By SCSPIEKER - Dec. 31, 1969 The twilight zone was filled with all sorts of atmospheric anomolies - Aurora, meteor showers, low lying haze, and any number of other factors which Duff really didn't know enough about. All he had known was that there was no response from a couple of the prospectors who were out looking for their next big dig site. When the call went out for recall to the colony due to the flare activity, all of the prospectors were expected to call in with an ETA on their arrival back at the colony. Johnson, Jeffery T. - the brother of one of the marines stationed on Sygnus - and Skullet, Stephen H. had not reported in at all. Their reluctance to respond was not abnormal for them - they were young and dumb, and often disobeyed regulations - especially when it came to their personal safety. They had always said that the company was 'mothering them' to much. In most cases, they weren't mothered enough and so Duff was often called out to go and find them and find out if they were in trouble. A classic case of the boy who cried wolf. On this particular day, September 20th, Duff was called again to go out and find these two, overly anxious, boys and reel them back into the colony for the freeze. He was not particularly happy to have to drive over one hundred and fifty kilometers to where they were supposed to be - and hoping that they were actually there. To often they were off galavanting around looking for a new strike - and so, Duff would be left holding the bag while waiting for these jokers to return to their habitats. Hopefully, there may be some clue as to where they were inside of their habitat. The sun was just rising when Duff arrived at 0830 hours. Their habitat had been in the same location for the past two years. Johnson and Skullet were two of the most renown prospectors on Sygnus. When they set down they would scour an area to make a find and so far their records had been perfect. This time out, it was taking a bit longer than usual to make their find, but they were persistant - which historically had paid off. When Duff arrived, he had performed his usual survey of the encampment, checking the hydroponics tents, knocking on the door, etc. When there was no response to his hails, he had used his emergancy override code to effect entry into the habitat. He had not been expecting to see what was actually inside. The scene was a mascre. The living area was a disasterous mess area - maps, papers and equipment was strewn about. Several empty shotgun shells were the only testament to the destruction that had met Duff's eyes. Blackened and charred, the sensative electronics of the radio, GPS Navigation systems, and some of the life support equipment had been smashed by the rain of shot emitting from the weapon - which was nowhere to be found. He hesitated for a moment trying to determine what to do. The scene that met him was certainly not what he had expected. If he were to call into the colony, he wasn't even sure what to call it in as. All he would be faced with at this moment would be questions that he could not answer yet... [Beckette] Beckette drove his rover into the motor pool area of the Colony station. He parked next to one of the crew busses that hauled men and equipment out to a strip mine site a few kilometers from the colony proper. The rust red dust covered pretty much everything and would soon coat his rover once the ventilation system equalized the pressure again. [Trinity Operations] "Beckette? Come in." A raspy female voice came to him over his head set. [Beckette] "Go." he replied. [Trinity Operations] "Beckette, we have a problem. Beufort has just called in two MIA prospectors - Johnson and Skullet. He's at their hab now, but there seems to be some other problem. How fast can you get to operations and talk to him?" [Beckette] "I'll be there in a minute." Beckette husseled to remove his e-suit and hang it on a peg near the rover. Within minutes he was standing in the operations center, winded from his jog. Kristen Mallory was seated at the communications station - she was the colony's computer expert and not well versed in handling situations like this one with Beufort. She rose to allow Beckette better access to the communcations gear, but she hovered near-by looking over his shoulder... Operations / Trinity Colony - 0900 hours [Beckette] Within minutes he was standing in the operations center, winded from his jog. Kristen Mallory was seated at the communications station - she was the colony's computer expert and not well versed in handling situations like this one with Beaufort. She rose to allow Beckette better access to the communcations gear, but she hovered near-by looking over his shoulder. [Duff Beaufort] "Beaufort, Trinity Operations," the Canadian began, sticking to communications protocol, "The Johnson-Skullet habitat has been shot-up: radios, navigational equipment and life support. Looked like a full load from a slide-action shotgun." Beaufort realized he hadn't actually counted the shells, but then some shutguns took 6, 7 or 8 shells. It wouldn't have helped him such. "I'd write it up as space madness, but these two thrived in isolation. My opinion, one or both may have become unbalanced, possibly from tainted food or faulty environmental processors." Beaufort wasn't going to say 'drugs' unless he had clear evidence. "I'm declaring them armed and dangerous. Request authority to take them into custody, should I encounter them in the course of a more thorough search." [Beckett] Becketts