On The Night of the 4th

"And that is why we throw apples down the river on Midsummer night", the Storyteller concluded.

The children listening to the story looked at her in awe now. She surely knew everything.

"Will you tell us about the 4th of July, too?" asked Jimmy once again, hoping this time he'd get to hear it.

The Storyteller considered for a moment. Then she decided, "Very well then. I shall tell you. For you see. On July the 4th..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Mortimer sat in the mess hall with his closest associates. Senior Science Officer Petros Guantanamo, and Bridge officers Lt. Jeb Reed and Lt. Cass Ette. It was a Tuesday. A normal day, like any other day.

The friends were eating in relative silence, focusing on their food, thinking about their respective upcoming shifts or personal agendas for the day.

Jeb sighed and pushed away his shepherd's pie. "That was better than I expected, Mortimer. Maybe I will try more of the daily specials."

Mortimer nodded. "Good! I've got to get rid of this stigma that the special is just what cooks had extra of or are just trying to pawn off! Especially since I can't help by eating it, now that I'm watching my diet," he replied, as he sipped some pea soup he'd made for himself and then brought to the mess hall.

Cass shook her head. "I still think the specials are more about making things easier for the chefs than having to make something individual for every person," she said. "And while I see the usefulness of that, I still want my honestly very simple BLT." She smiled as she bit into the last triangular quarter of the sandwich.

Now it was Petros who shook his head. "Not very much protein to stand on there," he said, as he pointed at his baked lemon butter tilapia. "This will keep me going all through my night shift."

Cass wrinkled her nose. "Eigh. Fish."

Mortimer chuckled. "Heh. Heheh. Fish in space."

Jeb turned to Mortimer. "Did Petros ever tell you about the time the artificial gravity went out, and the Aquaponics bay created 'flying fish?'"

Petros frowned deeply. "A lot of good fish died. It smelled awful."

"Like your dead baked fish there?" Cass said.

"This is a delicious smell."

"It's a fishy smell."

"But baked!"

"Baked, grilled, breaded, dead, alive, fish still smells like fish."

Petros smiled snootily. "Perhaps to your uncultured nose!"

"It's certainly an acquired one, your nose!" Cass retorted with a sly grin.

"Speaking of grilled!" Jeb interrupted. "Is anyone else excited for the 4th of July?"

Mortimer glanced up from his pea soup. "4th of July?" He glanced at his watch for the date. It was the 26th of June. Just over a week. "Oh my!" The holiday celebrating the Battle of Nimbus Station, the first real victory of the Nexus Force, and the turning point of the war against the Maelstrom, had really snuck up on him. . .

Cass shrugged. "I guess. Not that it will be any more exciting than last year, but it'll be something different. Still, I'm not looking forward to covering other's shifts after they call in hung over."

Jeb blushed a bit. "Oh, never fear. I've learned from last year." He crossed his heart. "No more copious amounts of Yo-Ho-Ho for me."

Cass raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "I'll believe it when I see you standing on the 5th," she chuckled.

Mortimer raised an eyebrow of his own as he turned his attention from his watch to the other younger two officers.  (Petros was also younger than Mortimer, but still 20-some years older than the other two.)  "What sort of party is that?"

"Maxine's party," The two replied. He with some enthusiasm, she with some disdain.  

"It's basically a drinking party, with bad karaoke, loud music, and drinking games." Jeb said, grinning.

"It takes place on the main station, right under Commander Quinton's nose. Some say he secretly allows it, but..." Cass contemplated as she chewed.

"Oh, the Commander knows," Petros assured.

"What about fireworks?" Mortimer asked.

All three of the others laughed.

"No, I'm afraid not." Petros said.

"The Red Mythrans situation is too volatile." Cass explained.

"Besides!" Jeb added,  "we handle explosives all year round; that's not anything special." Jeb turned to Mortimer and chuckled again. "Your civvie side is showing."

Mortimer was openly surprised. "A Forth without fireworks???" This was anathema to him!

"Yeaup. 'Fraid so, Doctor." Jeb replied.

The table was silent for a moment as everyone except Mortimer was munching.

"What if I invented inside fireworks?" Mortimer blurted.

"Eh?" "Mmrh?" "Pardon?"

"Fireworks. For inside the station." Mortimer said. "I could bring it to this big bash you're talking about.

Cass gave him a disapproving stare. "Yeah, alcohol and explosives. Arn't you supposed to be smart, Mortimer?"

"Maybe it's not explosive!" Mortimer mused. Then he frowned, even as Cass snorted derisively. "No, it's no good if it's not dangerously explosive."

Petros leaned across the table to Mortimer. "What is this fixation with fireworks, Nathaniel?"

"Please, Petros; 'Doctor' or 'Mortimer'. Or both. Or Uncle."

Petros rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Fine, Uncle. Why are you insistent on fireworks? Have you never had a Fourth without them?"

Mortimer refocused from his floating thoughts back to his frineds. "Well, no. There were a few times without fireworks."

"And you lived, so this will be lik-" Began Jeb, but Mortimer interrupted him.

"But it will be the first time since my nephew came to live with me."

"-Oh."

"Peragrine and I always light some fireworks. Even if it was just the little... Um, what are they called- Aha!" Suddenly, Mortimer arose from his chair. "If you will excuse me, I must create!"

