WW LXXVII: The Metamorphs of Wolf-562-e

[Nerwen]

Prologue

“Captain,” said the person in the uniform of the Terran Galactic Fleet, carefully locking the door, “is this cabin secure?”

“As secure as I can make it.” Captain McNerwen leaned back in her chair, eyeing the newcomer with no friendly gaze. “Why?”

“Last Night,” said the other, “I had a dream.”

Strangely, this seemingly inane statement failed to spark Captain McNerwen’s legendary temper. She, and she alone knew that the person before her was one of three Terran Intelligence agents assigned to the crew of the TGS Lothlórien. More than that, this particular agent was a telepath, genetically engineered to be able to tune in on mental frequencies. It was a talent to which the captain had to give a grudging respect, however irritating she found its owner.

“What about?”

“Wolf-562-e. I dreamt three of our crew were murdered while on leave there, and– and replaced with Metamorphs.”

They stared at each other for fully half a minute.

Finally the captain broke the silence. “So. The Radiant Empire offered them a better deal. And they took it.” She sighed bitterly. “My father always said the only Metamorph you could trust was a dead one. We should have known they were up to something.” The captain shook her head. After five years of devastating interstellar war, it had had been all too tempting to believe in this powerful new ally. “Well, then– which three?”

“I don’t know, Captain. It could be anyone. I can see this only by sharing the dreams of the Metamorphs themselves, and their minds are so alien. All I’m sure of is that it wasn’t you or the other two agents. Also, I have a feeling the Metamorphs aren't our only problem– I'm getting a sense of treachery from somewhere– but I'm not sure. Look, Captain, I need more time–”

The captain reached for the mouthpiece of the subspace communication system, able to send a message instantly across light years. “We don’t have time, you fool!” she snapped. “Earth must be warned!”

But the communicator was dead.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

No posting on this thread.

[Nerwen]

It is now Night One. Roles will be sent out shortly.

You may not post on this thread.
EDIT: All roles have now been sent out. If you didn't get one, you're an ordo. Stop posting me about this, people!

[Nerwen]

Sensor Technician Isabellkya had been unable to get the subspace communication system working. "Ma'am, it looks to me as if it's been deliberately tempered with– and by a real expert, at that."

"Well, you're an expert, aren't you, Technician?" Ensign Blind Guardian asked her. "Sure you didn't do it yourself?"

This was greeted with a few chuckles from surrounding members of the crew.

Surely, the captain reflected, Metamorphs would have taken it all a bit more seriously? But then, perhaps not. Metamorph humour, if there was such a thing, was as veiled in mystery as the rest of their culture.

"Ensign Guardian," she said coldly, "you will in future refrain from making a Rigellian tree-ape of yourself in front of the enlisted men. Technician Isabellkya, I want the subspace system functional by 0300 hours Galactic Time tomorrow, and in that time you will concentrate on your work and make no further wild statements about sabotage. The rest of you, go about your duties. Watching Technician Isabellkya perform routine maintenence is not a form of entertainment."

The captain turned on her heel and stalked out of the room. It had, she realised, probably been useless to expect the crew to believe nothing was seriously wrong. There was nothing routine about this– everyone knew subspace systems did not just break down without warning.

What gave her an even greater sense of futility was that she had made no progress whatever in finding the enemy. All of the crew were acting like their normal selves– just as the intelligence agent had predicted. According to the agent, Metamorphs had a specialised form of telepathy that let them absorb memories from those they killed, allowing them to pass undectected except by someone who had known the victim extremely well. And on this ship, the captain thought bitterly, that meant no-one at all, when so many of the Lothlórien's current crew were replacements for those killed in the disastrous Battle of Fomalhaut.

"There must be something," she muttered aloud. "There must be..."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Still Night One.

[Nerwen]

Captain McNerwen paused on the threshhold of the medical laboratory. Supposedly, what she was about to try was even more useless than observing the crew's behaviour. All sources she had read agreed that finding the subtle biological differences between a disguised Metamorph and the individual it copied took detailed analysis, far beyond the capabilties of a combat spacecraft lab.

However, Doctor Morsul had spent most of his career in space, treating the many exotic ailments that were a hazard of interstellar travel. In fact his interest in alien diseases was positively ghoulish. It was entirely possible, the captain thought, that the doctor might know a trick or two that the academic experts had missed. It was worth a try at any rate.

The trouble was that she would have to take Doctor Morsul into her confidence and for all she knew, the medical officer was himself a Metamorph. Well, she had prepared for that. She had recorded a holographic message, to be activated on the event of her death, informing the crew of the situation, just in case the Metamorphs were able to tamper with her log.

