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Neepbles 11 (was 9)

Significant rewrite, more world notes. This is from a week’s offline work…

Neepbles Rust Where they Roost

“You found a WHAT???” My voice raised a dozen decibels and an octave. I hate it when I do that – but right then, I couldn’t care. The hobgob of space was on my ship. My ship. My first and only, fragile and ancient ship.

Now, Jem had a generally houndog regardless of mood, pouchy eyes peering over pouchy cheeks. Right then, the eyes were hooded and more miserable than her face. “Neepbles, sir. Two nests, so far. One was in the outer pipes, sir.”

I could feel the heat rising up my neck and throttled it back, resolving to remain in control. As long as I could.


“Broke, remember?”

Heartfelt: “Shek.” “Been outside?”

“Yup. Two tubes. Mik’s turn.”

More than just Mik’s. He might be our designated guy for hard physical tasks but this was all of us, and life or death. I walked down the passage to the com, keyed it to shipfreq, calling all coms and speakers aboard, and spoke. “ALCON, ALCON. All hands, report to galley. All hands, to galley for briefing.” I was proud of my voice. Changed the freq, for the hard one. “An, flash burst all jets, get ‘em hot, then come down.” There went the profit margin for this run. Do what you have to, get through the trouble, and only then get back up to thinking long term. Gra always said that, and he’d run enough tramps to know. Sometimes the trick is getting through in the first place. I prayed it wasn’t that bad. I’d sure heard stories, ships floating derelict with only neepbles alive – still munching. Ghod. Neepbles! If I ever got back to that last station, why, I’d take every mother’s son of them and … right. Let’s focus on surviving, activating the Protocols, getting anywhere we can.

Neepbles. Ghod. Shek.

We gathered, ducking under bulkheads, in the one room big enough to hold all five of us. It served as mess and meeting hall. Sometimes, like now, it served as briefing room and Emergency Operations Center. Despite the engine burn, An wasn’t the last in. That was Fer, with the cyclers. He’d come up from the bowels of the ship, as it were. Jem was our maint/eng, An our pilot, Mik our systems guy, and me – well, I’d seldom seen the luck in my name. “Bel” what, I ask you. It was my ship, though, mine and the combine’s. I was the captain of the Grey Lady, a ship of the proud Spacestream docks. An old ship of the proud Spacestream docks. Gently referred to as a classic. There were worse names for a vessel so old that she needed every part fabricated or salvaged from less fortunate sisters. I’d inherited Jem when I bought the Lady, and mostly suspected her mopey face came from this fact. She really seemed to love the old Lady, but the relationship was, well, difficult.

Fer came in quiet – he walked light through the beds that grew our needs, moved slow and sure, a peaceful man. “Hey. Heard the jets. What did, Cap?”

“Well, all, we got a challenge here.” I looked around the room. Humor was the best thing for morale, maybe. Wry was probably the best I could come up with. “We all get the pleasure of fastly sealbagging all our stuff – personal and ship, don’t miss it and don’t half-do it or you’ll less than half keep it! Then we suit up, and go over the entire hull for an entire tank of air while we spray the ship and vent it. Jem found some signs of neepble, and we’ll follow the Protocol.” Right. That, and not panic until we know how bad it is. No panicking here, nope. Except behind my eyes. All our eyes, now.

“We need speed. Sealbag and call clear your stations – and right fastly! Drill stations, suit, flamer, get out, stay on comms, do it storm check. – and An – first eye on bridge remotes.” All but the evac was per meteor storm drill, and then the evac was per leak drill. The folks who wrote the Protocols weren’t fools, knew that easier and familiar is safer.

“Done, Cap.” An was a little white. An was new to soft-side operations. Neepbles, stuff like this didn’t happen on the hard commerce side. Different ships, different stations – or at least different docks. Different choices can be made on the hard side. One mistake, and now she was shabby soft with the rest of us. She’d been with us three cruises now; picked her up at Pellon where she was still drinking off being beached. I’m no fool. I take quality where and when I can. Better than me still running nav with the comp pilot, better by a long long miss. Woolgathering, Bel (what was wool?) Not now, back to it. They’re waiting.

“Tak. Kill ‘em all – and shoot deep. Better fry little than lose big. Don’t come in till one chron past venting. Go now, go well.” Good speech, Cap. Little rough, but good. Gra’d be proud.