Petros started to get up, a warning finger in the air. "Nath-ah, Mortimer, might I suggest you-"

"Ah yes!" Mortimer pointed at Petros as he pushed his seat in and scooped up his dishes. "FIRST, I will talk with the Captain and obtain permission to create indoor fireworks, THEN I shall create!" With this, he gave a hearty "HUZZAH!" before dashing off with his dish, his labcoat flapping wildly behind him.

~~~~~~

"You want to what?" Captain Benedict asked Science Officer Mortimer. Not exasperated, not angry. Just seeking clarity.

"Indoor fireworks," Mortimer repeated. "Or rather, just... SAFE fireworks. For inside the station."

Captain Benedict stared at Mortimer, trying to imagine what 'safe indoor fireworks' would look like. A few ideas came to mind, but none that fit all three criteria.

"Dr, Mortimer, if you create something safe, indoor, that resembles fireworks, I'll be amazed. I assume this is about the upcoming 4th of July?"

"Yes indeed! I've not gone without celebrating it with fireworks for nigh on 20 years, and I'm not going to let a few little things like our current circumstances in this blockade stand in the way!"

"In that case, let me know if you do create something that you feel comfortable with, and maybe I'll talk with the commander about holding an ... actual celebration." Benedict said, poker-faced. "No promises."

Mortimer smiled. "Thank you, Captain. All I ask for is a shot."

"You have it; don't make me regret it."

~~~~~~

Mortimer already had schematics floating in his thoughts. The first one that had sprung to mind in the Mess Hall was what his Nephew had called 'Poppers'. Little wads of cigarette paper consisting of a small amount of gravel or coarse sand impregnated with a minute quantity of silver fulminate high explosive.

"That's... safe....?" Mortimer muttered. But could he make it even more safe? It was an interesting question, worthy of a hypothesis or two.

The other schematic was a step up, both in 'explosion' and 'safety', and he'd thought of it when Cass has understandably become skeptical. Basing it off of a hand-sparkler, It would be a wand, that, when 'lit', would simply cast a holoprojected effect of a normal sparkler. All of the flash with none of the dangerous substance... Still, this idea needed work. Having absolutely none of the dangerous substance pulled Mortimer's mental 'safety' slider too far over for it to be 'fun'.

The final current idea, he'd just thought of as he walked down a long hallway, and it continued off of his previous idea, messing with holograms.  It was somewhat of a staple when buying the biggest and most dangerous fireworks: A Dragon Firework. Mortimer fondly remembered lighting a dragon firework with Peragrine in the neighborhood, and scaring practically everyone living on their street with the swooping purple maelstrom dragon firework (And then having to rent a motel for the night before the cops showed up at the block demanding to know who set off an illegal 'big one'.). A less incendiary version would be amazing to behold inside the station.

Mortimer went straight to his quarters and got right to the drawing board, frantic to get his ideas out of his head before they lost their clarity. In no time at all, he had three basic schematics. But now he needed the materials in said schematics...

Looking back over them, now that they were safely written down, Mortimer could think of a few materials he could procure from requisitions... but some of the more exotic items would certainly raise eyebrows. Especially if he went with holograms as a main trick.  However, other items, like confettii or glitter, he'd have to make himself or...

"Hmmm..."

Walking over to his bedstand, he reached into a drawer and shuffled through various bits and bobs, scraps of paper and writing utensils, and food wrappers. Finally, he pulled out a business card.

"Aha! I knew I didn't throw it away!"

Why wait for requisitions to fill out a partial order, scrounge around for substitutes of what he couldn't get, and possibly ruin the surprise fireworks for everyone, when he could just call on an old friend and get everything delivered right away? Simpler, easier, more efficient, and leading to a better, more high-quality, end result! That is, if these schematics worked as he'd drawn them.

"Fiona Flights, don't fail me now!"

Mortimer hit the intercom in his room.

"Operator," came Cass's voice.

"Cass! This is Mortimer. I would like to make a call out to a civilian number."

"Oh? I don't think you have clearance for that. What's the number, and I'll see if I can get it cleared."

It took some time, but Cass eventually got him connected to Fiona Flights. Mortimer knew that since he didn't have clearance, this was probably being monitored... But Cass already knew about his potential surprise and it wasn't like he could do anything about it!"

"Fiona Flights, this is Fiona speaking."

"Fiona! It's your Uncle Mortimer!"

"Wha- Uncle Wh- Mor- OH!"

"Yes, you remember!"

"Mortimer! The Love Doctor!" she blurted out. "Um. I mean, Yes, I remember you."

Mortimer facepalmed. "I suppose I should tell you-"

"-That this call is monitored and recorded for security and training purposes, yeah, they told me," she muttered. "Sorry 'bout that."

Mortimer sighed and chuckled. "That's alright, I'll just have to 'own it' as my Nephew says."

"Well, I'm sure you called me for a legitimate reason, other than to be called names," Fiona said, redirecting the conversation.

"Ah yes!" Mortimer recollected his thoughts away from snickering colleagues he knew were in his future, and back onto the reason for his call. "I'd like you to deliver me a few things..."

"What sorts of things?" Fiona asked, as the familiar tone grew more professional and businesslike.

"It's all above board, rest assured!"

"Of course."

"Also a few things that I already own."

"...Of course. Let's talk compensation."

"Your usual fee, plus recompense for purchased goods."

"Hmm... I'd usally require compensation for shopping around for these items, but... For you, I'll do it." A hint of teasing snuck into the professionalism. "Now, tell me about these items."

"You're going to need a pen and paper." Mortimer warned. "It's not a long list, but there are specifics."

