8064/Cloud Fracking

Cloud Fracking
Date of Scene:	30 September 2021
Location:	Jupiter, Upper Atmosphere
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Michael Erickson, Sif

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Michael Erickson has posed:
    "Come and see," he told her in the call he made not long ago. "I've found something curious on Jupiter."

    He'd inivted her to join him on whatever fool's errands he's begun to undertake within this newly-adopted star system he calls home, now; they are warriors, after al, protector of the realms in their own way - why would they not work together, considering how well they get along? And so he waits for her, far from Earth, amid the monolithic clouds and tremendous storms that make up the swirling atmosphere of angry Jupiter - far from the titanic cylone of the Red Spot, somewhere in the northern hemisphere.

    He is not, of course, a man in a starship, or some other device; awaiting her he is the red-chromed creature to which he has been bound, equal parts Art Deco hood ornament and anatomical model, wings made up of razor-sharp wing-foils extending from his gleaming arms. Waiting, his helmet visor a wide, shallow 'v' that glows faint violet, body aflame with the light of the distant sun as it filters golden through the rosy clouds. Watching for her approach, all enhnced senses trained outward.

Sif has posed:
"I will meet you there." That's all Sif says at the invitation. "When you arrive, merely state my name aloud. I will hear and I will come."

And come she does. Shortly after his mere speaking of her name, an impossibly bright rainbow of impossible length stretches from the beyond to Michael's vicinity in the orbit of Jupiter. This is the legendary Bifrost, it seems, and it's giving Michael's sensors conniptions as it's registering as not being there. And being there. At the same time.

And then from the bewildering rainbow, approaching at ridiculous speeds, there is a small boat. Fashioned in what is obviously old Norse style, but smaller and with a single sail, it slips off the rainbow into space, hovering in the air like a boat doesn't, sail filled with a wind which doesn't exist as it is guided by the figure at the rear on its rudder.

The rudder which seems to bite into the fabric of space and time itself to steer.

As the ship gets closer with alacrity, the rainbow pulls back into nothingness, leaving the boat and its solitary red-and-white clad figure the only anomaly left.

And it's still one Hell of an anomaly given she's standing on an open boat in space without any kind of visible protection from radiation or, you know, lack of oxygen.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    That it is, that it is - but Michael has seen too much to be terribly surprised by even these miracles, and as the dazzling bridge fades away to reveal the little skiff with its sail filling with that nonexistent wind (or is it nonexistent, the Jovian atmosphere tempest-tost as it is?) Michael sets off to intercept it with razor-blade Isis wings extended wide, arms rigid and reaching out to either side of him. A flying, bladed cruciform figure, approaching with equally impossible speed.

    << Sif Asgarddottir, >> he names her, as he comes to a halt off her port bow, floating as if hung there in the air; the latter is an apellation, of course, rather than any actual address of parentage. << You have come. I bid you welcome, and offer thanks. >> He does not speak English; he uses the language of his home, and though it is exotic, the Allspeak yet manages to translate it - however a leaden trill his accent might have about it. It is at once a musical and severe tongue, his. << I take it the journey was not arduous. >>

Sif has posed:
"The journey was of no issue. The seconding of a stellar boat was tedious, however," Sif says after inclining her head in mute greeting. "It has been a good long time since I've gone properly viking. This is my personal craft. It was in storage and partially disassembled. I had to oversee its reconstruction and testing."

Sif looks around her at the maelstrom of the Jovian atmosphere which, tempest-tossed though it may be, doesn't seem to trouble her boat at all.

"I was tempted to bring a proper longship and crew, but I suspected that this might have been considered too much. And the desire for plunder might have ... upset some."

Tying down the rudder she walks to the front of the craft to peer down. "What are we here for? I have brought some tools, but if we need more powerful magics it might be best if I know in advance."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << Best that you did not, >> Michael replies, a metallic chuckle escaping his armored body. He turns, gesturing to a towering formation of red-gold clouds, gleaming in the dimmed sun. << Within that cloud bank is a platform of some kind. I discovered it while exploring the planet's surface - I am only recently able to travel interstellar distances again, and I thought I would explore this system to start with. Whatever it's doing, the facility is automated. Certainly not of human origin. >> A beat. << The boat is beautiful, let me say. Shall I board and we go take a look? >>

Sif has posed:
"I have more than enough," Sif says with certainty, "to remove from existence most mortal facilities if that is all we face." And she does seem to have come armed for bear, as the saying goes: Sword at one hip, paired axes at the other, a spear that seems useful both for throwing and for melee peeking up over her shoulder and a shield slung over the other.