Climbing all over the hull – we had all the push we needed to look sharp and careful – no percentage in hurry if we miss one damn neepble. Check screen and flame anyway any hole we want, feel for soft, listen for sound, check so careful the nerves scream. It gets to be a rhythm, and stories start through your head. The gasses would be penetrating through all, air and vacuum, Spacestream had designed it. One thing I’d been sure to check before we left the first trip. Gra’s voice: “Farin’s no different, Bel. Sea, sub, atmo, space – it’s all Farin’. Farers are all the same, through time. Same problems come back, cycling like the great currents. Keep the old traditions, remember the old foes. Do like my own Gra said. “You’ll know what to do, if you just remember.” Shipworms. Shipworms sank those old wood ships. Bugs sank the puters. Nothing new. Just that it’s me. “Bel,” he’d say “Bel – check it all. Check all systems, check it all. You check. It’s your ship. You don’t dock if your neck crawls, you don’t deal if your neck crawls, you don’t walk you run when your neck crawls. You touch with your own hand, assess with your own scan. You gotta know.”

I got fastly. I wanted to be gone. I ran when I shoulda checked. That station – we had the load, we had all but the last pay. We needed it, needed a solid rep. Soft side, you can get solid even if you can’t get all the way to hard. If you’re all soft, you’re done. Garbage barge if you’re lucky. Why’d I get fastly to take the deal? Did it really feel right? Who knew. Another port to flame. Keep your cognition here, Bel. Save the ship. Later is later.

I started thinking to how the others were doing, and checked in. An was doing double duty with the comm, but Jem had the hardest watch on the hull. She had all the linkages, everything that even touched that shekin station, everything outside that connected to it. Two days out from there, how far could those neepbles get? I called Jem, glad the crew was small enough for individual freqs. “What’s word, Jem?” I asked, no preamble.

“Roasted the openings in my area. Looking for soft spots, now.” Jem didn’t sound too untethered. That was probably a good sign.

“Me too, Jem. Ok. I make ten chrons to venting. See your neighbors?”

“Just Mik, on the tubes. Glad he’s young and agile.”

“Yup. Ok, calling next.”

“Fer, status?”

“Sofarsogood, Cap.”

“Anything to report?”


I chuckled, let him hear. He likes his style. “K, Fer. Calling next.”

I switched to call An: “An, Bel here. Howsit?”

“Comm quiet, bridge behaving – burn Protocol is 25 centis so – turning off to float in six, Sir, or shall I resume course?”

I thought fastly. Going back to that shekin station – no hunger. What else was close? “An, how’s the chart in your head? Where’s close?”

“Thinking bout that. Farpoint is one solid burn, 7 cenchrons. Gil there is old, but so’s Lady here. Might be a good choice. Else, there’s TwoMacs 5 cenchrons, one course correction. Don’t know them personally. Ask Jem?”

“K. Thank you, An. Not easy, I know. How’s the flaming?”

“Got one that buzzed. Dumped half my load down it, I swear. Shoved the nozzle in and let go. So much spike in me, Cap! Want ‘em dead!” An was still spiked, I heard clear.

“Steady, pilot. Check your levels. Rather hose a hole than short it and cover more hull. Just tell us where you don’t get, crew’s crew.”

“K, Cap. ….Hate ‘em, Sir.”

“All us do. Steady, get ‘em.”

“Yessir, Cap.”

“Goodun. Clear.” You had to remember An was Book. Hardside plus – An lived by the Book. Steadied her down.

“Clear, sir.”

I cut the com, and thought fiercely. Correction risks engines neepbles might have damaged, ending our voyage right there. So does every chron, let alone cenchron, we transit if one neepble is still chewing somewhere. Not going to remind An. Call Mik while I weigh options.

“Mik, how’s tubes?”

“Shek, Bel, don’t shock a man! …um, sorry, Cap. Reporting. Not much to see. I shot all the ports here, but no signs. …Sir? Can neepbles eat through suits?”

“Mik – your suit turned metal? Come, man. You are safe. Stand up under it!”

Sheepish: “K, k, Cap. Just had to ask.”

“Spikes all us, Mik. Stand up.”

“Stand up and flame down, right Bel?”