The two went back and forth setting up the order, taking the better part of an hour, as Mortimer drew up schematics for a fourth idea. His coup de grace. His Finale. A fire-cracker breathing dragon. After finally hanging up, with an estimated delivery time of a mere three days, Mortimer re-evaluated his plans.

"I can complete perhaps two of these more safer ones with what I have," Mortimer reasoned aloud, as he stared at the schematics on the floor, his hands on his hips. "That will give me only three or four days at best to complete the last two most complicated designs before the party."

A familiar panic and nervous energy began to fill him, and he stretched his back, joints popping and cracking. A slight yelp and sigh of relief escaped him as he popped his neck.  He ignored the warning signs.

"I can do this. I can do this!" he reassured himself.

~~~~~

Mortimer awoke to his alarm the next morning at his desk. The synthesized sounds of home. The sound of birds twittering and the yowl of a cat.

"Computer, turn off alarm. I'm awake," he muttered from his desk.

Stiff as a board, he shoved off the desk and immediately felt the fact that he'd spend all night doubled over his plans and smaller component crafting.

Mortimer considered his options. Painkillers and work his shift, or use some of his sick time and work more on the first two parts of his project?

He experimented with his range of motion. Verdict? He had none.

"Painkillers for a certainty!" Mortimer declared. As he acquired some from his bedstand drawer, he also considered the fact that he would need some tea, and the majority of his project wouldn't arrive for three days. He decided he would wait to use his sick time all at once when all of his materials were here and ready for him to use.

"Until then, it's business as usual."

~~~~~~

'Business as usual' consisted of his normal shift of work in the Science branch of the blockade. Sometimes he worked on other ships, but the bulk of his work was in the Venture Quest's Medlab, tending to various scientific endeavors, and on occasion, various ill crewmates.

Mortimer enjoyed his work. He enjoyed his fellow science associates, and was impressed with the many new things he was learning every day. He took a great interest in expanding his doctorate knowledge beyond the mechanical into the biological. He found great pleasure in learning how to more directly help and cure people of what ailed them. He loved to bring a smile to their faces, as it brought one to his.

But of late... it had become somewhat... repetitive. The same people. The same tests. The same charts. The same room. The same patients with their same chronic pains or illnesses, and the same prescriptions...

Which is why he'd leapt at a new challenge. Something to re-ignite his old creativity. Something more like what he and Perry would do! Fireworks! Unorthodox, tricky, dangerous but not dangerous fireworks!

Mortimer found it hard to focus on the mundane work, but he got through it, and each night he would work on the bits of his projects that he could, till he passed out, his bed unslept in.

Eventually, three days passed, and Mortimer finished his tasks early, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Aero and his shipment of items from Fiona Flights, which had sent a message ahead of itself, announcing it's arrival.  

With pre-approved clearance, Mortimer watched as the little egg-shaped ship landed in the specified bay, and Fiona stepped out. Mortimer rushed out into the now-pressurized bay along with the usual security forces and loading mechs.

"Fiona!" Mortimer called. "It's good to see you!"

Fiona turned from one of the Security grunts who was already accosting her about the slightly higher mass of the ship than was reported.  "Dr. Mortimer! Good to see you! Anything you can do about these jerks?"

Mortimer nodded and shrugged at the same time, even as the Security Grunt began defending himself.

"Look, all I'm saying is, you had a specific amount cleared for entry, according to the manifest you gave us, so I'm just questioning why you of all people don't know where the extra mass came from, unless you're not the person who sent us this!"

Mortimer dodged the various other people now milling around the ship. Refuling, unloading, security sweeping, securing, and many other things besides. Now at Fiona and the Grunt's side, Mortimer put a friendly hand on the Grunt, and leaned over to glance at the nametag.

"Dooley, is it?" Mortimer remarked casually. "Don't be alarmed, m'boy, Fiona is a fine, upstanding citizen of the Nimbus System. I've simply asked for a few things from home, all cleared with command beforehand as well." He said airily.

"Officer Dooley," replied the grunt. "And while I'm certain everything submitted is here, it's what's not been submitted that I'm concerned with."

Fiona rolled her eyes. "Obviously, there's more than just what's for the good doctor. I have other deliveries to make."

Officer Dooley squinted. "All the same, we're going to check everything. By the book, that's how I do things on my shift."

Mortimer smiled once more at the immovable officer, then glanced back at Fiona, and shrugged weakly. Today, his old man charm would not work, it seemed.

Fiona sighed, but did not get in the way as the grunts filed past her and began rummaging through her ship for Dr. Mortimer's things. While they did so, she talked with Mortimer.

"So, how's life on the blockade treating you?" she asked, looking him up and down.

Mortimer smiled, and straightened his work labcoat. "Fairly well, actually! Though I'm rather surprised by how tiring it can be sometimes. Still, I think I only have myself to blame for that one."

"I was going to say, you look a bit more worn that when I last saw you here." Fiona said, an apologetic smile forming.

Mortimer nodded, chuckling quietly. "Yes, I admit I haven't been quite taking care of myself. I've been up all night preparing for this shipment to come in."

"Preparing?"

"Yes, it's going to be an excellent fireworks display for the Forth of July."

"Oh, yes, I think you explained a bit of that in the phone call."

"Did I?" Mortimer rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling. "Perhaps I did."

Fiona glanced back at her ship, and the dour face of Officer Dooley standing outside the ramp. They were almost finished. "Well, if you ever need anything else, you know who to call, Dr. Mortimer."

Mortimer drew his attention back to Fiona. "Yes, I will. Oh!" he looked around, smiling. "I meant to ask you, where is Tuk? How are you two getting along?"