And one of her vembraces seems to have been replaced with something far more ornate and delicate. Strange that.

"Let us investigate and, at need, destroy as the case may be."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << An automated facility would make for no reason to give quarter, >> he agrees as he alights upon the skiff's bow, the wing-foils sliding swiftly into the structure of his arms. And so he points out the direction to go, serving as impromptu figurehead, whilst Sif attends to the tiller.

    Down through the swirling tower of clouds they go, the skiff traveling the Jovian winds as if merely on a light ocean sail; the ease with which they travel is marked by Michael, who spends the time heading toward their destination pondering by what mechanism the skiff can move while his senses train upon the way ahead.

    Twenty, perhaps twenty-five minutes pass, when up ahead the clouds part to reveal a platform of some sort floating within the formation's core. Bulbous tanks, roughly ovoid, cluster upon both sides of a trio of thick decks, bristling with stacks and aerials jutting out on all directions. Pale tongues of white fire occasionally belch from the stacks, lighting up the otherwise moody gloom of the clouds this deep in.

    << Well, there it is, >> he says, gesturing to the asymmetrical affair, made from a greasy green metal. << I've never seen the like. What say you, my lady? >>

Sif has posed:
"We have had dealings with their kind," Sif says thoughtfully. "I had thought them all but self-destroyed. It is somewhat disturbing to see their handiwork again."

Sif turns her attention to Michael. "They have cloven their society in twain along the lines of male and female. They war with each other, but they also conquer. We have thwarted them before when they infringed into our domain. It appears we may have to again."

The factory gets her focus once more. "We must penetrate their station and find evidence of what they seek here. Then we must destroy it, and any others we find evidence of."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Though his face is hidden, it is not at all difficult to envsion the look of surprise that rosses Michaels' face, all the way from afar from whence he now dwells. << Perhaps it is a relic, then, >> he muses. << Curious. Shall we pull up, or would you like to perform reconaissance? >>

Sif has posed:
Sif steps over to the rudder to take it over. "Let us inspect it from all sides first, to find both a natural means of ingress and any potential defences it might have. These ... Badoom? I think that is their name. They are not prone to undefended facilities. I should like to know what I am going to be dealing with before I deal with it, not after."

With simple motions that bely the complexity of the actual guidance, the rudder guides the boat first around the station, then over, then under, with Sif's hawklike eyes and houndlike ears watching and listening on each pass, seeking out all the secrets she can find.

"I believe we can land there safely," she says, pointing to what looks like a maintenance platform near the top. "From there we can perhaps tear a door off and enter."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    True to her assertions, amid the many aerials that jut from the platform's masses of tanks are the long barrels of cannon upon equally rotund turrets, lost among the industrial tangle - though as the ship approaches and these weapons are made clear, they do not fire, do not even react to the presence of the skiff as it approaches. Though it spurts flame as evidence of life, and the deep thrum of hidden pumps and other mechanisms can be heard well before drawing close, it is othewise as lifeless as a tomb. Surface weathering has tinged the green metal of the deck and tanks splotched with brownish corrosion, like spots on rotting fruit.

    << I see the platform, >> he acknowledges. << Bring us about. >> He flexes armored fingers; long, hawklike talons emerge, extruding from the metal as if from fluid, their inner edges gleaming silver-bright with laser sharpness. << I am perhaps not nearly so well-armed as you, >> he notes, though it is with humor. << My lady makes one feel unmanned. >>

Sif has posed:
"That is something I do," Sif says without a hint of humour in her voice, and her face turned away as she leans over the edge to judge the approach, "to enemies, not allies." The boat heaves around and starts to descend in a corkscrew. "And even that only to those who are worst."

The boat falls in the atmosphere like a parachutist, catching just before the landing point in the first actual sensation of real movement as it momentarily gives G forces while halting. Ropes piled up in out-of-the-way corners leap out and bind to various flanges and other places to keep the boat tethered in place.

"I will have approximately one hour after leaving the protection of this boat before I must return or I will face loss of life-giving air," Sif announces, stepping off the boat and offering her hand back to assist Michael. "I think this will be plenty?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << I can only assume so, >> he replies. The ship descends, and its ropes lash out like a nest of tendrils to secure it to the platform. The greenish metal is pitted and spotted with brownish blight, and as Michael steps off the boat onto its surface the soft groan of metal beneath his weight. The platform rests at one end of the apparent refinery, with a ramp that leads down to a web of catwalks that weave among the swollen tanks, the turrets, the stacks and antennae. Bursts of white flame illuminate the platform, flashing as if lightning across the surface of the corroded metal.