“Yup. Stand up and flame down. K, calling on.”

“Thanks, Cap.”

Well. Checks done, back to where next. Jem’s memory is fierce, no need to hash details. Just pose the question.


“Ya, Cap.”

“An says choices are Farpoint, TwoMacs – advice?”

“Um.” I waited. Her data was crunching. “Tak. Go Farpoint. One burn, no turn… and Gil’s been teachin’ young Den. Might bank points for later.”

“Oh! Yes, GOOD call, Jem! Thanks, Tubes! Clear.”  Tubes is the honorific for the engineer, like Chips and Nav and Greens … and Cap.


“Go, Cap.”

“Farpoint. Tell Gil we’re comin’, with what, done what, and that we got time for Den to learn.” We do. Not liftin’ til we’re sure no neepbles – nor nests – remain. Might have to work the station for credit, a twitchy thought, but we have to know it’s done. Know. Got to know. Got to test it all myself before we’re done, my hands, my eyes, my ears, my brain. Got to do it right, best to hear Gra in my head and not His, when suddenly I’m gone cause I missed one shekin’ neepble.

“CCC, Cap.” Book, that one. Solid. An just told me “Copy, Comply, Clear” like hardside spacefarers, crisp to their Captains. I could get used to this.

The chron-o in my helmet beeped. Now was the next moment of truth. Since the bad chem attacks in the last, oh, twenty miniwars or so, everything that flies (and some things that don’t) can vent their entire atmo directly from every compartment, vacuum the inside and then re-air. The hard play with that is everything else that gets vented when you do a crash vent. We took a little more time than that, anyway – the sealbags keep things secure when the compartment vents, so you don’t lose all the random stuff that makes shipboard life possible. Still – we done it fastly, and there’s never enough time for drills. Now was time to see if we done it rightly.

That, and course it’s a sure peeteesdee checker for a ship’s crew – most every farer with a rating has served in some military or another, there’s no green way to get the mission hours on the civilian side. Thing is, venting a ship like that looks just like ventilating a ship the hard way. Shift to outship freq, hope I get this right in case anyone hears, but no-one vents like this without making an announcement… back to our military backgrounds. “ALCON, ALCON, Outship freq: Grey Lady venting to space by Standard Neepble Protocols.” Ship freq next: “ALCON, ALCON, ship freq: Attention All: Hang on, all – guts and grab-ons. Vent coming, deliberate vent all compartments for pest control” (pest! Such a small word for such a big threat!) “Vent for 10 centis, re-air for 2, re-enter no sooner than 12 centis PLUS the all clear. Copy?” Pause for five voices. “All acknowledged. Vent coming up in 5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – now.”

The ship shook, but not steady. Each vent was just a bit off from the others, so she shivered a bit each direction as the jets of semi-visible atmo cleared. (Don’t think the cost, Bel. Fer’s solid. He always scrubbed and saved what he could – bet he did another before he came up. See? Not so bad. Cost? Plenty of time to reclaim it. Not too bad, Captain. Trip’s a loss, but rep’s solider. We got time, we got good crew, we got space. Not so bad. Slow your breathing, Bel. Settle yourself. You did what you had to. Think it through. Remember Fer’s first idea aboard? The scrubbers by our bunks, grabbing the CO2? He sure talked fast to get that one okd, but now? He’s sold that idea over poker the last two years, and socked it into more cycler tech. Well, when we didn’t need other parts worse. He’s a smart man, our Fer. We’ll come out good.

I settled, partly as I saw no debris shooting out – maybe for a wonder, nothing essential was left loose? Here’s hoping…

Now, time to shake ourselves and spend our flame before going back in. “ALCON, ALCON, ship freq: all secure? Anyone got flame left, any need it?”

The resulting chatter showed that a) everyone was nervous, b) everyone was safe and c) only Fer still had flame. He headed up to An’s post to make sure of a thing or two – mostly An. That buzzing she heard really got to her.

Tanks empty; nearly true for both sets, air and flame! We’d been out for a long time, checking, testing, flaming, praying. Well, maybe someone was praying. Anyway, it was past time to get back in. My chron-o should beep soon. I got on again, reviewed entry order and procedure, reminded them that only Fer gave the order for hats off. Part of Fer’s job as Cycler was to re-air and test before clearing us. The Cycler is responsible for all the ship’s enviro systems. “And no-one bumps his elbow but me. You got any question or need for him, it’s me you call!”