Fiona seemed put off-balance by the question, but only for a moment. "He's not here." She sighed, looking back at the ship.

"Oh? Why's that?" Mortimer asked, a knot of worry beginning to form.

Fiona didn't answer right away, causing Mortimer to continue.

"You two didn't break up, did you?"

"No, no..." She said, her hands going to her pockets. Her frown looking at her boots, kicking up what little dust and dirt there was on the hanger floor.

When she didn't immediately continue, Mortimer did. "Is he dead?"

"What?!"  That caught Fiona's attention, and she looked at Mortimer in surprise.

"Well, if he's not here, and you're not happy about it, he's got to be otherwise indisposed, and I don't know what could be so powerful as to keep you two lovebirds apart, but the first thing I think of is the GREAT BEYOND!" Mortimer exclaimed, gesturing grandly.

This got more than a few passing looks from others in the hanger, but only Fiona continued to stare for more than a moment. Eveyrone else had things to do, and Dr. Mortimer was known, if for nothing else, than for his harmless eccentricity.

When Mortimer saw Fiona's surprised and confused face, he attempted to clarify.

"The Big Sleep? The Final Destination? Death? Grim Reaper? Come now, you're a spacer, you've seen the infinite void and thought about this, haven't you?"

Fiona finally recovered, unsure whether to laugh or groan or sigh again. "Heh, Um, yes, Uncle. I've thought about how my life would end. But no-" Fiona shook her head harshly, and her short red hair threatened to come undone from it's bun. "No, Tuk's not dead. He's at Nexus City. Probably at his apartment, or maybe at the hanger. I dunno."

"Why's he not here with you?"

"He didn't want to come, that's all."

Mortimer clearly knew that wasn't 'all', but his sense of tact stopped him from saying so bluntly. But before he could formulate a proper response, Fiona continued.

"He's not- It's not bad, Uncle. He just isn't in love with the stars- the infinite void, like you said- like I am.  He's a homebody." Some of the previous harshness faded a bit from her countenance. "He's in love with me, but not with what I do. And I don't know how to feel about that."

A slight understanding began to dawn on Mortimer. "Ah. He wants to settle down, and you want to... not settle down?"

"I want to go on more adventures, yeah!" Fiona said, her hair flicking around as she smiled appreciativly at Mortimer. Then she turned back to the window. "This Universe is too big to stay in one place!" She looked out towards the nearest window of the hanger, where some distant planets were slowly coming into view.  "I mean, you're an adventurous type, right, Uncle Mortimer? You're here instead of home on Nimbus Station."

"Not exactly by choice, but I know what you're describing. The need to see more, do more, be more than just one place."

"Adventure!" Fiona cried, moving towards the window.

"Adventure. That's what my nephew craved."

"Your nephew has good taste, then." She said, staring out the window. "This Universe needs to be explored. I was meant to see as much of it as I can before I die. I feel that continual pull into deeper and deeper space. But things keep me from going to far. Things like money... Society... Dangers... Family..." She turned back, only able to glance once at a patiently listening Mortimer. "...Tucker."

Mortimer came over, and took a look outside the window himself. "I'm not an adventurous type."

Fiona looked up. "But you used to be?"

"No."

"...But you're here for your nephew, who is?"

"That's right. I told you as much when I got that ride from you that brought me here."

"So, you don't know the feeling I'm describing, except your nephew's described it to you?"

"Yes. And I suppose I'm Peragrine's 'Tuk'."

Fiona squinted her eyes thoughtfully at a musing Mortimer. "Do you resent your nephew's sense of adventure?"

"No. Definetly not." Mortimer was instantaneous with his answer, but his thoughtful face deepened.

"But...?" Fiona asked.

"...But I do get tired of being the anchor."

Fiona blinked. "So stop being the anchor. That's what you did; you uprooted yourself and are now chasing him all the way here."

Mortimer nodded. "It's an imperfect example, Peragrine and I. But still an example. Here's the difference: With Peragrine, we spent many years in one place. In my place, down in Nimbus Station." He turned to Fiona. "You saw it. All the things we did. That basement is filled with junk. And all that junk represents different adventures. Which, by the way, I won't be surprised if I find some things out of place. I'm very particular about how and where I left things, and so is my cat."

Fiona smiled, and placed a hand over her spark. "On my honor as a Spacer, I didn't not steal nothing."

Mortimer waggled his eyebrows and returned to his train of thought. "If it's adventure you're looking for, it's adventure you'll find. But I find that the greatest adventures are shared."

There was a brief silence as Fiona internalized that. They both stared out of the window.

Mortimer continued.  "The greatest and most memorable adventures I've had were not because of the location, or the danger, or the treasure. It was because I was sharing them with my nephew. Granted, before my nephew came along... I...."

Suddenly, Mortimer groaned, putting a hand to his forehead, where pain was blooming in furious tidal waves.

"Mortimer?" Fiona asked. "Are you-"

He closed his eyes against the suddenly very bright light of the far-off stars and planets. His groan turned into a growl as he doubled over, and in a wave of darkness, he lost consciousness.

