Four months and eight days after leaving "Mother of All". At Hiiliteräs High Port.

The Captain had called everyone into the mess for a meeting. It was a little cramped, but they all fit.

"Alright everyone, I'm back from the inquest. They are accepting our version of events, and the surviving hijacker is being charged with attempted piracy. In this system that is 25 years, no parole."
There were nods around the room at that.
"Further," she continued, "the system has sent word back to Silver notifying them, and sending an invoice for repatriation of the other hijacker. Seeker?"
"Yes, Captain?" Seeker's voice was unusually subdued.
"The inquest has found you acted appropriately. I am adding a note to your file that you have been combat tested, and reacted with appropriate force. On a personal note, you almost certainly saved lives. Thank-you."
"Captain - "
"I am recommending you for a one week post-combat counselling course here on-station. The ship will cover it."
"Yes Captain," she spoke softly, and started to retreat to the back of the mess, head held low.
"One question, Seeker."
"Yes Captain?"
"I know you've been scanning everyone who comes aboard. How did they get past you?"
"There are some people, Captain, who can just block a casual scan. But in this case they had a device. Our scientists have discussed the possibility of one, but this is the first I've actually seen that can block a scan completely."
"How did you find it?"
"Dyani did. When she took everything from the", her voice hitched, "the survivor, it included a hair ornament. As soon as it was taken, I could hear him. I thought she told you."
The Captain turned, "Dyani?"
"I thought Seeker had told you" the gunner replied.

The Captain shook her head, "Always double check who has passed on what, OK?"
"Yes Captain" the three junior members of the crew said together.

"Now, do we have two of them?"
"Yes Captain" Dyani replied.
"Good. Hand one over to Sparks. Sparks?"
"Yes, Captain?"
"Figure out how to make more. I am certain that the folks back on Mother of All will want to know how to make one."
"Aye!"
"Back to your duties. Alaine, Seeker stay put."

The crew dispersed to their duties. Alaine and Seeker waited.

The Captain looked at them both. "Seeker, you are relieved of duties until you have completed the counselling." She started to object, but the Captain rolled over her, "Alaine? Your job is to make sure she goes. You will escort her to the session, and escort her back."
"Yes, Captain."
The Captain turned back to Seeker "It is not that I don't trust you, but things like this get under your skin, and make you think of doing all sorts of stupid things. After your first couple of sessions, have a talk to Sparks. She knows."
Alaine straightened up "I'll make sure, Captain."
The Captain looked them over "I'm certain you will. You've both got a map on your PDUs. The first appointment is in one hour."

#SF #SFF #SciFi #Tootfic #Microfiction #Microfic #IAmWriting #ShamanSpace

Over the course of several hours, they familiarize me with the hardware basics, the workstation's build system, and the audit they'd begun performing before I arrived. The network is reachable. Attempting to write an email crashes the email client. All other functions seem to work. The messenger issue seems to just be from a stalled update.

Stepping outside while waiting for the next step of the debugging process to complete, there's a weird ennui to stepping back into a world of trees and traffic and sidewalks.

Belatedly remembering my original plan to resolve this ticket, I retrieve my logo-plastered tote bag and fish out the aluminum slab of my corporate notebook, still silently judging me for my every datapoint.

Ignoring the itch of pervasive monitoring at each keystroke and pointer movement, I update the ticket with "work pending", and erase the part about an OS reload. No way am I going to attempt to modify this stack without a lot more time to study it, and that's going to have to happen in my off hours.

Clocking out, I swipe the notebook against the sensor of the local secure locker pod, and drop my branded tote bag into the padded recesses of my newly assigned local locker.

Tugging on the shoulder strap of my backpack to reassure myself it's still with me, I retrace my steps towards the building with the workstation.

#microFic #LibreOps

Several long minutes of silence stretch as I take in everything here, and then I turn back towards the operator, finally ready with my first of what I suspect will be many questions.

"Would you show me how the problem manifests?"

Moving to the side of the cabinet, they point to the indicator labelled "EMAL" and "MSG", both of which are blinking amber-red, amber-red, in a slow distinct pattern.

"Okay, do you have documentation of those features of your workstation?"

They blink at me, one eyelid then the other, then tap a few words into one of the narrower keyboards near their side of the whole workstation arrangement.

"Not my machine. Just here to help fix."

So this operator isn't the machine's operator, then. But they must have some familiarity with the problem, then.

"What have you tried so far?"

They grimace, the first macroexpression I've seen them make so far, and begin to type.

#microFic

The textured whitewash inside has been half-hidden by an array of ceiling tapestries, wooden wall shelves, and an obelisk of dark-painted metal enclosing several humming appliances.

The operator rises, their height making the small space seem to shrink, and I'm motioned wordlessly towards the repurposed vehicle crash seat in front of the multiple mismatched displays. Braided ropes of cable span the gap between displays and metal cabinet, where a whole constellation of lights indicate status, progress, and intensity of a dozen dozen ongoing processes.

Sinking into the chair, noticing despite myself how comfortable it is, I begin to read and mentally catalog the scope of this interface. I count at least three keyboards, but possibly up to five, and I have no clue which corresponds to what.

Some of the indicators are labelled with words like "public access" and "build status" but some are just three-letter initials or odd symbols, and there are reams of ragged, highlighter-stained papers magnet-clipped to most of the exposed metal frame of the system. There's several meters of corkboard full of operating instructions next to the cabinet, bold warnings alongside fine print in the maze of brightly colored paper art that winds its way through the technical documentation.

Scanning the board and readouts, mentally noting that the probable functional utility of this machine is barely decreased by the email client issue, I finally notice the large block letters printed on a torn page, pinned at the top of the board:

The date in the corner is older than I am.

#microFic

Support ticket comes in over the wire.

#microFic?

Both the email client and instant messenger on this workstation have stopped working.

Operator reports that a variety of other low-level symptoms and emergence of medium to critical faults in the file manager and graphical interface. Remote system report says this is one of the PlasmaUI installs from '21, and there has been at least one previous ticket about an unbootable system. I'm gonna call it as due for an OS-level reinstall. Operator may complain, but they'll adjust.

Grabbing a copy of the installer from the build interface, I hoof it over to building 2700k, and jangle the intercom with the admin key.

"Yo, choba, anybody home?"

I tap my knuckles lightly on the door panel, and wait.