“Well…” Bill said, still working his mouth. “Remember that discussion of chaos as related to the effect of the ball generators on molycirc and other materials, sir?”
“Vaguely,” the CO said.
“The drive generates a thin field of absolute chaotic unreality at the edge of the drive field,” Bill said. “Essentially it’s an event horizon generated by the micro black hole the drive generates then somehow expanded to enclose the ship. Stephen Hawking postulated that at the event horizon of a black hole, anything was possible. Even the impossible. It is likely that the generation system of the Tree is interacting with the warp field in chaotic terms and creating unreality from reality.”
“That tells me so much,” Prael growled.
“And it’s just a WAG,” Bill added. “God, that’s a nasty habit. If it’s not a hallucination, and again an experiment to determine reality doesn’t come to mind, then it had to be perfect quantum chaos somehow adjusted to a functional reality. Interesting effect, I’ll add. If we could induce it to occur by command, we might get some enhanced effects from the weapons, given the sort of things you find in anime. Or not…” he added, looking at the CO’s expression.
“But why… the specific changes?” the CO asked, frowning. “I hope that it’s not some sort of wish-fulfillment thing. And why anime?”
“Well, this is just another WAG,” Bill said. “More like a GWAG. But the reality of what we do is closest in… Miriam?”
“The nature of the Blade missions is closest to the archetype of anime in people’s minds,” Miriam said. “I think that’s where you’re going.”
“That would be it,” Bill said, nodding. “If the field picks up on general thoughts, underlying beliefs if you will, then the closest to the reality of what we do that most people are familiar with is the archetypes you find in anime. I feel like babbling about Jungian archetypes, but when you hear that phrase you know someone’s completely lost it. Skinner will eventually be mentioned and then you know someone’s really off their meds.”
“So why were we… What we were?” the CO asked. “I hope that deep down inside I don’t really think I look like I looked. I’m fairly certain Miss Moon doesn’t.”
“God knows I hate pipes,” Bill said, spitting again. “Yuck. How can anyone smoke that foul stuff?”
“Anime has a set number of standard tropes,” Miriam responded. “Captains of ships are always big, fierce looking men, often bullying. Scientists wear tweed or oddly patterned jumpsuits. Enlisted sailors are generally either monkeys or dwarfs. All women have huge eyes and only three or four acceptable ‘looks.’ I could have wished for the laser-cut-leather free-wheeling mercenary type but I got Suzie Schoolgirl instead. I wonder what the Wyverns looked like under the effect. Oh, and when you find the guy with the winged haircut and the sword, you know who the main character is.”
“Well, it wasn’t anyone in Conn…”
“I’m glad you’ve got your haircut back under control, Lieutenant Bergstresser,” Captain Zanella said. “But what was all that about the approach of your ‘Great Enemy!’?”
“Sir, I have no idea, sir,” Berg replied, staring at a point six inches over his CO’s head and locked at attention. “I am unable to fully recall the events that occurred while we were under the effect of the shield, sir. All I can recall is that it had something to do with someone betraying and murdering my father, sir. And something about once being his best friend and for some strange reason finding ‘the umbrella of light.’ Given that my father is still alive, sir…”
“Well, it was terribly dramatic,” Zanella said dryly. “There I was, preparing to fight a great battle to the death against an overwelming enemy force and then… Zap, we were out. Stand easy, Lieutenant. I don’t think any of us can be held responsible for what went on in the field. Otherwise the first sergeant will never live it down.”
“I was just a spider, sir,” Powell growled. “A big purple spider.”
“Yes, First Sergeant,” the CO said, still dryly. “But it was that strange silver web you were sitting in that somehow seemed to be connected to all of us and how you lightly tugged on the strings, sending us hither and yon against our will, that still bothers me…”
“…it still bothers me, but the bottomline is that we’re going to have to go back,” Captain Prael said. “We’ve got to drop off the away team. Since the effect stopped as soon as we’d cleared the field, hopefully the away team will not be…”
“Stuck in the condition the whole time we’re there?” Bill finished. “Yes, sir, agreed. I have to state that if the effect continues, I’m going to have to temporarily turn over command to Captain Zanella, sir. My… alter-self is not functional as a commander. He’s pure advisor. I don’t think I could even engage in combat much less direct it. I’d be all ‘this is fascinating, I must figure out the equations…’ ”
“Well, we’re still going to have to go back in,” the CO said. “I’m going to order a stand-down for long enough for you to try to adjust the unloading plan based on the effects. Try to figure out how it will reduce the efficiency of unloading.”
“I actually saw no true reduction in efficiency, sir,” Bill pointed out. “Everything continued to work more or less as it normally would. If anything, there were some enhancements. But I’ll try to plug the effect into the plan. I’d better get to work.”
“One thing to keep in mind is that I may not have coveralls,” Miriam pointed out.
“At least you kept more-or-less the same body shape,” Bill replied. “Did you hear about Sub Dude?”
“Three meters…” the pilot squeaked. Under the effect of the anime field, the petty officer had shrunk to the size of a large child and had a vaguely monkeylike appearance and long, pointed ears. He also tended to hoot when excited. “Whoot! Whoot! Two meters… one… Touchdown. Wheeeee!”
“Landing jacks deployed and locked,” the COB said. He was wearing an outlandish Naval uniform that would have looked well in a Gilbert and Sullivan play, had an eye-patch and was adjusting one of the landing jack controls with a hook. “Leveled on platform, shiver me bones!”
“Reduce counter gravity to fifty percent!” the CO barked against his will, watching the monitors. The landing platform was about six inches thick, nearly a hundred meters across and appeared to have no structural supports. Under the artificial gravity of the docking bay, there was no way it should have been able to support the weight of the Blade. “Mr. Weaver, effects?”
“The platform… (puff, puff) appears to be holding. (Puff) Remarkable stuff.”
“Begin! Away Team! Deployment!”
“Nice thing about this shape, wawk wawk wawk waaaah,” Gants said, dragging a huge pile of bundled rations behind him as he knuckle-walked down the ramp — despite the changes in form, his space suit still fit — “We’re strong! Strong! STRONG!” He paused and began beating his chest with flapping arms, hooting “WHOO! WHOO! WHOO! WHOOT!”
“I concur,” Red responded in a monotone. He had three similar bundles, one in either hand and one held by a head-strap. He’d put on his space suit and it had immediately disappeared. A short experiment, though, determined that he was able to survive the mildly toxic atmosphere of the space station. What was going to happen when the effect changed was uncertain. “But we mechano-humans are stronger.”
“Cyborgs,” Gants muttered, continuing in his knuckle-drag. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t trade ’em in for parts.”
“Wyverns,” the cyborg responded. “Clear the Way for our Betters.”