Fiona caught the old man, and lowered him to the floor. "Doctor? Doctor! We need a medic here! Mortimer, can you hear me?"

~~~~~

Mortimer was in his room. His room on the station. Not home. The station wasn't home.

He was formulating the Big one. He wanted it to be a big Purple Maelstrom dragon. He wanted to give the folks a good scare. It would also breath fire. Rather, fireworks. A Dragon flying through a firefight. Remote controlled drones dressed up like minature Nexus Force fighters and such would fly around it, shooting fireworks or lasers.

The timing would be tricky. Synchronizing the various incendiaries with the few holograms, light shows, and multiple physical components would require precision.

Did he have that precision? Some nervous energy welled up inside him, but he shoved it down. Of course he did. He was a brilliant scientist.

This finale with the Maelstrom Dragon. Part glitter-filled pinata, part hologram, and part fireworks. The main body was the pinata, streaming small bits of glitter, with the holographic wings, legs and tail. The head would be partially physical, holding and hiding some sort of firebreathing. Maybe holographic fireworks. Maybe a honest to goodness scrap-built flame-thrower he wouldn't tell the Captain about. Then it would fly out the window, and perfectly fade into the mysterious inky black of space. The Pinata would scrunch up like an accordion, blowing glitter everywhere, and collapse into the head, and the packed up head would then drop to the floor, out of sight.

He wasn't sure if the Captain or the Admiral would allow him to do anything outside, hologram or otherwise. If he could, he might do some holographic projectors on the outside of the station, the better to help it transition into black. Or maybe expand the whole idea to swim in and out of the big windows of the observation deck that he intended to use.

To be honest, it was a little frustrating. Here he was, a brilliant scientist, ready to make a brilliant show, brighten some lives, and as always Nexus Force was telling him that it wasn't good.

Too frivolous.

Too dangerous.

Too chaotic.

Well. He'd show them.  He'd get what he wanted, eventually.

He always had.

He turned around. Now he was in his room. Now he was home.

He sat at his small desk. His little blocky laptop had the necessary components strapped, wired, and duct taped all over it.

Now he was sitting down.

Now he was logging into the Nexus Tower Database.

It asked for his credentials. He looked to his right. Pulled out the drawer.

'Einey, meiny, miney, mo.'

He shuffled the credentials around, and fished one out.

They weren't his credentials, but they certainly wouldn't be missed. His old Virus would make sure of that.

'I have my nephew to thank for that.'

He inputs the credentials of some Sentinel Grunt, and then tosses it into his left desk drawer, with the other used ones.

'Thank you, PatientPurplishPilot. May your sacrifice in this war forever be remembered.' He chuckled to himself, as his virus causes the system to forget that these credentials belong to someone now deceased. He only ever used these things once, to avoid suspicion, but his nephew always brought more fresh ones.

Such is war.

As the system logged him in with the limited access of the Sentinel Grunt, a voice from behind him interrupts.

"Uncle?"

Mortimer twists around in his chair, but for some reason, isn't able to look up as his very tall, grown up nephew. "Yes, Nephew?"

"Remind me why you like to keep track of those lost in the war?"

Mortimer thinks about it for a moment, before coming up with a good excuse. "Well, nephew. You know I'm not much of the religious type."

"Yeah?"

"So I understand why you might be confused as to why I'm collecting the names of people who've passed on..."

"Sortof.  Mostly, I just wonder what other reason there would be other than-"

"Consider it my own investigation into faith. Do good people die good deaths? Do bad people die bad ones? Or do good and bad people die random deaths no matter how good or bad they lived?"

There was a pause in which Mortimer attempted to look up, but his back wouldn't twist that way, and the strangness of the lights, and geometry of the room made Mortimer realize he was dreaming.

"Uncle, it's not about how people lived, or died. It's not about works. It's about admitting there's no way we could possibly do enough wor-"

"Anyway, Peragrine, you're not really here, and we never had this conversation."

"...I guess not."

Mortimer turned back to his laptop. Now that he realized he was dreaming, he recalled this particular memory. This particular experiment.

This was a time he hadn't gotten what he wanted. The Blades of Chaos Schematic. The Paradox Valiant for Shinobis that had been unreleased at the time.

Was it released now? Mortimer couldn't remember.

He looked on either side of the clunky laptop. An Imagination-Infused Knockout Gas sprayer on either side.

He glanced down at his chair. Yes. He was securely fastened with a lap belt.

Twisting around, he checked his bedroom.

He was alone. Peragrine was gone on a mission. The doors were locked. Giblette the cat was away. Windows shuttered. Minimal furniture. Just in case this didn't work.

Paradox files were the worst to hack. The most devious security, and the fact it was all Maelstrom oriented...

Really aggravated his condition.

At the thought of it, some of that nervous energy began to build up. He made a conscious decision to turn that nervous energy into a giddy one, and let it flow through him. Excitement. Not nervousness.

All the variables. All the danger. The thrill of this upcoming chase. The unknowable chaos of it all... Skill versus skill. The closest he would ever come to doing battle at his age. Hopefully. Matching wits against a worthy opponent in an arena that he was a master of.

He could feel his fingers getting itchy. His hacking hands.

He looked down at his hands, gripping the sides of the armchair.

His claws, scoring the sides of the armchair.

His 8 digit hands. Purple and white arcs of chaotic, violent lightning bouncing between his 5 normal digits, and 3 shorter claws. A claw below his thumb. A claw between his pointer and middle finger. And a final claw between his ring and pinky finger.

His Stromling hands, intertwined with his normal hands.

His vision clouds over with lovely lavender, and he grins wide.

"That schematic, and anything else that takes my fancy, is as good as mine." He hears himself say, as he reaches out towards his laptop, and begins interfacing directly with the system.

The Nexus Tower System doesn't stand a chance.

"Catch me if you can, Naomi."

A flash of light, and Mortimer is somewhere else.

It's bright here. He hears a steady beeping.

"Am I still dreaming?" he says.

"He's awake," a voice says. "But I wouldn't tell him too much right now. He's probably going to be very disoriented with the time, alright?"

"I understand," says a tougher, deeper voice... Almost familiar....

"I mean, it's been at least-"

"I know."

Suddenly a grizzled, middle aged man looms into Mortimer's field of view. It takes a moment, but Mortimer realizes it's the face of Rusty Steele.

And then it clicks. This is another memory.

"Hello, Doctor Mortimer. You've been gone awhile," Rusty says.

"I... have?" the memory of Mortimer replies.

"Yeah. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I... Give me a moment."

"It's alright if you can't. I just want to know where I stand with you."

"We were working on Nexus Tower. The propulsion systems. Everything was going fin- wait!"

"The Maelstrom Calvary?" Rusty asked.

Mortimer JOLTED up and in response, multiple monitors and hookups blared alarms at his fast movement and readjustment.

