In December of 3003, John Christian Falkenberg disappeared aboard Comorro Station in Hiverspace, while taking part in an expedition to find a way to defeat Grim, his former employer and all-powerful agent of the Kamir. His ship, the IND Hand of Fate, docked at Comorro to refuel while the rest of the expedition went on to their next destination. Without notifying his crew, Falkenberg went aboard Comorro, a place where members of the expedition had already stirred up considerable trouble in recent weeks, and disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again (so far, at least.) The following is the first installment of the story of his disappearance, and what happened after.
Author’s Note: These events are set toward the end of the original, or “classic” Otherspace Arc XVII, the final arc before the New Journeys era. Events, worlds, races and characters who find mention in this story and the coming installments are represented as they were at that time, in the year 3003 and early 3004 of the Otherspace universe (2003-2004 RL). The entire story is set in Hiverspace, where Sanctuary had journeyed during the original Arcs VI and VII and where parts of several subsequent story arcs unfolded after the opening of the multiverse nexus; at the time, the races, events, locations and political situations in Hiverspace were not very well developed as part of the Otherspace canon. In order to tell the story I wish to tell, I’ve taken certain liberties to flesh elements of Hiverspace out, particularly regarding the races and worlds that were encountered by Sanctuary; I may at times in the coming installments need to create locations, worlds or races that have never come into the story of Otherspace, though I will try to keep that to a minimum. Anything that appears in this story that contradicts canonical events on Otherspace since 3003 are solely the result of the author’s ignorance.
Darkness.
Cold.
Something hard against his face.
Then pain… a blinding surge of pain in his head that seemed to come out of nowhere. Gradually, it faded to a dull ache.
Slowly, John Christian Falkenberg opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was the floor. A very small part of the floor, right in front of his face. At first he couldn’t tell what it was, but as his senses returned to him slowly, Falkenberg became aware that he was lying face down on the floor in a dimly lit room of some sort. The cold feeling against his face was the steel of the deckplate pressed against his cheek. A small puddle of drool had collected below his mouth.
With an effort, he pushed up off the floor and rose to a sitting position. His muscles didn’t seem to work correctly; it was as though his arms and legs were asleep. His head hurt.
Where the hell am I, he thought at last. He struggled to remember what had happened. The thoughts came slowly; his brain, like his limbs, did not seem to be working at full capacity.
I was… at the bar…on Comorro Station. We had just returned from Pansheera… Was he still on Comorro? The room he was in was small and dimly lit, with a dank, dirty smell. It looked very much like a cell. Certainly it was possible that he was in a cell on Comorro. After all, it’s not like we made friends here the last time, he thought. It was probably stupid to come back so soon and go to the bar for a drink by himself.
As his natural self-awareness returned to him, he noticed a deep, subsonic vibration rising up through the deck. Falkenberg had lived most of his adult life aboard various starships and spacegoing vessels; he knew the thrum of an engine when he felt it. Definitely not Comorro, he thought. The station’s power plant had a slow and steady hum. What he felt now was the rhythmic pulsing of a ship that was underway.
Ok, I’m on a ship. Now focus…how did I get here, and what happened to me? He was still struggling to get his arms and legs to obey his commands. He did not dare to try and stand; it seemed that whatever had knocked him out was wearing off slowly, from the top of his body downward. There was some strength and sensation in his arms, but his legs could only make broad, clumsy movements. He had no doubt that he lacked the strength to stand.
Gradually, he was able to piece together his last clear memories from… last night? Yesterday? How long had he been here? His wrist chrono was gone; it could have been hours, it could have been days. Belatedly, he thought to check for his weapons and his commlink; both were gone. No real surprise there.
He remembered being at the bar. He had left his ship, the IND Hand of Fate, late at night after making a refueling stop at Comorro on the way from Pansheera to the next stage of their journey. The other ships of the expedition had gone on ahead of him, but they’d wait; the Fate was the most powerful ship of the bunch and would be needed if there was trouble. His own crew was asleep, but he was bored and wanted a drink. He could handle himself if there was trouble…or so he thought.
He had been at the bar for a little while when he caught a brief flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. He had turned toward the door slowly, the casual move of a bar patron waiting for a friend or associate to arrive…and he briefly caught sight of a grey-robed figure…it looked almost like a… no, that wouldn’t make any sense. Why would one of them be here? Whatever he had seen, he thought, probably had nothing to do with himself. The place was fairly crowded tonight. Still, he had turned back to the bar and casually loosened his pistol in its holster.
After a few more sips of his drink, he had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him. Then, out of the corner of his eye, some movement again, definitely in his direction. More than one of them, he remembered thinking, whoever they are, and whatever they want. Well, if they want to dance…He began to ease his pulse assault pistol from the holster, and prepared to turn…
And then it happened.
A loud buzzing or humming sound. Then a sudden burst of pain. Then…darkness.
The next thing he remembered was the cold sensation of the deckplate against his face, in this room, this cell, aboard some ship, headed who-knows-where.
Someone got the drop on him.
They must have been looking for me, he thought, and then his heart skipped a beat as a genuinely frightening realization dawned on him. Grim! He thought. Is it possible he set a trap for me, all the way out here? Damn, I’m a fool for letting this happen!
He hadn’t been caught off guard like this in years. Was he really getting that sloppy? Somehow, they’d hit him with some sort of stun weapon, right before he made his move. He knew they were there…but somehow they had moved faster than him. Had known he was on to them.
Who the hell were they? What did they want? If it wasn’t Grim, was it one of the factions on Comorro whom the expedition had angered in recovering the first crystal? Or was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time, having failed to realize how dangerous a place he was in, like the damn fools who walked down dark alleys in Shadowheart back home, never to be heard from again?
He had no way of knowing. All he had were questions. He hated questions, and he hated waiting. He wanted answers.
At that exact moment, the door to his cell slid open, and in stepped the last thing he expected.
“Welcome, Captain Falkenberg,” said the deep, sonorous voice of the Shohobian Mystic who now stood before him, “aboard the IND Crimson Star.”
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