Challenge #03919-J267: Almost Everything Proof
A person invents a new livesuit that is damn near like a miniature shuttle. The prototypes were being shipped for full testing when an unexpected obstacle hits the old clunker of a ship with very few working lifepods. Good thing that the 15 prototypes were there, and actually worked. -- Anon Guest
Livesuits, as the name might suggest, are suits that help the wearer live. Most are made for emergencies and it's generally a good idea to have one on or otherwise at the ready during uncertain circumstances.
The average livesuit is expected to protect the wearer from unexpected decompression, hazardous gasses, liquids, and solids at certain velocities. They are not expected to protect the wearer from things like atmospheric re-entry or non-standard high-impact braking procedures with planetary surfaces. They are meant to keep the occupant alive for the space of time necessary for anyone else to come up with a better plan.
These livesuits were the better plan. They were more or less one-person lifepods with mecha overtones. The pilot inside could fly it for short distances, use waldoes to make it walk, manipulate objects, and otherwise act like every teenaged robot enthusiast's fantasy.
They were four times the size of the Human meant to pilot them. Twice the size of the average lifepod. And, as a bonus, battle-rated against just about every weapon known to intelligent life. Even most of the ones that had been banned in all but a few pockets of belligerent resistance[1].
There were fifteen in the hold. Owing to regulations regarding livesuits, they were fully stocked, powered, and fueled. Kept open in readiness for use. Though that was not their intended purpose.
They were meant for Hegrill Base, where they would be tested to near-destruction by some Space Marines hired by the CEO who commissioned the things. Apparently this particular patch of Dereggers firmly believed in the guy with the biggest power armour.
They did not, alas, believe in paying for upkeep and maintenance of transit vessels, and that was how the scandal came to light.
One self-sealing stem bolt, worth about three Seconds on the open market[2], had been missing from its place for some months prior. The CEO running the transit company had received quite a lot of paperwork regarding its importance and how it should have been replaced as soon as the old one broke.
That CEO had wisely ignored all that paperwork because dry-docking a ship for one tiny part was a ludicrous waste of time and money.
That tiny part was essential to stop certain pieces of the transit ship from wiggling about, almost imperceptibly. With wiggles come micro-stresses on the metal. With micro-stresses come wear. With wear comes fragility.
By the time the rattling was obvious to the crew, it was almost too late.
They had just enough time to leap into the brand new power armour livesuits before the entire ship tore itself apart. The cargo hold, in six separate pieces, tumbled about with their cargo still strapped to their packing bays. Each one keeping one crewmember alive as they spun and whirled in the void.
They opened comms, but could only communicate with each other.
"Okay," said one crewmember. "Now what?"
[1] It's the Greater Deregulations. It's always the Greater Deregulations. The reason being, "What if the other guy is lying about getting rid of them like we did?"
[2] Time is literally money in the Alliance. So much so that even Dereggers use it to evaluate things. Well. Lots of them do.
[Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash]
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