We took our turns at the lock, easy enough when we came from different hull areas. Sure, Spacestream builds more than one hatch – they all do. But don’t you know the Protocol?? It’s unarguable, you just don’t ever use them til you need them. Use brings wearantear, and it’s too easy to put off costly repairs. That’s deadly dangerous. You don’t use them, don’t touch them, don’t mess with them, don’t risk it. Ever. Protocol says open them on inspection day, condition every surface and connection with the best stuff you can, and secure them again as gentle as a temple door. Safe.

Subdued, still, and suited, still, we checked our doss and duty stations, putting them to rights again after the vent. Cept An. She float-bounced straight to the helm and went over all the screens, backtracking all their readings for the time we were out ‘til she was sure we were ok. I learned later that Jem, wise like she is, did only a quick check in her station (too thorough to leave stuff to float and need cleaning) and went up, too – giving An a chance to settle in with the data, hard at work and looking solid before an older hand showed up, and probably used some encouraging, some advice, some praise to get An truly settled back down after the neepble thing blew her wide. Jem just said all was well. Dunno how Jem manages mopy and steadying together – or maybe just having An around brightened her? Been the only woman aboard too long, maybe. Not mine to ask. I think… Shek, and who would I even ask??

I was relieved to be interrupted on that, in pure fact. Fer’s voice came on the shipfreq, naming the first sections cleared for us to unseal our helmets and gloves. No point unsuiting, with the rest of the ship still progressing. Cyclers (for the plants) and bridge (for the datasheets) were first, as norm. Doss, our quarters, could wait til last. As soon as we could, we’d rotate off duty and eat. Food would be right welcome about now, but none would sleep anytime soon.

Mik cleared his station and went to help Fer unseal the ponics and do the heavy lifting of the compressed gases containment units as they kept re-airing and prepped for reclaiming and rebuilding our reserves.

Me, well, I went down to engines and lifted Jem’s scope; that’s how I knew to ask later where she’d got to. I prowled the ship til chow, listening, looking and poking it into anything I knew to check – and anything I could slide its sensor into.

Chow on the lady was a true spacefarers’ mess – we all took turns and I didn’t stand on ceremony as Captain. If you go faring, you go with the hands you put your life in. Best be putting food in each other’s hands, cement the bonds of crew. Today, before all that broke loose, An would’ve been up for dinner. I thought I’d take it instead, but Mik insisted. I let him, and kept prowling. Mik needed something to do as bad as An and I – as bad as Fer and Jem, checking and babying their stressed systems.

I don’t remember what chow was, now I think back. It was hot and hearty, what you want after serious time outside, and aside from that I remember only Jem reclaiming the scope and sending me to bed.

Meantime, we’d set-rig the Lady for sail to stretch our fuel.  We were in some sun, and a straight cruise; it was worth a try to trail out her gossamers and catch some ghosting power. No course corrections to burn them, few bits of space junk on the screens to hole them. Sails are mostly for powering dying systems after a crash, really. They don’t gather as much power as a modern engine generates and they are tricky to handle. Jem would have to help An align them and watch over them. That said, each bit of fuel we could save on a profit-negative trip would be a help, and the extra practice – and work – would do us all good.

While I slept they were strung and flung, popping out of their little hatches on the hull like beetle wings to glisten between the stars. Sailships have their own aurora, a beauty that almost takes you out of time and shrouds you in mystery. I woke to their glistening, their soft flexing around us. In a fey mood, I sent old classic music through the ship. Williams was music fit for a solar sail and we, the farers that flew it.

The Grey Lady settled into a routine unease. It was almost like a normal run, the things that always need doing either because they’re daily annoyances or routinely repeating application of elbow grease. That’s a ship’s life. Underneath it, though, were the frayed, fragile edges of calm and routine. We wandered the ship, listening and looking, in off hours. We froze at a change in noise, whether engine or not, imagined or not. We checked, rechecked, lubricated, polished, loosened, tightened – a thousand fussy jobs we never took time for were done, just to have something constructive to do. At first, Jem just shook her head, lips tight. She got tired of people asking to borrow the scope and hung it on the latch of the engineering space. Eventually, she got tired of us “fretting” about it, and locked it away. I remember the “discussion” we had about that.