"ADALAINE!"

"What the br- Doctor!"

Mortimer looked around wildly.  Suddenly, everything seemed very sharp, and loud.

"Nathaniel, lie back down, for crying out loud." A different, but also male voice said

Moritmer whipped around to the source of the deep tone.

There was Petros Guantanamo, silencing the various monitors and sensors, by his bedside.

Wait, his bedside? Was he still dreaming?

Mortimer slowly laid back against his bed, even as Dr. Guantanamo raised it up a bit so Mortimer could look around.

"Where... am I?"

"Sick bay. What's the last thing you remember?"

Mortimer gently shook his head, suddenly feeling very senile. Extremely disoriented. "Just a moment. I need to reorient myself. Please tell me the year."

Petros glanced back at Mortimer with a single raised eyebrow of worry. "3032 AF. Or in local time, the 6th Year of thedude." Dr. Guantanamo picked up a clipboard from the floor. "So you were having some intense dreams. That might explain these strong readings I was getting."

Something struck a warning bell deep inside Mortimer. "What readings?" He was definitely not dreaming anymore. His head felt like a burning volcano, but instead of dulling his senses, they accentuated everything. The light, the sounds, the sterile smells... But he didn't want to complain, so instead he focused on what would help him. Dr. Guantanamo.

"First, tell me what you last remember, Patient Nathaniel," the doctor said, scribbling on his clipboard.

Mortimer glanced around while he thought about it.

Indeed, he was in sickbay. Right now, it was just him and Petros. That was a relief.  

"Well. OH!" With a great sense of relief, Mortimer's memory finally began filling back in, as he reoriented himself to reality. "Fiona, where is she?"

"Is that what you last remember?"

"I was speaking with Fiona, at hanger bay... I don't remember the number."

"That's fine. What were you talking about, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Life. Love. Stuff. Things." Mortimer shook his head. "I was talking about my own life. In those matters." He blinked twice. "In fact, I probably shouldn't be talking to you about this, that was a private conversation, and-"

"Fiona's still aboard the station. She told me about as much concerning your conversation." Dr. Guantanamo assured Mortimer. "She'll be glad to hear you're awake. When you collapsed in convulsions, she thought you were having some sort of seizure, or spark attack."

"Was I?"

"... I'm still not sure."

"Do you have my previous health history?"

"Actually, other than your latest physical when you applied to join the Nexus Force here on the Blockade and a few different unrelated notes for when you got some prescriptions here, no. Which is something I wanted to talk to you about, but before that..."

Dr. Guantanamo finally put the clipboard down and came to Mortimer's bedside. Moritmer could see that Guantanamo's face was more dour than usual. Something was puzzling him. Concerning him, deeply.

"Tell me, Guantanamo. Whatever it is, I can take it."

Dr. Guantanamo took a deep breath. "Have you ever been exposed to Maelstrom before?"

Mortimer blinked twice, and suddenly, he was back there. With the cavalry. Distantly, he heard himself reply 'Yes' to Guantanamo, but he didn't see him, or hear his response.

Instead, he saw the beautiful, terrifying, majestic, skeletal horsemen. Their only warcry, the rattling sound of their mounts and armor. He's lying on his back in the dirt, watching them race by on either side of him. Their ethereal scraps brushing past his face... Slowly, he turns to look directly ahead, knowing what's about to hit him...

There it is. Oh Crux, it's in slow motion, it's horrible. A horse has fallen, and it's rider goes flying over Mortimer, but with it's momentum, the skeletal horse's brilliantly white skull slams into Mortimer. He closes his eyes against it, as he hears the sickening crunch.

"Nathaniel. Snap out of it."

Mortimer opens his eyes. There's Guantanamo.

"It happened again. Your spark. The monitor couldn't pick it up correctly." Guantanamo pointed to the Spark monitor, as he showed Mortimer a very low, but rapid, rate of frequency.

Guantanamo continued. "It didn't make sense, because your pulse was still going strong... it just wasn't imagination that was pulsing." He turned back to Moritmer, and now Mortimer noticed his concern wasn't just confusion and frustration.

It was fear.

"Nathaniel, you have a Chaotic Spark."

....

Mortimer studied Guantanamo. "Have you told anyone else?"

"No. Doctor-Patient confidentiality. But..."

"Having maelstrom about the station is no minor bug to scoot under the rug."

"Yes. Which is why I need your permission to release that particular detail about your care to the Captain."

Mortimer considered a moment. This was going to be an interesting conversation. Hopefully, he could rely on Guantanamo's professionalism to keep him steady. "I want a physical done."

Guantanamo took a moment to understand. "What?"

"A physical. To prove I'm in fine health and ready to return to duty." Mortimer pointed at the Spark Monitor. "Clearly, your machine is working fine now. Let's test it. Or bring any other equipment that you think isn't faulty. I want to see this for myself."

"You don't believe me? Nathaniel I have the data-"

"I know, but I want to see it for myself." Here, Mortimer more carefully began unhooking himself from various sensors and sat up on the edge of the bed.

"Nathaniel this-"

"Mortimer, if you please."

"Sir, this is more serious than you're making it to be. There have only been a few other cases such as yours, and most of them end up dead or worse."

"I'm well aware. Which is why I want a physical done."

"Mortimer, a physical could be your death, right now. What you need is rest, and perhaps an Imagination Infusion, if that doesn't immediately kill you." Guantanamo sighed in exasperation, using a hand to slick his hair back. "First, we need to identify what causes these Chaotic Pulses. Then we can figure out how a chaotic and imaginative pulse can come from the same person..."

"Ah." So Guantanamo was thinking that far ahead already. "You're not going to turn me in to Paradox or make me some sort of lab rat, are you, Petros?"

Petros stopped his pacing and looked back at Mortimer, hurt that Mortimer would ask such a thing. "Nathaniel, no.  You're my friend." He sighed again. "That's what makes this so difficult. I don't want to get you in trouble, but... you need help. And policy-wise, there's a lot of contradictions here, so I'm just trying to figure out what the right thing to do here is..."

Moritmer lowered his eyes at Petros. "I understand, doctor. As a Patient, I want a physical. That can tell us what you- I mean... we. Need to know." As Petros was going to argue against it, Mortimer doubled down, swinging his legs over the bedside. "I promise, I won't push myself too hard. If I feel faint at all, I'll call it off. But I think you'll be surprised, Doctor."  He slid off, and suddenly realized that the floor was very cold, and his legs felt pretty breezy.

"Ah, hospital gown. Lovely." Mortimer cracked a senile grin at Guantanamo. "Excellent taste, sir."

Too tense to smile, Guantanamo's shoulders drooped just a bit to show his appreciation for Moritmer's retained sense of humor. "All right, Mortimer. Uncle. We'll do a light physical. But if I see any spark pulse fluctuations, the whole thing is off and I get to tell the captain right away. Deal?"

Mortimer smiled. "I think, policy or no policy, you'll end up telling your Captain your concerns, on or off the record, either way. Casual conversation-like. But feel free to prove me wrong, friend."

Guantanamo frowned, but quickly got to work.

