White Owl Stowaway

The glowing patterns seemed alive, hunting. Brilliant paisley-like patterns slid along indigo borders, pouncing on sudden gaps, flooding niches and crannies.

Tink contemplated the lavenderish swirls writhing across the octagonal screen which hovered about two inches above her navigation console. It made her recall how she had attracted, sort of tamed, and then re-programmed some highly specialized nanobots.

She trained them to meld with The White Owl’s navigation. They handled targeting, maneuvering, stationkeeping, and constantly updated precise angles of 11-D jumps.

If the nanos had not been capable of doing such precisely matched routines when skimming the edges of tangled quantum bubbles, the White Owl’s wake trail would begin oscillating. And if these oscillations were not instantly counteracted, amplitudes would swing wider and wider…until her ship – and possibly the intersecting universes – might suddenly rearrange, or even shred to self-destruction.

However, her bots had consistently been flawless at skipping the Owl along the constantly interweaving seams with a very deft, very light touch. Now, even the newest crop of bots were so good at anticipating seam drift, they could do it nearly as well as she could.

Smooth, no bumping, no jarring – which meant no damage to either her ship or any tangential universes. They no longer needed constant babysitting. Tink had finally adjusted to allowing J.R. Red to oversee them.

Without warning her musing was cut off by a sudden stab of pain and fear.

It wasn’t her own! It had come from her stowaway, who had been confined to the barge within the isolation cargo hold where she had detected him.

Her teal-ringed eyes instantly swiveled toward the screen which displayed the interior of said cargo barge.

There was a big Terran male, who lay crumpled and gasping in one corner. The sheen of his black spacing leathers made him look like a rumpled pile of garbage bags.

Tink skimmed the edges of his unconscious mind for a second, and then a group of odd sparkles converged within those bluey greeny grey eyes. She focused on the figure in the cargo hold and filled it with the same sparkles.

Then it just disappeared.

“Omagosh!” Tink squealed, remembering that The White Owl’s intraship transporters were currently delivering leftover food and trash to its recovery systems.

Long sleek fingers rapidly stabbed at transport sliders — forcing a redirect — and an intensely sparkly shape resembling a low pile of garbage bags materialized on the floor in front of her console.


~ by tinkianmotion on March 17, 2010.

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