Making Waves

Terrance ran between terminals with the awkward gait that came from his magnetic boots. He tried to route power to weapons as the requests came in without sacrificing critical functions: life support, navigation, shields, maneuvering, cryonics. But without weapons, they wouldn’t be able to stop their pursuers. Hell, everything was critical.

He felt an unnatural pulse shimmer through the fiber of his being, like his body temporarily harmonized with itself. It was an unnerving and extremely specific feeling. A spacetime ripple. He’d felt it once before. The Bloodhound was taking hits from a gravity cannon. The shields could only guard against kinetic and energy weapons—against anything of the gravitic variety they were marginally less effective than tissue paper. If they pinpointed the Bloodhound‘s resonant frequency the ship would shake itself to pieces. It was only a matter of time.

Terrance acted without thinking. Without concern for himself. He felt outside of himself—transcendant. He ordered everyone else out of the compartment, and as he charged after them, making sure he was the last one remaining, he shut the hatch, locking himself in. At the closest terminal, he pulled up the compartment’s gravitic grid and an onboard random generator. He was going to make them play in the same sandbox.

Artificial gravity had been shut off throughout the entire ship to conserve power. He would reactivate it locally, only here in the maintenance compartment. He tugged his legs from the floor and set them back down, double checking that his boots were working properly. This would be a hell of a ride.

He finished connecting the random generator to the grid. Here’s to hoping. Activate.

His body was pulled aftward, and then fell toward port. His blood rushed in and out and into his head again. On all three axes, and in both directions, the variable gravity generators switched on and off for random short intervals, pulling against each other unpredictably and at odd angles. Everything that wasn’t bolted down went screaming through the air on confused vectors. The terminal beside him was smashed and wrenched free by a tool cart that shed its velcroed-down payload like a frag grenade. Terrance ran to another panel, sometimes upside down, sometimes scaling a vertical wall. The instabilities should be enough to protect the Bloodhound from having a constant resonance. Should be.

Terrance did his best to cover his head from debris that seemed increasingly hostile. He’d done everything he could to give them a chance of surviving, but someone on the bridge would have to finish the job. And preferably soon. A work light caught him in the temple and he was knocked from consciousness.

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