~~~~~

The test was over. Mortimer was resting.

Guantanamo was not.

The test results were... surprisingly good. But they also didn't match up.  His standard Sparkrate didn't match his efforts in jogging or lifting.

That is, until Guantanamo figured in the non-imagination sparkbeats. The chaotic ones.

It seemed that when ever Mortimer began to exert himself, a rush of adrenaline would trigger a chaotic response, and that would resupply his failing Imagination Spark.  These chaotic pulses didn't register on the Spark Monitor, but they did register on a maelstrom detector directly trained on Mortimer at maximum sensitivity.

In other words, one had to be looking to find it.

Guantanamo looked at the Spark Monitor now. Resting, Mortimer's sparkrate looked perfectly normal for his advanced age.  Recently, Mortimer had reported feeling much more tired, much more quickly, and the two of them had attributed this to the fact that his body was used to living close to the Imagination Nexus.  Now, so far out, his body was beginning to deteriorate without it's regenerative effects near him. To help, Mortimer now had a prescription for Imagination-Infused Hiccup tablets, in case he ever needed them. Supposedly, he had been using them, and they had been helping...

Guantanamo frowned as he went back to the office portion of the medical bay.

Yes, there was something else he needed to check.

Setting down his notes and findings in the office, he ruffled through Mortimer's belongings, feeling dirty.

'I could simply ask him... But I need to know the truth, and quickly.' Snatching Mortimer's badge from his coat, Guantanamo stared at it a moment, rationalizing his not-quite to code behaviour. 'Something tells me that Mortimer isn't being as forthcoming as he perhaps should be. But I don't have the time or luxury to beat around the bush with him about this. If Maelstrom's involved, it's bigger than just him. Or just me.'

Pocketing his fellow doctor's credentials, he strode out of the office, locked it behind him, and left the medbay.

"Oh, Doctor!"

Only to run into Miss Fiona.

"Doctor, is Uncle Mortimer okay?"

Dr. Guantanamo regathered his composure, assumed his clinical, professional tone.  "It's still uncertain right now. At the moment, he's unstable. I mean, stable." Guantanamo blinked twice, staring past Fiona as he attempted to figure out how much he was supposed to say. How much was need-to-know for the security of the station, and how much was Doctor-Patient confidentiality?

'Less is more' he decided. But now Fiona was speaking.

"Is he awake? Can I speak with him?"

Guantanamo gave it a moment's thought. He checked his watch. "It is visiting hours. However. Mortimer needs rest. Still. . . " He pulled out a notepad, and wrote something down. "Do you know how to use the intercom system?"

Fiona's concerned look turned sarcastic. "I'm a ship's captain, of course I know how to use an intercom system."

"You may visit Uncle Mortimer. If he awakes, let me know right away. Tell him I'm busy finalizing his report, and that I'll show him the data as soon as I can. Won't be long." He handed her a note with his personal intercom number.  "Please don't stress him. I still don't know what caused his... convulsions."