lips purse a moment as he sees through the obvious ommission, "Granted Beaufort, up to and including non-lethal takedown should you deem it necessary. Backup is available on request. Any signs of injury?" he asks, hoping that this doesn't escalate beyond a limited case of property damage. "Sh*t" he says loudly after clicking off the vox mike, "just what we need". Without further explanation he flips the radio set channel and calls into what's left of the WY security detail, "Get A squad prepped and ready to move. Destination is the Johnson-Skullet habitat, Seems like our two hermits have decided to shoot up their abode with a shotgun. Move on Beauforts order." [Davis] Brent Davis, graduated top of his class at Quantico - served with distinction along the Chinese arm - and summarily demoted after a USCMC cover up of genocide in several actions of which Davis had lead. A hard liner Davis was not, however, he became the scape goat for the coverup and was shipped out to Sygnus for the remainder of his term. He left command of Glenkov and joined the security detail for Weyland-Yutani there on Sygnus where he holds the post of Sergeant. Davis replied to Beckette's call, "You're kidding right? Chief, all of the boys are in the freezers - I just got done locking them down myself. Aren't the grunts supposed to handle security while we are below?" He responded through the security channel. [Beckett] "Crap...already?" he replies with obvious disappointment, "I was hoping to there would be a few guys still out of the icepacks. Looks like it'll have to be the Marines after all". After a short pause Beckett's voice comes back over the air, "Job well done by the way Davis, Job well done. Beckett out." Beckette flipped the radio set back to Beuforts channel and hands the headset back to Mallory, "Maintain an open comm on this channel. I'm hoping these two aren't into what I suspect they are into". [Beaufort] "Roger wilco." Beaufort replied. He finished loading his smart rifle, gathered his survival gear and checked his spare radio battery. Almost as an afterthought, he left the Rover's internal microphone broadcasting on the same channel, so that he'd hear if someone entered the vehicle. Fixing his smart-rifle scope, Beaufort headed out. "Beaufort, I am proceding on foot. I intend to circle the habitat perimeter to look for Johnson and Skullet's vehicles before narrowing my search to the habitat interior." Beckett leaves the communications console and goes looking for Lt. Cooper to bring him up to date with the situation. Duff walked around the habitat again, paying closer attention to the details he may have missed the first time he had done so. This time, he made note of the tracks in the surrounding area. Fortunately the ground material in this area was somewhat loose - some may say sandy - which lent to leaving lasting prints and tracks - however, these same prints were rarely clearly defined enough to determine what it was exactly that had left them. In this case however, it was fairly plain to see - the prospector's rover was gone, and a clear set of tracks showed where it had gone off towards. There were other tracks, which looked like one of the men had climbed aboard the rover after seemingly staggering around in random circles. It looked as if whoever it was had been suffering something like extreme drunkeness. Half burried in one of the foot prints was a spent shotgun shell cartridge. Duff plucked the bright blue casing from the sand. There was nothing more than the plastic and hardened ceramic left as a testament to it's intended target. Not one to leave any stone unturned, Duff once again climbed aboard the Johnson-Skullet habitat and through the air-lock. When he had stepped in, he then remembered that the first time he had entered - the lock was open on the inside - as if someone had entered but not departed. His grip on the rifle tightened, he was beginning to sweat within his suit. The suit sensed the elevation in body temperature and cycled on the cooling unit in the back pack. His breathing was loud in his ears. The helmet offering no escape for the sound he made within. He stepped out of the air-lock with some caution. The hab was small and there were few places sufficient enough to hide a man except for the second floor where the sleeping area was located. He could access it through the small hatchway - which was open - directly above him. A narrow rung ladder led up into the darkness of the sleeping area. He stepped past the control area with a cautious eye on the ladder and hatch above. He headed towards the latrine and mess area which in turn led into the hydroponics tent. The latrine was nothing more than a small shower stall and a head - cramped and uncomfortable, it would have made a very poor location for someone to stage an ambush. Duff moved onward into the small mess area. It was stylized after a tiny galley that was so common aboard fast courier star ships and ancient submarine vessels of the past. A narrow bench seat with a fold down table which could quickly convert into a third sleeping arrangement, was all the accomidations afforded in the galley. The table had been folded down but it did not look as though for sleeping. A number of medicine packages were strewn about the floor - talk, iodine, rubbing alchohol, miscellaneous pills spilled out the the deck, falling through the metal grating. Protruding from under the table was a sleeve of an e-suit. Duff pulled it out, sending a few of the medicines