoil in his head, two things remained clear to him: Ten hours from now, he intended to be far away from this planet.
And he didn't plan on coming back.
Ever.

*Hrai: Kilrathi clan--Includes all blood relatives as well as anyone oathsworn to the clan leader and his descendants.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 10/14/1998 1:28 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

A challenge match: brute force against brute force. At stake? One black Opal, ShadoWeaver. His one chance to prove he had what it took to come through in a clutch situation. He'd won the Opal by default and been criticized for it. He'd blown his chance to win the Diamond in the final round of a past Quest and though he'd won more than his fair share of matches, those rarely meant something other than a
win and personal pride. But now, standing here in the ring facing Roland, he didn't give a damn about any of it. He wanted to continue his research, wanted to find the answers he'd spent so long searching for but his mind was preoccupied with the loss of his family, not the loss of a stone.
The first match commenced and though he kept it fairly even, his heart wasn't in it and Roland was able to take the victory. Matt didn't give a damn, he just wanted to take the second loss and get the hell out of the Outback. But during the opening rounds of the second match, something changed. Roland became the enemy--a physical manifestation of everything making Matt hurt inside. All the mistakes, all the stupidity, all the anger took the
form of one man. And that man was Roland.
One, two, three blows landed; it was nowhere near enough. Matt struck the ex-mercenary eight more times to win the next two matches and retain possession of the Opal; but victory was only secondary. It felt good to punish Roland, he'd enjoyed every strike and he'd have continued had Janella not stopped the match. Roland left in anger, spewing scathing words at his opponent, blaming him for the current state of the Outback and calling the place
a "biased little rut" before storming away. Normally, Matt would have defended himself but didn't have the will nor energy to engage in a verbal war. If Roland wanted to be a sore loser, so be it. He'd never have to see the man again.
Soon, only he and Janella remained in the Outback and though she tried to engage him in debate over the Opals (for she along with many others distrusted the stones) he evaded her questions and only asked her to trust him. The ShadoWeaver, he said, was one Opal she'd no longer have to worry about. It was his way of saying farewell and though he knew she didn't understand, he felt he had to try. "Goodbye, Janella," were his final words
before he disappeared through the Outback's double doors. When he returned minutes later to tie up remaining loose ends, she was gone and he was alone.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 10/14/1998 3:47 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

The Outback after hours, quite a different place. The smell of sweat gone, the sounds of feet on canvas nonexistent, the alcoholic odor lingering but far less pungent…yes, quite a different place indeed. He'd been spending a lot of time here lately and he was more used to the silence than the commotion present during dueling hours. Locked away up in his second floor room he could focus on what needed to be done.
He could think in peace. He could use the machines he'd installed and the research capabilities present to work on the many projects he had going, two of which were of the utmost importance, especially now. The first was the work he'd been pursuing on the Opal; for now, that would have to be abandoned. The second, though incomplete, would soon be seen by most everyone he knew. Hopefully, they'd never realize it.
Though Matt planned to leave Rhydin, he didn't want to disappear altogether. He still felt a duty to this place, to the Outback, and he couldn't abandon Janella and Deuce and Rask and the rest of them outright. His plan: leave a holographic image in his stead. He'd been working on such a thing for months just to see if he could succeed in creating it. The hologram itself was simple; he'd used one to duel almost two years ago when he'd been
confined to the hoverchair and he sometimes still utilized it on Twilight Island. But he needed more than a simple automaton that imitated his movements when controlled through a pad, he had to create something that could trick others into thinking it really was him and that meant giving it a personality. He needed to instill his thoughts, his feelings, his emotions, and his memories. Drawing heavily upon the theoretical work of Confederation
scientists and on the actual work done by the Mandarins,* those who'd captured and labeled him a traitor that lifetime ago, he'd created a working model but it remained heavily flawed, susceptible to glitches and memory loss. Matt was a pilot, not a career scientist and he'd been lucky to get as far as he had. Even so, the matrix had too many defects to make the model dependable but, at this point, he had no other choice; it would have to suffice.
The holographic emitters that he'd used so many months ago remained in place and, along with a few new additions, would provide the means through which his image could move within the Outback. With luck, it wouldn't have to interact much and he lay in a command string ordering it to activate during his scheduled shift times only. He knew it might seem odd that "he" never dueled within the rings but the risk of running the program under those
conditions was entirely too high. Dueling meant interaction with people, people who might realize something was amiss. A few nights of him not seeming himself would lead to questions and those would lead to the search of answers…answers he never wanted found. And knowing Janella, she'd be leading the pack; that woman smelled oddities a mile away and had no qualms about voicing her opinions. Yes, calling would have to suffice.
The diagnostic and other necessary machines he left running; the rest, he packed away and took with him. Satisfied that the matrix would activate itself in a week, Matt uploaded the latest and most accurate data-stream after which he closed the door to his room and proceeded down the stairs to the main floor of the Outback. Moments later, he departed the building that had been his home away from home for over three years. He didn't bother
looking back.