“Bel, you can’t just let them go inspect the ship apart. It’s wearantear on every bolt, seam, tube, pipe, shaft, switch…you name it. I particularly and especially am done with my scope disappearing for hours, and getting dropped. It’s the only one we have, Cap. If it breaks, we have zero. This. Must. Stop. It isn’t good. It hurts us, and it’s hurting the Lady.”

That was the longest speech Jem had ever given me. I felt like a kid, caught disassembling something important like a lock system. I looked down at the deck, noting paint chipped off rivets and tiedowns. I weighed my options. On the left, emotionally the crew seemed to need this work and be reassured by it. On the right, every time a bolt is twisted, it causes wearantear on the threads. Jem was right. Better to be more restless than cause more problems and be downright frightened and in danger. I retreated to my little pocket cabin to figure, spending hours trying to get the wording right.

***fix zone describing day cabin a bit – what do I call the office/study/day cabin? Ready Room sounds too ST***

There’s a mass of data storage in every possible spot of my day cabin. I’d stowed it all, like I made the rest of the crew, as soon as I didn’t need it right then; and regardless, when I got out of the day cabin daily – but in each closed cubby there was a carefully-labeled storm of information waiting to attack me. It’s why no data is stored in the sleeping cabin side, except for in my head. I only wish I could clear all that chatter, and rest…

Spacestreams are made with modifiable cabins, not easily changing size but configuration is another matter. Grey Lady is built to have six base cabins. We left it set up for four standards (two bunks fill the slots on one side, two half-width desks with two half-width cabinets above them on the other) and the captain’s cabin that connects to my day cabin. We have the luxury of running with one person to a cabin, but I never paid to convert it, thinking there’s always the chance of needing more bunks. My pair of cabins had the same sockets on the outside of each, and a tiny private head for my own hygiene in the space that would have been sockets if we didn’t have the connecting door. That left me a double-length desk and two cubby sets in the day cabin’s far wall, and stickywall on the other two. The file chips stuck to the NOW section were the Neepble Protocols and other resources for our current crisis. Our shipping run was now along the upper edge, waiting to see what could be salvaged of the plan and our contracts once we got back to smooth sailing. This wasn’t the first time that the ship’s manuals and handbooks were stuck to the NOW section, and I reached down the relevant parts. When putting out a directive, it’s best to quote the manual. Sounds more professional – both hard facts and impersonal. I paid good credit to upgrade my readers with the best search routine I could, that being my major use of a reader, and liked several of them loaded and displayed when I was cross-referencing. I could tuck these into the desk sockets when I closed the desks, so it all worked out orderly. I pulled out maint and off duty time, blending text as seemed appropriate to justify, emphasize and explain my order. With a crew of four, a captain is more father or big brother than boss. If we do it well, we’re the smarter, wiser, tougher father or big brother. The jury was still out on me. I was too new, and this my first serious crisis. I was sure Gra had lots of advice about this, and equally sure that I needed to get that memo out quickly before Jem blew a seal. I got it written and sent, and no-one corrected my English or facts so I figure it worked ok. That, and people stopped roaming the ship looking for things to inspect. That was a serious gain.

From then, things settled back to more normal. We would be in outship hailing freq range of Gil soon, and could give more detail than in the databurst we sent when we climbed back aboard and headed to Farpoint Station. We’d even get our mail dump – ships could sign permissions with stations to allow them to collect mail sent along a given transmission stream, and cache it for the ship’s next arrival. Shipcomp would take the download and determine what mail was already received, deleting that, leaving only the messages that were “new” for the crew’s inboxes. For a ship on a regular run, this meant mail was mostly fast to get, maybe a cenchron or two. For us? Well, that depended on where the profits were, and where our nearandear thought we’d be going. We ran around a fairly small sector most of the time, so it worked out ok.