    << Well, >> Michael says, scanning the structure ahead. << ...I'm not seeing anything here but machinery. The metal seems to be interfering with my scanners. >> The armored face turns back to his fellow warrior. << Timer set. Shall we explore? >>

Sif has posed:
"Not yet."

Metal sings against wood as Sif's wicked-looking throwing spear leaves its sheathe.

"Now."

The strangely-coloured shaft and point leads, Sif following, as she crab-walks to a corner to quickly peek around, then pull back.

"We should advance in alternation, one watching and covering the other's. The next segment is clear. Advance to cover, do not leave my sight."

Obviously used to giving orders on the battlefield, she is.

"Then I will pass and advance."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    He is a soldier; this is not foreign terminology. << Acknowledged, >> he replies, and proceeds behind her, though he moves with the confidence that his transposed existence provides, exaggerated talons extended from his fingers.

    Several exchanges proceed, making their way down one side of the platform. Ancient machinery thrums, their bootfalls ringing thin and metallic as they make their way down along the catwalk. Occasionally, weathered strings of yellow glyphs mark important pieces of equipment, dangerous areas. Machines blend into one another, their purposes totally unknown from the outset.

    << If there's nobody here, >> he offers, << Should we leave it here? It feels like it should be shut down. >>

Sif has posed:
"It seems uninhabited," Sif agrees after a moment's thought. "And it has been here for a very long time performing whatever its assigned task is faithfully and without supervision."

Her voice goes silent as she advances the next leg into the bewildering array of machinery.

"If we leave it we will not know what its purpose is, if any remains. If we destroy it, and it has a purpose still, someone will be sent to repair or replace it, and from them we can learn the truth."

Her voice is iron.

"We should destroy it."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << So be it, then. >> He follows, absently dragging the tips of his claws along the side of the hull; scratches mark the metal, but it resists it all the same. << Very strong, >> Michael murmurs to himself as he makes to take the next leg. << Right. Then we look for a control center. >>

    As Sif's leg begins, however, she passes a few of the swollen pods; one is half-open, bristling with metal-rot, leaving what lies within exposed to the light and the ravenous Jovian winds: a skeleton, human, much of its structure replaced by machinery largely now consumed by the flowers of brown corrosion. Staring out into the distant sun.

Sif has posed:
Sif freezes and holds up a hand. Halt. Proceed with caution. Before she does anything else, she scans her environs closely for possible traps or threats. The spear is replaced into its back sheathe quickly and a dagger replaces it in her hand, shield unslung and held in her left hand for coverage as she approaches the skeleton.

Gingerly she prods at the rotting machinery replacing the skeleton, testing it for signs of life, ready to abandon the dagger to it should it decide to get uppity.

"I think perhaps this facility was used to create war creatures," she says to Michael. "Come forward and I will watch the approach. I need your insight."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << What? >> He isn't expecting /that/; Michael comes up to peer into the container, one hand's talons retracting so that he might prod at the skeleton within. He stares at the thing, frowning a universe away, reaching into the bloated cylinder to prod at its macabre contents.

    << I don't see any weapons here, >> he tells her, the violet fire contained within his visor flaring bright as powerful scanners come online once more. << Looks like...tools in the implants, at least in this arm that has been replaced. Maybe a maintenance organism? What species did you say created this place? >>

Sif has posed:
"They did not look like this. These look like they are from Midgard, not reptilian."

Sif continues looking around and then decides upon another course. Dagger away an axe is unhitched instead, spun with blinding speed before its blade bites into another module looking like it is close to self-disintegration.

"It's almost as if they were taking people from Midgard and doing magics to them, turning them into servant tools."

She pulls at the metal edges to open the next nearest pod, trying to see what's inside.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    The next pod is sealed shut, though it groans as the axe bits deep - the entirety of the structure begins to rumble as down the catwalk other metal blisters begin to open - just as hers does, releasing a cold, acrid miasma and revealing the dull gray flesh of a human corpse entomed within. Green-gray metal appliances stud the otherwise naked body, other parts replaced from the skeletal example. This one has long metallic arms terminating in articulated pincers.

    And then, as if the exhalation of gas purged some kind of preserving spirit, the corpse's remaining eye opens, the other socket - filled with antennae - shivering to life as it begins to lurch out of the container.

    As do the rest, for the most part, though none of the shamblers emerging are untouched by time. Half-rotted, half-mummified, the horrific corpse-machines stumble out of their pods and onto the deck, staring dumbly up and down the row. But Sif, of course, will most likely be too busy dealing withthe corpse who has just come to life before her...