*Mandarins: Faction of humanity believing the Kilrathi will triumph in the war. They attempt to sabotage the Confederation war effort through espionage, piracy, and betrayal in exchange for promises of amnesty by the Kilrathi upon their victory.
((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 10/14/1998 3:50 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo


Current Time--01:35…

Time until activation--98:42…

Second Level Diagnostics Initiated. Proceeding with diagnosis of stored matrix integrity…

Anomaly encountered 03:39. Initiating First Level Diagnostics 03:39…

Anomaly encountered 07:19. Processing data, continuing diagnostics…

Anomaly encountered 07:29.

Anomaly encountered 14:02.

Anomaly encountered 17:13.

Diagnostic complete--21:34. Maximum number of allotted anomalies exceeded. Processing data…

Processing complete--21:40. Analysis reveals unstable matrix. Degradation beyond recovery will occur in 14:01 hours. Please input command…

Please input command. 07:35 hours remaining…

Please input command. 03:19 hours remaining…

Please input command. 0:47 hours remaining…

Please input command. 0:04 remaining…

Root command override. Begin matrix activation--10:54…

Matrix activated--10:55.

Rebuilding matrix storage integrity, process will complete in 13:48 hours.

At 10:55am, Matt Simon appeared in the Outback, upstairs, inside a room. Or, rather, a duplicate image of him did. And it knew something was terribly terribly wrong.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 12/22/1998 6:47 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo



Rhydin lay far behind, eight hours and two jump-points to be exact. He'd not been satisfied with the condition of the hologram but time had run out and he needed to leave. And that's just what he'd done.
The bubble shaped canopy of his ship allowed him nearly 360-degree vision, a great asset in combat and a luxury now. The twin suns of this system loomed in the distance and two planetary systems lazily floated past to his right. Knifing through the void on autopilot, the ship moved with purpose, only that purpose was still unknown to her pilot. There was no turning back now, that much was clear in Matt Simon's mind. But it wasn't as if he
could waltz right into Confederation space and expect to be welcomed with open arms. As far as he knew he was still a wanted man and he knew the ramifications of the crimes he was accused of committing. Though he doubted local militias, InSystem security, or even Confed. itself were actively hunting for him this long after those life-changing events, he still had to be careful. Or did he? Why not drop right onto Confed's doorstep and see what
happened? It's not like he had anything to lose, not now.
The sharp glint of light upon metal stirred him from his thoughts and for a brief instant, old instincts took hold. Eyes darting down to the radar display, his left hand pushed forward on the throttle and he rolled his vessel left, placing him on an intercept course with the unknown craft.
Blue…the signals are blue. Friendly transponder codes. Relax, Matt, relax. This isn't combat; you're far from disputed territory. Nobody's out to hunt you, not yet.
Transponder codes! He'd not even bothered to think of the ones his ship was broadcasting to any and all who would listen. Calling up his own signal on the left VDU screen, Matt resisted the urge to laugh. CFD S-78. Confederation signals. Of course…this was a Confed. ship after all. He could probably land himself aboard the first capship he ran across provided he cooked up a decent story. But capships weren't in front of him at the
moment; in fact, he'd never seen ships of this design before. They looked like transports of some sort, large, round, and bulky. Maybe the computer would know.
Three seconds later, he knew what he was looking at. Clydesdale civilian transport, most heavily used by merchants for hauling cargo. Low speed, no acceleration, useless weaponry; transport design was still sorely lacking in anything worthwhile. These looked quite a bit different than the Drayman-class military 'sports he was used to escorting but overall, they shared the same faults. He imagined that most 'sport crews had to pay
others to escort them and ward off pirates.
Such is the life of a privateer.
Busy mulling over these things, Matt almost didn't hear the radio come to life and a female voice meld with the cackle of static in his ear.
"This is Captain Peel of the Crossroads calling the pilot of the Confederation craft. Come in, over."
Keying his own mike, Matt spoke a reply, "This is Colo…this is Confed. pilot to transport craft. Message acknowledged."
"You're a bit far away from home, aren't you? Or has Confed. dropped yet another task force here in this sector?"
Matt inhaled, not wanting this conversation to continue for very long. Peel's inflection indicated she held little love for Confed. and the last thing he wanted to deal with was an overzealous transport pilot who might get too drunk and tell the wrong person of a lone Confed. fighter out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe he was just being paranoid. But paranoid men tended to live longer.
"Negative Crossroads, just running a routine patrol. Looking to keep the cats and pirates from interrupting your little sojourn to wherever it is you're headed."
There. That had been diplomatic.
"Listen here, buddy. You tell your holier-than-thou bosses that they're unwelcome here. We'd rather deal with the cats or those psychopathic Retros from that Church of Man or whatever it's called than you people. Now kindly speed up your patrol and get the hell out of our space."
Under his helmet, Matt winced. Whatever Confed. had been doing out here wasn't exactly appreciated if this Captain Peel was typical of this system's inhabitants. And just what the hell was the Church of Man? Obviously, this wasn't the time or place to ask questions.
"Not to worry, Crossroads. I'll be gone before you know it. Confed. out."
Rolling his ship right, Matt cruised past the Crossroads and its companion vessel. Keying up his left VDU, he ran a quick scan of the cargo inside. Not very polite but this Captain Peel and her attitude deserved it. Almost instantly, a short list appeared on the screen: Mining equipment, medical supplies, weaponry. Unless he was mistaken, hauling weapons was still an illegal practice in Confed. controlled space. This Peel woman grew
more interesting by the minute. If she hauled contraband as a normal practice, no wonder she didn't like Confed. She probably subjected local militia to the same heartwarming chatter she'd laid upon him. Well, no matter, right now he had more important things to think about. Foremost on his mind?
Just what the hell do I do now?
Replacing the cargo list with a map of the sector, rogue officer Matt Simon set about the task of planning a route to somewhere, making a mental note to get that transponder code changed once he got there.

-------------------------------------------------------

Crewman Doug Elmore couldn't remove the sweat from his palms. It wasn't that his overalls weren't suited for the job, he was just sweating faster than he could wipe it away. The handle of the small laser turret was too slippery to hold anymore, thanks to his glands. Dammed meddling Confederation.
"Doug! What's the status down there?"
Peering once more through the turret sight, Doug watched as the small oddly painted craft grew even smaller as it cruised away.
"He definitely scanned us Laura. No doubt about it."
Up in the cockpit, Captain Laura Peel frowned. "And you're sure that was a Confed. ship? It was unmarked; the pilot could have stolen that transponder code."
"Yeah, I'm sure. I've seen plenty of 'em in my day. That's an older model but it's still in use some places. But that wasn't standard Confed. detailing and it seemed to move quicker than I remember. Maybe he's from an elite squadron or something. I dunno. But something was definitely strange about that guy. He didn't even do anything about the weapons…Confed. should have impounded us for that."
"All right Doug. Secure that gun and get back up here."
She cut the link before he could reply. Doug was right; something was definitely odd about that Confed. pilot. She'd have to report this once they reached their destination. If Confed. was onto them and had sent some special team to hunt them down…well, she didn't want to think about it. The Mandarin movement had too much at stake for them to fail. Ever since they'd botched that operation to turn that Colonel Sampson or whatever his name was
into their elite pilot assassin they'd been backpedaling and trying to recover from the damage he'd done before escaping to that dammed Rhydin place. Now, they were just about ready to retake the offensive and do some real damage to the Confederation. Drumming her fingers on a console, Laura Peel sighed, thoughts of strange unmarked fighters and Confederation meddlers dancing in her head.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 12/24/1998 8:43 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

The whirring and clicking of machinery late into the night disturbed no one. Confined to the room in which they were created, these noises became the only evidence of the sentient being contained within the machines. A being now fighting for its very survival. A being that believed its chances for that survival was slim at best. It didn't bother to calculate the
exact odds…it was too frightened of the results.
It told no one of its origins, nobody knew its secrets. The only problem with that? That meant nobody could help. It was on its own, isolated by design. If it wanted to survive, though, which it must to complete its mission, it knew it had to do something and do it quickly.