The ship’s log settled back down for a few dechrons. I have always had the habit of spending most of my time on the bridge. Now, twitchy and already a pessimist, I found myself checking our progress and adherence to course. If any of several bad things happened, which way would we drift? Too far off, and our beacon would be the only warning others would have to come find us. I quietly updated the beacon’s course every chron. I resisted writing a program for it, partly because I didn’t want to admit I was doing it and would do it every watch, and partly because it would look to Mik every bit as pessimistic as I felt. The engines, compartment or outer hull integrity, a nav sensor… one neepble could do us just a critical piece of hurt, and we’d be airless or a ball of flame. I knew without asking that Jem was ready on the shunts and shutoffs, and Fer with the patches and hatch seal commands. I didn’t know what Mik would do with his programming systems; probably was designing remotes and sensor workarounds. Maybe copying all our data, in case there was metal in his storage or connections? I decided not to ask.

It turned out, that’s not at all what I needed to ask. 8.7, square in the middle of second watch, the Lady shuddered. I was out of my bunk and halfway up the bridge ladder before the com in my uniform shouted: “Bel!” That was Jem. Shouting. Guaranteed not good. “Bel here, Jem. What did?”


Parking lot for cabin description bits:

Each side of a cabin has two recesses (or sockets – rectangular depression that fits a bunk, full length. These can each fit a few different items: one bunk, two desk or organizational sections, etc. The standard config is bunk low and high on one side and two desks plus two private storage/ org zones on the other, divided left and right between the two occupants.

They can be configured a fair bit to fit the needs of a crew, and our six cabins were set up as four doubles, my cabin, and with an inside pass through, my day cabin. My rule for all of us is that the bunks and desks are stowed when not in use. That’s just sensible when you can’t stand anywhere if desks on one side and bunks on the other are deployed. That takes up the entire cabin, if there are two of you! The modular system means that with my crew, each cabin was solo bunk and day cabin desk / storage. For my cabin, it was the same, though I lost one half-width desk section to the day cabin hatch.

Now, we can decorate as we want, but the clutter cannot build if you have to stow it flat, and if pressure is lost, you don’t have a huge mess to fix. A Spacestream is built intelligently and efficiently. They earn their reputation.

Mik as systems guy – what’s that mean, really? I figure it’s all the sensor arrays and the “software” side of things where he programs and fine tunes the stuff that’s only peripherally hardware, whereas Jem’s job (engineer/maintenance) is the stuff that’s only peripherally software…

Mik is into the details, young, strong, actually uses the ship’s multiflex to work out and perfectly willing to do the physical stuff, in a way that I think balances his detail brain labor job with the body labor (something I really tend to do when frustrated with either side of chores…)

Station notes for later…

Decontam dock for chem, rads, disease… the horsemen of space. Redundant seals from the rest of the base or station, low protrusion, high containment and imperviousness. Able to handle the darkest deeds of a hundred habitats – but this one spacebug laughs it all to shame!

They told me the story. The normal precaution Protocols – contain, decontam, crawl through every orifice. They found several nests, and one buzzed with neepbles. So they flamed it to a crisp and kept looking. Once satisfied, all silent and sealed, they sent off the ship, decontam the whole dock. Sure, it’s expense – but you cannot take the risk. You must be sure, or you lose rep, profits – maybe lives. So along comes  next shift, next check. You hear that shekkin’ buzz, a whole chron later you spot wings outside the lock. Once your voice is done with the expletives, you order the station’s field charged with the latest combi that is supposed to kill them as this one, at least, flits around the low vac in the station’s energy field. Oh, yes and pray. You definitely pray.

Time: a microchron (micro), milichron (mili), centichron (centi), decichron (deci), chron, dechron, cenchron, kilochron, megachron, terachron…

Days: ten chrons to a ship’s day, ten days in a cenchron – normal practice was a half day off on Five and a full day off on Ten, but custom varies. Among a ship’s crew, you have staggered “Ten” schedules so shifts were covered. You’d work five chrons on, five off unless in a high demand job, then the number would be adjusted for reasonable endurance. Scheduling was easier with 2.5, 5, 7.5 but you could find yourself in a rad zone where the max was 4 chrons and you might work four on six off.

Each planet has a solar day that’s its full rotation, and a year that’s its full orbit. For some planets that’s not a useful timeframe for anything but weather. Human communities create their own systems – we needed a ship standard and went to chrons. Most stations and some planetside communities use chrons, too, but anything goes as long as that group goes with it. People moved out for a myriad reasons, and a myriad communities resulted.


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