[h1]Episode 2 Finale Part 4 - “Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide”[/h1]

[img]https://i.imgur.com/ERisSuP.jpg[/img]

JP/Collab from [@Aalakrys], [@wanderingwolf], and [@sail3695]



[b][i]”That’s the last of it.  Thank your captain for the bourbon, China Doll.  Morning Light out."[/i][/b]

The cargo bay was strapped and strung up with four-thousand pounds of freshly caught tuna, and the smile couldn’t be any bigger on Captain Strand’s face. A full cargo bay meant a full payday, and after Badger’s deep cut into the bottom line on the leg to New Melbourne, the ‘Verse was starting to right itself. It was more than a payday, though, if Cal was honest. There was a magnetism to the black; always something to be crossed--always something to get past, for most people. For Cal, the black was the most serene place he could imagine. 

Once he was in the black, he felt he could breathe. Felt like he could think. And Cal needed to think. Sam, Marisol, and the chips still weighed heavy on his mind. In point of fact, Sam was the reason he was in this mess, but there was something about it--about her--that kept him from cashing in on that black box, like he’d planned. That part still puzzled him. That, and what it all meant to General M. Chavez.

For now, he could table that for a few short clicks until they were in the black. Picking up his walkie, Cal held it to his cheek, “We’re buttoned up here. Take us up. I hope Sam crunched the numbers proper and we don’t freeze to death ‘fore we make it--”

“Penelope, I have detected a weak distress signal on this planet.” Sam spoke - cutting off the pilot’s response back to the captain. It wasn’t that there was a sense of urgency in her tone, just that it was an unexpected announcement, entirely disconnected from the job at hand. “It is broadcasting at very low frequency. I am trying to triangulate its origin as I believe it is in connection with the downed vessel lost in the hurricane.”

Penelope’s brow furrowed. Hadn’t she heard something like that on the speakers at the shop while Alana and her were shopping? It was in the background, and she hadn’t properly paid attention. But, she was paying attention now that Sam brought it up. “Cap’n, got a situation. Sam’s picked up a distress call.”

“And what’s that got to do with us?” The abrupt static that followed punctuated his reply.

S.A.M.N.T.H.A juggled satellites.  Armed with a detailed signal track from MILSAT 9, the AI abandoned the connection, erasing evidence of her incursion as she went.  COMSAT’s 7, 5, and 3 would offer a chance at triangulation.  Their civilian firewalls were easily circumvented.  Within seconds, she had employed unused channels in each to determine the faltering signal’s origin point.  She had a fix.  Next, Sam considered a visual track.  The weather satellite through which she’d accessed the sonobuoys possessed optical scanners.  These were quickly ruled out as the source location proved to be obscured by clouds from Hurricane Daniel.  But her efforts weren’t to be defeated.  The weather sat also possessed infrared thermal imaging.

“The signal is originating from just inside the perimeter of the hurricane’s transpired environmental wind field.  Southwestern quadrant, three hundred twenty-seven-point-six miles North of our current position,” Sam reported, likely as she was pinpointing. It took Penelope a second to mentally translate what she’d been told, and just as she figured it out, another fact was added: “Thermal imaging has confirmed the presence of a sole survivor.”  Curiosity next led the AI to the Central Medical Databank.  There, Sam found human thermal images by the thousands.  In a millisecond she ran comparisons and sifted corresponding health data from each.

“Cap’n, there’s a person out there bein’ jostled by the storm. Can’t rightly leave ‘em to die.” Ever the morally good heart, Penelope felt what she said even as she continued holding steady above the Morning Light. The cargo was loaded, the hoist resecured, and bomb bay doors sealed tight. Still, its pilot hadn’t set course to exit the atmosphere as planned. 

Captain Strand’s walkie waffled on the bridge, “Then give the marine patrol a wave, drop the coords, and [i]Tze Sh’un Tze Mieh[/i]. They got a job to do, and we got ours--what sees us gettin’ my cargo to the icebox ASAP.” (Leave him to his own fate).

To further the stubbornness of the pilot’s resistance to high-tail it out on command, Sam gave argument for her in the next report. “According to biometric and physiological data related to thermal images I have captured, the subject has a zero-point-two-three-eight percent chance of survival unless retrieved within the hour. Rescue is not possible based on geophysical positioning of cataloged rescue vessels and their maximum velocities.”

"And how much of that fish down in the hold would go bad in the time it'd take to mount our own rescue, Sam?" Penelope asked, her usual tone slipping as the earnest nature of the question peeked through. 

"Within the atmosphere of the planet, optimal output and the trajectory I've uploaded into the navigation console would show no expiration effects based on what I have learned about iced 'sea critters'. However, I could better calculate if --"

“Ladies! [i]Go Hwong Tong[/i]. What part of ASAP ain’t clear--look, go pick up this [i]Buhn Dahn[/i] before this whole job is [i]Soh Ya Feh Tian[/i].” (‘Enough of this nonsense’, moron, and ‘ruined at the last moment’, respectively).

"Shiny, Cap'n, can do." The grin on Penelope's lips was there once again before her captain had even finished the claim of more impatience than defeat. Either worked for her since that meant they didn’t knowingly leave a man to die. She set to follow the course Sam had laid out, flipping to forward thrust after rotating the Doll to line up on route. 

*********************To Be Continued*********************