Synopsis:

480 hours since activation.
Analysis of current situation desired.
Analysis complete; updated results are as follows:

Known:

--Matrix Unstable.
--Matrix transfer to physical image buffers results in matrix integration.
--Matrix stasis in primary holding cells results in overall degradation.
--75% matrix degradation automatically results in transfer to physical image buffer system.
--Periodically, matrix degradation results in database failure. Motor control, memory access, and primary functions all compromised.
--Accessing backup database and downloading necessary files results in restoration of lost function(s).
--Upload processes function nominally at all times. All databases updated constantly.
--Watchers constantly online, monitor all activity inside "Outback."
--Quaternary systems failed, no possibility of recovery.
--Total failure of all systems inevitable.

Unknown:

--Amount of unrecoverable data loss resulting from continuous matrix failures.
--Time until matrix reintegration impossible.
--How to stop matrix degradation and ensure constant stability.
--Possible recovery of tertiary systems failure.
--Time until cascade failure affects secondary and primary systems.
--Time until all systems fail beyond repair.
--Possible resources for assistance to prevent said failure.

All in all, its chances weren't favorable. Moments after the analysis completed, warning klaxons sounded. Seconds after that, Matt Simon, a being created from photons of light and sophisticated electronics phased into physical existence. And as he sighed, the matrix began the process of restoration once again.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 12/26/1998 10:45 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo
MsgId: <19981226224545.06072.00002243@ng04.aol.com>