rolling towards far bulkheads. It was Johnson's suit and it was cut down the middle - as if cut off hurredly - a small knife lay nearby under the table. Small spots of blood could be seen around the neck liner where the helmet would seal - a rubberized gasket facilitated the seal with the helmet. Duff turned his attention away from the e-suit and stepped into the galley. Again cramped and very uncomfortable, the galley was more function rather than form and comfort. The area was a mess. MRE packets sat open but uneaten. Utensils were strewn around as if someone had hurredly dug through the storage drawer looking for something - most likely the knife used to cut the suit off. The area was a story unto itself - evidence none the less, but without thurough forensic study and good old detective work, there would be no more answers from it. Duff looked out through the open hatch into the hydroponics tent. The lights were blinking on and off in irregular patterns - as if the ballast had failed and were not charging the light tubes enough. Although it was daylight outside, very little of it illuminated whithin the tent area - a large darkening tarp had been pulled over the tent area, leaving the interior lights to illuminate the area. The flicker from the lights cast long, dark, eerie shadown across plants of all sizes growing in there. Duff turned on his exterior helmet lamps, which helped, but they were designed to help illuminate areas at greater distances than were within the tent. So his helmet lamps were focused into a narrow area and helping very little in the way of peripheral vision. He stepped down the three steps into the tent proper. Metal deck plates were layed out and interconnected to offer a stable walking surface within the tent. It offered good footing in case he had to flee for any reason. Inside the tent, Johnson and Skullet had an array of plants and vegitables. Each in long rows of planters being fed introveneously by way of recycled water running through a trouf underneath - saturating the thin layer of soil. His external microphone picked up the sound of dripping water. He followed down one of the ailes towards the sound. A planter had been tipped over - it's contents spilled out in a muddy soup. Within the puddle was Johnson - laying face down. As he stepped closer, he noticed that the water was darkened with blood. Duff quickly went to work, pulling Johnson's body from the water. A gaping hole in his chest and back were the testament of how Johnson had met his end - a shotgun blast at close range. His face had burn marks, as if from something metal white hot were across his temples, cheeks, and neck. His mouth was ragged as if something had been cupped over it - choking him. A very savage end for such a promising person. Duff looked over his shoulder, the light shining off of the dried blood spatter on a near-by planter - it's water spilling out and mingling with the other in a large pool... Air-Lock 92 / Trinity Station - 0910 hours [Quaid] The faint echo of Treys footstep was like music to his ears. The constant rhythm over and over. There were many reason he like it. The first was that it was repetitive and he knew what to expect, the second was that it was the only noise other then a faint hum of the space station he could hear. As a rule society made to much noise. They tried to impress, seduce, accuse, deceive, brag, babble, joke, and then there was mindless chatter. To Trey it was all the same, just wasting air. The final reason he like the sound and the most important was because he was in controlled of it. All he had to do was stop and so would the noise. Trey made a slight detour, he signed out three survival packs with all the right tools for the duty at hand. It did not take long to get to airlock 92. He was impressed to find both Jonhson and McIntyre nearly suited, but refused to let it show on his face. Trey threw the packs on the cold metallic floor and picked up his suit and frowned. The station was worth a couple of billion dollars and they still skimped on the basics. The suit was the older Mk15 which required a life line and a air hose back to station. No senors or homing becon, just the good old "line of sight" system. This should be fun, he thought. "We have six hours to replace 37 damaged panels. Firstly we will strip all the damaged panels and bring them back to the air lock. While McIntyre and myself will be doing this, Jonhson will be getting the new panels from work station 36 which is just down the hall and to the left. Once the panels are in position in the air lock he will then finish getting suited up and join us. Any questions" Trey said as he placed on his Communications headset. [McIntyre] "No, sir.", responded McIntyre tersely as he finished suiting up and began the series of checks of his suit. 'A is for airlines, B is for batteries, C is for couplings, D is for D.F. Loop....'. The mnemonic went through his head as he checked each component. It had sounded childish at first, but later it had become second nature. Concentrating on the system checks also allowed McIntyre to avoid watching Johnson's face before he left for work station 36. He was sure there was a big smirk plastered on it right now. When McIntyre had finished checking his suit and tools, he waited for Quaid to finish suiting up and checked him. A partner was needed to check what the suited individual couldn't. McIntyre's joker attitude was turned off for the moment and he seemed focused on the task at hand.