She took a step forward, but the door remained shut. Perhaps Doctor Morsul was treating someone for some embarrassing complaint. Or else he might have been giving young Rikae another checkup. The "Cabin Boy", as Commander Inziladun had nicknamed him, had been found hiding in the cargo hold a few Days out of Beta Pictoris Station, and the doctor was very concerned about the infections he might have picked up in his former life as a orphan living on the streets of the spaceport.

The captain keyed in her override code and entered the laboratory– where she gasped at the sight that met her eyes.

The medical officer was sprawled amidst the charred wreckage of his equipment. It took no more than a glance at the huge blackened hole through his upper torso to tell her that Doctor Morsul was well beyond the reach of his own medicine.

The wound was still smoking. Whoever had done this could not be far away.

A shadow fell across her. Captain McNerwen whirled around, gasping a second time as she recognised the figure who has just stepped out of an inner chamber, carrying a large flame-pistol.

"You!"

"Me," the intruder agreed. "I see you had the same idea as me– they say it's well-nigh impossible to detect a Metamorph, but I didn't want to take any chances. I regretted having to kill the doctor, by the way, nearly as much as I'm going to regret killing you."

"Don't fool yourself, alien scum," said the Captain. "We'll catch all three of you before too many Days are out."

"Oh," said the other, "but I'm not a Metamorph, ma'am, just a... sympathiser, let us say. I've been an agent of the Empire for nearly two years now."

"You betrayed your own species? How could you?"

The Traitor shrugged. "It's clear they're going to win this war in the end, and they pay me handsomely, too. Besides, they're really so much more advanced than we are in many ways; I think I'd be supporting them anyway. –And now," the Traitor raised the flame-pistol, "I'm afraid this conversation must come to an end. Goodbye, captain."

The captain reached for her own weapon, but the Traitor was quicker. The last thing Captain McNerwen knew in this life was a searing agony that quickly gave way to the merciful numbness of oblivion.

The Crew

Living
Commander Inziladun –First Officer.
Lieutenant Paranoia –Second Officer.
Lieutenant Sally –Navigator.
Ensign Pitchwife –Communications Officer/Interpreter.
Ensign Blind Guardian –Tactical Officer.
Master Chief Petty Officer Loslote –Chief Engineer.
Chief Petty Officer Keeper of Dol Guldur –Quartermaster.
Isabellkya –Sensor Technician, First Class.
Wilwa –Android Technician, Second Class.
Shasta –Engineering Technician.
Eomer –Security Officer.
wintywinty –Weapons Maintenance Technician.
Rikae –"Cabin Boy" (a thirteen-year-old stowaway).

Dead
Doctor Morsul –Medical Officer and Captain McNerwen. –shot by Traitor on Night One.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Day One has begun. You may now post.

[Blind Guardian]

WAKE UP EVERYONE!! WAKE UP!! *rings bell scaring everyone into waking* get your lazy butts out of bed! *walks off angry, for I have not eaten breakfast yet. I'm real grumpy before breakfast*

[Loslote]

I've been looking at the engine, and I've noticed several problems. The R/A/M is at 73 while the Jiroscopic Beoneedle is pointed due east and the HTV channel is completely fuzzed out but in a pattern that is eerily similar to the YCT pattern of the NBC fuzz during the disaster of 2089. The Nissota has hit googleplex levels, and the Honeral Motiff has dropped to only 38% of optimum value. No levels of cadmium have been detected in the cadmium storage unit, which means that the Cadmistic Ignitor has lost all fuel and no longer produces output of any sort, so that the Verostile Xerox has lost power. Casualties among the treadmill mice have soared, with only 17% surviving, and all of those grey mice as opposed to the higher producing white mice. The wires connecting the Yesox Imput and the Hasalblad Generator have frayed, causing random jolts of electricity to the Knickerbocker Machine that fry any undergarments currently inside. This causes all of the crew to be forced to wear smelly undergarments. Hasardous toxic waste from the oceanic waste dump has leaked into the Beatific NFC, so that the NFC can no longer produce the RKI needed to power the Y2K. If there's no Y2K, then the programing for the ZIDRAM will crash, causing power failures among the JZs.

Moreover, the engine's broke.

[Isabellkya]

Heh. Anyone know where the manual for the Communications system is? xD

I was actually looking forward to seeing a fake reveal... would've been quite entertaining I imagine.

Thinking someone couldn't be a metamorph because 'a metamorph would never do something that suspicious, or that x' .. doesn't necessarily work. Because a metamorph is obviously capable of anything.. add to that the specific player..

Uhm Pitch.. I'm always a submarine... xD

[Eomer of the Rohirrim]

Bah! Sally concocts the perfect way to stay alive for a day. No-one will vote her now but it's still pretty suspicious.

++PARANOIA

Just sort of showed up and left and didn't contribute anything other than demanding I cease my openly meaningless case against Blind Guardian. A bit easy, methinks.

Goodnight!