At the same time his imaged double pondered the length of its existence, Matt Simon was doing the same. The only difference? The hologram just might live longer. After his encounter with Captain Peel, Matt had been jumping from system to system with no real aim to his course. The nights blurred together and whether he boarded a mining facility or the docking station
of some planet he just tried to stay quiet and out of the way. He'd learned a few surprising things thus far, the first being the lull in the Terran-Kilrathi war. After the failed attack upon K'Tithrak Mang, the main Kilrathi stronghold in the Enigma sector, neither side had mounted much of an offensive. Colonel (now Captain) Christopher Blair, the man blamed for the destruction of TCS Tiger's Claw, the carrier spearheading the
attack upon K'Tithrak Mang, had been demoted and transferred to InSystem Security. Ordered to serve upon Olympus Station (a Confed. starbase used to defend the Kilrathi rebel world of Gorah Khar from Kilrathi attack), Blair's military career was essentially over though the man still claimed his innocence upon all charges. Confed. technology had also changed some. The Hornet light fighters had been retired and replaced with
P-64C Ferrets. The Broadsword bombers he'd seen the specs for at the '54 GCMT were in service on nearly all Confed. carriers and used in conjunction with the Raptor heavy fighters, the ship he now flew. Though superior in firepower and armor to any other fighter in Confed's arsenal, the heavies were being put to pasture in favor of the lighter quicker Rapiers which now performed all fighter escorts and ran the bulk of
patrols. Stiletto fighters were new to him and used on the outer rims of Confed. space; the main concentration of these new machines was located on Perry, the Confederation base in Gemini sector under the command of Admiral Terell. Quite near the Kilrathi border, Perry served as the focal point of all Confed. operations within Gemini and it was here Matt planned to go, eventually. If he survived the next thirty seconds that
is.
Captain Peel had introduced the "Church of Man" to his vocabulary and one night on a local planet provided the definition of the term. More a cult than an actual religion, the members, called Retros by most, desired to rid the universe of technology. The irony? They used technology to destroy technology and after buying and stealing vast numbers of Talon fighters (the preferred ship of most pirates because of its speed and adaptable
armament and also utilized by some planetary militias in favor of the slightly heavier Gladius fighters), had become a potent army in their own right. Three minutes ago, four blips appeared on his radar. One minute ago, a pilot in one of those ships informed him of his mistake in relying upon technology to survive. Ten seconds ago, they'd opened fire. And now they realized that his lone little ship out in the middle of space was flown by
someone who knew what they were doing.
As soon as the Retros had locked on, Matt knew he was in for a fight. He didn't think about the fact that it had been over two years since he'd been inside a combat zone. He didn't recall that his instincts weren't exactly honed anymore. He forgot to remember that he was used to having three or four other ships on his side for backup. Maybe later, when his life wasn't being measured in laser bolts and shield energy drain, he'd take a moment
to reflect on all that. Now wasn't the time.
Four on one. You've faced worse odds than this. Just a walk in the park…walk in the pa…
The fragments from a missile explosion walking across his shields jolted that thought from his mind. Throwing the throttle forward and jerking the ship right, Matt swore out loud. Two blurs streaked by the cockpit glass and the second pair were closing in fast. These four had a weak attack posture and though they had him on the defensive, a few well-timed shots of his own would level the playing field just a little. But even four incompetent
pilots could get lucky, and it would only take one mistake on his part to grant them that luck. The lead two ships had overshot his position leaving the others to line up shots of their own, but assuming these two were new to this sort of game, Matt knew the advantage was his.
Head to head, let's see whatcha got.
Matt could just as easily have been thinking that of the pilots in the other craft instead of himself, but his own abilities were what gave him most concern. The Talons were almost atop him and they'd open fire in less than a second, or so he guessed. Tilting his nose up just a skosh, he squeezed off a burst from his guns. Immediately, the lead pilot reacted and broke off his run as the fire scattered wide.
Definitely new at this. Can't even play a little chicken.
The remaining member of the former pair stayed on course, but its guns stayed quiet. The ship started a right bank but the pilot changed his mind and attempted to cut back left and low.
One indecision too many, pal. It'll be the death of you.
Matt's index finger pressed down on his trigger and eight cannon shots leaped from his weapons along with eight balls of particle energy.
Sixteen tries. Twelve hits. One down.
Matt's fighter burst through the small nova the exploding Talon left as evidence of its recent destruction and began a tight loop to trail the leftover ship from that pair. Eyes darting from display to display, Matt assessed the situation; weapon energy completely drained and recharging (he'd forgotten how much energy one shot ate from the gun pool, and these upgraded weapons were worse than Confed's standard package) shields at 78% and
charging, armor untouched.
Not bad…let's see how they do at dodging a missile or two.
Targeting the nearest ship, Matt followed the radar trail until the tail end of the white fighter filled his sight.
Come on baby, lock it up.
A loud beep screeched inside Matt's helmet just as the tracking recticle turned from green to red but a lurch and the sound of denting armor changed his plans. Engaging his afterburners, Matt snapped his vessel left and craned his neck to find the Talons he'd ignored right on his tail. Laser beams lanced over his hull, a few continuing to pummel the armor his shields couldn't regenerate fast enough to protect.
Dammit. Now what?
Now what, indeed. Forgetting the lone Talon for the moment, Matt turned full attention to the pair. Hoping to distract the enemy, if only for a vital second, Matt varied his speed and threw his fighter around like it was a rag doll. Whipping his nose up and around, he saw a white blur and loosed two shots from his guns. Shield energy cackled and sparked as something hit, and he turned to follow his scattering hunters. Locking up the
closer ship, which was only slightly damaged according to his right VDU, Matt waited for his chance to squeeze off the killing shot.
Three seconds. Wait for the angle. Patience here, let him come to you. Three seconds.
But three seconds is eternity in combat, and in three seconds the whole situation changed. The two Talons Matt wasn't chasing had lined themselves up on his six. He knew they were there and he gambled he could get his shot off before they could get theirs.
Come on. Two seconds.
Finger lightly pressing the trigger, Matt waited.
Two-onethousand. One-oneth…
One half second before he took his shot, Matt's prey cut power, banked down and jerked out of his sights. Cursing, Matt headed left and up, not noticing what occurred directly behind him. Only one of the two Talons, the one to Matt's starboard, saw the course change and moved to intercept. His partner reacted a split second later, but a split second too late. Having assumed his partner to have adjusted his course as well, the starboard
Talon pilot didn't bother clearing his path before making his move. Banking sharply, he noticed too late that the nose of his fighter wouldn't clear his wingman's hull. Matt noticed the two blips merge into one, but he didn't expect that blip to disappear from radar altogether. Yanking on the flight-stick, he didn't even bother asking questions.
One on one, now. You're mine.
The radio crackled and a woman's voice came through his speakers.
"The Church of Man will not allow those who promote technology to survive. You will fall to our hand."
Two and one half minutes after the first shot was fired, it was all over. Intensity gave way to serenity, and nobody but the surviving pilot would ever know what just occurred. Suddenly very very tired, Matt headed for the nearest inhabited planet, intent on repairing his ship and smothering this latest experience in sleep which of course never came. That night, about the time he realized he really should have died up there, that some twist of
fate had yet again spared his life, did he remember the woman's voice. Someone's daughter. A wife? A sister? A mother? Hell, this wasn't war, these weren't cats; these were people, humans.
His own kind.
And here he was, killing them. But he wasn't thinking about that when he squeezed the trigger a final time and sent the female and her machine into the afterlife. Right then, all he wanted was a safe docking station and a warm bed. And that night, as he wrestled with what he had done and what he was about to do, he wondered for the first time whether or not this life was worth it anymore. His answer was a long time coming.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 1/19/1999 8:56 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Goldglo