Sif has posed:
It's fortunate that Sif used an axe to help open her pod because axes are very useful for dismembering the technologically undead. A fact that Sif demonstrates with extreme emphasis on speed and effectiveness, the finely forged blade vibrating with a keening sound as it strikes metal and, in a context of Asgardian enchantments and technological might, comes out on top, if only barely.

Conduits sever. Overgrown skeletons dent and break. And the axe keeps rising and falling and slicing and slashing as she almost robotically dismantles the creature she woke up, keeping it from return harm with her shield.

"It's a golem workshop!" she hisses as she ensures the creature before her stays down before surveying the rest. "It must definitely be destroyed!"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Michael has no idea what a 'golem' is, nor is he sufficiently cognizant of the technology in play here to doubt what Sif says - after all, she's the native, and she's also the woman with the axe. And so, as she begins to hack apart the corpse-machine still in its capsule, Michael turns and falls upon the closest of the same that have emerged nearby, gleaming red claws slashing open the thorax of the cyborged corpse. Sparks and white flame spew from the creature as it goes down, spasming in its death throes, as another turns to bear its attention upon him and begin an implacable approach.

    One lifts its arm, gray flesh laced with greenish steel, and levels the trunklike device that has replaced its forearm at him. A flash of blue-white light snaps past him, barely missing, striking the side of the platform and leaving a welt of bright red, heated metal where it struck.

    << They're armed, >> Michael calls, moving to prepare to engage another. << Mind yourself, my lady! >>

Sif has posed:
"You don't say," Sif says dryly, amused expression on her face. The one that shot gets, however, a cold glance, not an amused one. Her eyes flick to the one she just destroyed and assesses the pod it came in. Two attachment points. Top one still on, bottom one almost corroded through.

It was time to show off.

Bottom attachment point almost vaporizes under her kick, so badly corroded is it, sending sparks flying as live conduits short circuit before whatever ancient safety systems may exist can shut it off. A leap up and a powerful swing of her axe severs the top. The tank totters and starts to fall ... right where Sif landed. Catching the pod mid-fall, she spins in place and launches it with almost literally incredible force at the offending technogolem. Plus two of its companions on its right. And three on its left.

"I'm armed as well," she says with a feral grin. "They should pay heed."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    There aren't /that/ many of the flesh-machines on the catwalk; Michael leaps off as the tank hurtles down the way, clearing them off and hurtling them into the Jovian clouds. A whole section of catwalk is torn free where the tank makes contact, and from the conduit from which the pod was wrenched a shower of sparks and white flame is spat into the air. Silence again, other than the howling of the winds, and Michael, razor-tipped wings unfurled, swoops back down to alight upon the remaining decking nearby.

    << Well, >> he says, << That was...unexpected. Warn a fellow next time, won't you? >>

Sif has posed:
"The unexpected is usually the most beneficial battlefield tactic," Sif says primly, though her eyes are dancing as she enjoys the ability to just break out. Something hungry in her eyes shows up, like she's craving battle that's been long-stymied. "That which is expected can be planned against."

She gestures at the platform's pods and equipment. "They did not expect someone to pick up a pod and use it as a weapon. They thus did not plan for it, and it shows."

A quick leap and Sif is next to Michael. "Shall we proceed further, or should we perhaps merely destroy it by dismantling it?" Something in her face suggests she'd want to do the latter, but it's being suppressed by ... wisdom.

Michael Erickson has posed:
    With the corpse-machines largely scattered, Michael stalks across the deck to find one yet still intact, if rent open by his talons upon the initial rush. << This one is deactivated, >> he tells her, and reaches down to pluck up the hateful thing as easily as if it were made of paper. << I'd like to take this back with us, back to Midgard. May I stow it on board for the moment? >> He uses her own terms for familiarity, fellowship. He's hardly got any attachments to the word the humans use for the rock.

    A glance down the way, at more storage tanks, the slumbering cannon blisters that seem to grow out of the framework like horned tumors. << I'd like to continue investigation. If the facility's made to create these things, it's poor workmanship - this thing looks like it's meant to fix machines by design, not break them. >>

Sif has posed:
"Certainly. I'll have it brought back to Midgard once we're finished."

Sif's own gaze strays down the tanks and cannon blisters. "I will proceed slowly, carefully, while you stow it. If something comes up that looks hazardous, I will stop and await your return before progressing."

And with that she does precisely what she says: advances slowly, shield at the ready, sword in hand, the axe safely stowed at her hip again, angling so her shield is between her and the weapons-looking blisters.

