Rift Relative Sol System, Undefined NS-1 Fractality;
Tnem-Fragg type Rift Cruiser VRZ Y-10379
Why, with each passing cycle, are we compelled to return? What god-created muse tempts us forth with jovial precipitation to restore our tawdry assemblages of civilization upon this world? Earth - you truly defy reason, logic - yet stand against the hatred of time and chance and providence.
- Unknown VRZ Sailor, 415 ABT
- Unknown VRZ Sailor, 415 ABT
They were entirely out of steamed maqsuq. Hope you don't mind - brought you back some boar instead.
A muffled thud! accompanies the placement of the hefty portion of boar onto the table. The Pord who placed it, a rather hefty individual himself (though - as he concedes - truly distinguished through the vigilance of a single streak of black thriving upon a mostly graying head of hair) sits down next to the serving of meat. He looks at the console, takes a long drink from the tall jug sitting expectantly nearby, and stretches.
The Pord next to him inhales audibly. I don't mind. You didn't miss much while you were gone. Got some odd readings in a few of the fractals but didn't look like much. Probably just a wormhole or something.
Not really much odd about a wormhole, the distinguished Pord says. I'm thinking I'll head back to the mess hall here in a bit. I know they're going to have more steamed maqsuq by the time I make it back.
The other Pord nods. Wasn't really the wormhole itself, he says with a grunt from cutting a piece off the boar, more that the coordinates seemed to place it in a fractal lacking advanced tech signatures.
Seriously? There's always something. Bring up those coordinates again, would you?
Sure thing.
The coordinates flicker to life on their displays and the familiar signatures of a wormhole shine unmistakably.
Well that's strange, the gray-haired Pord says. He isn't entirely wrong, and his delivery prompts a slight recoil from his partner who is quick to suggest action:
You want to pass this one up to command? A piece of meat hangs on his chin. He doesn't see the gray-haired Pord grinning at the sight. It could be nothing.
The coordinates place the wormhole on the planet itself. That's no low-tech feat. I can't imagine that was built by the locals - his voice trails off as he considers the implications; his grin fades into a frown - and the spatiotemporal pathing of the gate leads entirely out of the fractal plane. That... Seriously narrows down who it could be.
Right, the other Pord agrees. I'll send this one up.
Past the outer reaches of the Sol System, beyond the Kuiper Belt and Oort Cloud, jogs the diminutive frame of a single Tylaq Balnook type runner dispatched from the Cha 'Suzt Fabricworks currently harbouring the Nalydian 8th Fleet (sent, swiftly, with a team of hand-picked experts to investigate the wormhole situation). Submerged within her rift seal, and nearly upon the system, her skipper decelerates to a more appropriate velocity (one more suitable for intrasystemic travel) and guides her around the outer chilly worlds and then by the icy giants of Neptune and Uranus, before alighting past the orbital tracks of Saturn and the impressive Jupiter. The deceleration continues as they drift deeper into the system and eventually into the locality of Sol III, devoid of advanced spacecraft or detection equipment, where they settle into a stable orbit. For two revolutions they observe before taking it upon themselves to descend down into the air column and into the ocean below, where they come to a rest on the floor of the Atlantic equidistant from the Faroe Islands, Iceland, and the northern reaches of the Isle of Lewis.
In the shuttle bay of the runner, a small team of Pords and Aumanii ready to disembark...