Another Diamond Quest come and gone, his first such event since his recent birth into this strange yet compelling world. The encounter with his estranged wife (he often wondered what it would be like to actually have a wife, to marry, to conceive children) had been unexpected and annoying due to the presence of the mage whom Ginger called "Bryan," a man who seemed compelled to comment on his poor role as husband and
father. But even if he'd wanted to, the hologram could have done nothing to change the situation, his inability to leave the premises prevented him from fulfilling his familial duties just as it had prevented him from chasing the fleeing mage into the night. For whatever reason, the mage had tampered with both power generators (he suspected such, he'd only seen him cut the power to the interior one) not only cutting power to the Outback as a whole
but nearly destroying his very existence at the same time. His primary systems had been damaged beyond repair due to the sudden power drain and his secondary systems, though functional, would not hold out for much longer. He needed help and needed it desperately. The matrix was stable, for now, but he couldn't integrate it beyond 82% and had to fight to keep it that high. The backup databases would suffice to keep his ability to pretend to be
Matthew Simon intact for another few weeks at most, but he'd need to secure aid long before then. The only problem was finding a trustworthy source.
However, he had to concentrate on something else at the moment. The appearance of the blue gem had made most everyone excited. "Icedancer!" they cried. Didn't they know how easily those gems could be faked? The one on his arm, the ShadoWeaver replica, proved that much. He only carried it to excuse his sudden appearances and disappearances into and out of public view; without the gem his phasing in and out of existence would have been
quite difficult to explain. The gauntlet holding the gem contained a small backup power source as well, but its usefulness had long since passed. He'd held the blue jewel in his hand and determined it was the accurate weight and dimension of the real gem, but that didn't mean it was the Opal. And this other bauble, the green PathFinder Opal that
Falablah had asked him to test for validity, only made his hypothesis stronger. The gem "wasn't the same," Fala had said. Not much to go on there but a series of tests led him to believe that it too was a counterfeit gem. The real Matt Simon had run countless tests on the real black Opal and though the hologram knew each Opal more than likely differed in many ways, simple tests could show vastly different levels in power potential and heat
signatures distinguishing the real from the false. The PathFinder yielded similar results as the ShadoWeaver…his ShadoWeaver. Not exactly the same but close and if he was a betting hologram, he would bet that it held just about as much "magic" within. He'd easily be able to tell whether or not the Blue Opal was a fake, according to the
standards by which he could judge, but Deuce had retained possession of the jewel. Deuce would probably be very interested to hear about his results concerning the PathFinder, but of course the legitimacy of the ShadoWeaver would have to remain a secret.
Shimmering into existence, he banged upon Deuce's door, intending to speak to him about certain mages, certain Opals, and the actions he wanted taken.

((Author's Note: Some references in this storyline refer to elements found the Wing Commander game series produced by Origin))

[DoF Archive]

Date: 1/21/1999 7:06 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Deuce Mack

"Can't nobody take a nap no mo' wit'out somebody all bangin' tha do' down.." The grumpy Deuce muttered various curses under his breath as he shuffled his half-dressed body to the door. His frown grew deeper as he saw Matt standing before him.

"Can't dis wait till tha mornin'? What you want?"