"I suspect the workmanship is a product of age as well."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << Agreed. >>

    And then he is off, easily leaping from the deck to the skiff with the ragged corpse in hand; whilst he swiftly binds it to the deck, Sif's explorations take her further along. Indeed, age has done much to blight the metal, though its odd porportions and ghoulish servitors seem a product of deliberate - if alien - minds, aesthetics beyond ken of these most humanoid of beings. It makes the eyes swim to stare at it for too long. Furthermore, the guns that anoint the cannon blisters are too large to endanger the goddess; they are anti-material cannons of some kind or another, and their barrels too long and too thick.

    But there /are/ control stations up ahead, circular panels arranged into batteries set into structural areas between tanks. Slumbering, their controls are irregular oblongs of metal into which recessed studs have been set. Perfect for long fingers, long enough to fit into the channels. But not human hands, or analagous. Odd.

Sif has posed:
Sif weighs the control formats and ponders. Her fingers are not long enough. Perhaps Michael with his talons might reach far enough. But she has talons too. Well, one. Her dagger.

She pulls out said dagger and spins it in her hand lazily as she considers the possible outcomes should she just jam it down into the channels. On the one hand ... she can really only do one at a time. On the other, anything Michael does would be as randomly selected as what she does so...

Thus does Michael find her, staring down at the controls, sword sheathed, long, slender dagger in her hands, spinning in ornate finger exercises. Without looking up she asks, "Shall we experiment or just destroy?"

Michael Erickson has posed:
    Ahhh, the old icicle treatment - and while Sif's ministrations are inexpert, given the foreign nature of the technology, they nonetheless awaken response from the odd panels. Displays light up, livid green glyphs appearing in swirls and patterns; gutteral voices emit from hidden speakers. With further probing, the image of what look like engineering schema appear. Or at least diagnostic displays.

    << Well, >> Michael says as he arrives again at Sif's shoulder, peering at the displays. << I can't read that. Can you? >>

Sif has posed:
"Yes," Sif says without even looking up from the displays that light up. "This is a refinery. It's taking gases from this atmosphere and converting it into something which seems to either be fuel or some other alchemical concoction for industrial use. It seems to be relatively new, a mere four or five centuries, but it has been unregarded, perhaps forgotten. And its construction is quite slipshod so it is falling apart."

Getting a feel now for how the constrols might be working, she pops up some more displays until she finds the one she wants. "See, this seems to be some kind of alert function. It has been alerting operators for a century just by itself. It's one of several such."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << Ah, I see, >> Michael murmurs, drumming talonpoints across the tank against which he leans. << Well if it's in that much disrepair...is it stable, do you think? Should we bring it down? >>

Sif has posed:
"My feeling is that this will not be here for much longer. Perhaps another century at most, if the shoddy workmanship and decay are anything to go by and applicable facility-wide."

Her eyes take in the tanks which had disgorged the misshapen, mechanized defenders.

"But is that wise to leave even that short a time?" she asks. "How many more creatures like those are there? Perhaps it is best to find a way to cause this to fall to its doom."

Michael Erickson has posed:
    << I've had cause to investigte the thing in the boat, >> Michael replies. << Definitely some kind of...robot, I suppose. Probably uses the corpse as the initial structure and then additional devices are laid in. I've heard of such technology before, but my people've banned it in the Empire. >>

    Michael leans in to squint at the displays, his own keen intelligence able to put together only so much without benefit of literacy. << Well perhaps we'd do well to disable whatever method it's using to keep aloft, and then let it fall into the lower atmosphere. Let it be crushed with the higher gravity. >> He goes to run his hand through his hair, remembers his current state ad thinks beter of it. Barely. << See if you can hunt down where the motive system is located. Perhaps you can turn it off from here and make it easy for us all. >>

    The antigravitic engine used to suspend the complex, of course, is down in the core, connected to its fusion reactor. Neither can be shut down from here, of course. Because then it would be easy.

Sif has posed:
Sif passes the good news on, then pushes up the display that shows the layout. "There are two paths we could take. We can go internally here and if I am reading this diagram correctly--I have to deal with miners and sappers in my work, so some of their ways of communication have rubbed off--it should be possible to sever the manna streams that feed this device here, from this location."

Her hand points to what looks like the antigravity complex and a place where a large, highlighted conduit links it to the power source.

"The other option is to go from without and attack the power source directly. I have with me the spear Geirr which can penetrate ... most mortal constructs with ease."

She says it so matter-of-factly. Not even bragging.

"I understand you have ranged weapons as well. Perhaps a combination of loosing your arrows until the worst is abraded away followed by a launch of Geirr into its heart can cause the power system to fail."

Likely in a spectacular fashion.