Fiona nodded. "I understand. Thank you, Doctor."

"Don't thank me yet," he replied, before speedwalking off.

~~~~~~

Fiona watched the doctor stalk off.  Were all doctors so terse? Whatever happened to good old fashioned bedside manner? She turned back to the medbay doors, and the note in her hand. Stuffing the note into a pant pocket, since she wasn't wearing her engineer overalls, she walked into the medbay and saw Dr. Mortimer lying peacefully on a medical bed.

As she walked up, Mortimer stirred and opened an eye.

"Miss Fiona?"

"Hi, Uncle."

"Good to see you. Sorry about passing out on you."

"It's okay, doctor. As long as you're ok now."

"Only as find as I ever was," the old man said from his bed. A half-shrug accompanied this.

Fiona raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"It's an old wound, so to speak. Just didn't think it would be so aggressive so soon." Mortimer shrugged again.  

"The other doctor said he didn't know what caused you to faint," Fiona said. "But you think you do?"

"He said that, huh?" Mortimer smiled. "Good man."

Fiona gave Mortimer a blank stare. "Mind filling me in?"

"Nosy, this one!" Mortimer said, looking around for someone else to talk to. "Where is the good doctor Guantanamo, anyway?"

"Oh, I was supposed to call him if you woke up. He said he was going to finalize your report and show it to you soon as possible or something?"

Mortimer looked back at Fiona. "He did?" Mortimer scrunched his eyes upward. "He could do that from here. Seems like he has other things to do, I guess."

"I'll just call him now."

"No, that's alright. You wanted to talk to me, first, I think?" Mortimer asked. "Or are you just checking to make sure I'm ok before you leave?"

"Oh." Fiona looked down at her note. "Actually, I wanted to finish that conversation we were having, but I dunno if that's wise."

Mortimer readjusted his position in bed so he wasn't slouching. "No, we can finish that conversation. Where were we?"

"If you say so, doctor." Fiona tilted her eyes up at Mortimer.  "You were talking about how the best adventures are shared, and it doesn't matter if they're out in the big, wild beyond, or just at home."

Mortimer nodded. "And what do you think of that?"

Fiona was now absently fiddling with the paper note. "I think you're wrong."

Mortimer nodded slowly. Almost sagely. "And why's that?"

"I think the adventure is bigger, shared or not shared, if it's out in new places."

Mortimer sighed. "I could be wrong, dear."

Fiona looked up, concern on her face. "I'm supposed to not stress you, Uncle," she blurted.

"Hogwash," Mortimer instinctually replied, turning to look at her with a weary smile. "I'm fine as a fiddle. Just did a physical to prove it. Now Guantanamo's probably going to doctor it and make it look like I'm on the verge of death. Which is more or less true, but that's never stopped me."

Fiona raised yet another dubious eyebrow. "What do you mean by that, Uncle?"

He reached out for her hand, and Fiona gave it without hesitation. He clasped it in both hands, and took a deep breath.

"What I mean is this. Family is precious. Love while you can, because not even love lasts forever."

~~~~~

Guantanamo strode down the corridor, looking for Mortimer's room.

"Room 222. Here it is." He put Mortimer's badge to the door, and the keypad next to it flashed.

"A passcode?" Guantanamo's frown deepened. Why would Mortimer need a passcode as well as a badge?

With hesitation, Guantanamo fished out his own Senior Officer credentials. He wasn't even sure if this would work, but...

"Computer, Senior Officer Petros Guantanamo, requesting security override for Crew Quarters Room 222."

Putting his own badge to the lock, as well as Mortimer's, he waited a moment.

"Please Confirm," The computer voiced from somewhere in the corridor, louder than Petros would have preferred. "Senior Science Officer, Petros G. Guantanamo, requesting security lock override for Crew Quarters Room 222."

"I confirm," Petros said, checking his watch and giving the time and date.

In response, the keypad flashed green, and the door slid open. Guantanamo stepped inside.

"Oh, Uncle..."

Petros quickly closed the door behind him as he observed the haphazard room of his fellow colleague.  

Multiple projects were strewn about the floor. A few more delicate ones were on fold-out tables. His main desk was covered in a thick stack of schematics. His bed held a dozen tools scattered around a central tool box. Close at hand were a number of boxes and crates that had just been delivered today.

Petros knew that Mortimer occasional borrowed a tool or bought some surplus outright... But he'd never imagined that an entirely separate workshop existed on the station like this...!

Petros felt extremely out of place. He wasn't supposed to be here.

His attention was pulled to the bedstand, where multiple prescriptions and medications sat. Without touching anything, he observed nothing out of the ordinary.

Next, he pulled out a maelstrom detector from his pocket, and set it to full sensitivity. Then he began walking around the room.

As he did so, he glanced up at the other sensors in the room. None of them appeared to be tampered with, and he didn't have the time, tools, or inclination to further check them.

Going from the bed, to the various projects, his fears were confirmed.

Dr. Mortimer had been... infected? Infused? Diseased. For far longer than just a day or two.

With such minor symptoms as this, he could have been this way even before he boarded. Which seemed to be the most likely case, because Petros wasn't even sure if there was any Maelstrom aboard, in any form.

Petros had to know. Had Mortimer known about this? Is that why he liked to hide in his room more often than not?  Was this contagious?

And most importantly... Did he have this under control, or was it getting worse?

~~~~

TO BE CONTINUED.

Nothing happened.