WHALES AT WEASEL RIDGE.

August 15th, 12,006 (actual time frame: 5:28PM, Sunday; March 9th, 2007)______________________________________________________________________

It didn't take me long to get to Weasel's Ridge Maze. The place was more like a canyon embedded with twisting and confusing passages than an actual transit terminal.

Why the Praetorial Guard built such an installation here in the first place...? I never could figure that out.

I suspected because of its nearly impregnable location--made up entirely of walls of solid rock and a few overhanging mesas.

The center of the "maze" was the heart of Transit Terminal #323. Carved out by particle beams and heavy digging equipment, the building was much larger than most terminals I had frequented and visited often in the past.

Only six such giants existed on the entire planet. This one sat 224 miles from Shark's Bay and was just as much a challenge to navigate as it was a headache for someone like me.

High winds sometimes enjoyed playing havoc with me and my ride--sometimes I would be riding at an easy clip--spurred on by gentle buffs--others...? It felt like I was going at a snail's pace--even though my engines were at full burn.

I looked past the few uninviting entrance points and focused on the internal structure of the terminal--the easy slope of the causeway and found the parking terminal to be extremely packed.

Today was certainly a busy day.

The five-story building reflected the day's sunlight; illuminating the three transit tube apertures as it went. And these three polymer-tritanium fixtures were critical to the continued function of the sky tubes.

They also could be retracted and moved elsewhere--in case of an emergency.

I caught sight of a car going straight up inside the tube and I had a real sense of foreboding then surge right through me. Primarily because I didn't know what to expect.

I had never ridden in one of these things before in my life.

But I had nothing to lose by not going. And sighed; knowing that I was only doing this because the old man wanted me to.

Despite all the horror stories dredged up about Stratos City, I promised myself one way or another--I would not fall victim while I was starside.

Sitting back on my bike, I chose the most direct route into the terminal and gunned my bike's engines for effect; vowing to make it in one piece.

***

Okay...

So the place was more packed than it looked up from the top of the hill. It took me more than 15 minutes to find a good place to park my hog. But the trek back to the terminal was much longer in my opinion, but it gave me a chance to scope out some other visitor's machines and parked vehicles--including a garbage hauler transport.

The thing was so massive, I felt immediately humble and small--somewhat scared if you want to get personal. These haulers reminded me of the same storybook monsters my mom used to read to me about as a little girl.

The effect then was no less frightening and I certainly didn't want to stick around in case the driver came back and found me gaping at his monstrous machine.

But my overriding fear couldn't be kept contained for very long--as an ample amount of curiosity surfaced and made me wonder just what it was doing here?

Garbage bags no doubt. I told himself then; smiling as I said it.

I continued my journey towards my destination--towards a flight of stairs which proved itself to be more of an obstacle than I originally gave credit for.

I have no idea why Calis left this part of my trip out--but a hike isn't what I had in mind when I came to Weasel's Ridge Maze. But I managed my ascent without any trouble. But the look down had me panicked.

No one said this thing would be this far up! I felt a wave of vertigo and I had to lean up against the protective safety barrier before I somehow fell off and ended up taking a nose dive into the vastness of space itself.

I certainly didn't like this moment--as breathtaking as it was to the naked eye.

300 feet up didn't readily appeal to the normally adventurous side of me; leaving me to look for the entrance way as fast as possible.

I darted inside the spacious double-doors as soon as I was able--only to be confronted with a world that was unlike any other I knew first-hand.

This one had plush red carpeting, beige and gold-colored walls, portraits, charts, and varied diagrams along with the checkered black and white floor tiling.

I craned my neck for a better view of the nicely scoped ceiling with its majestic center piece skylight. One that allowed for natural light to come pouring in unobstructed.

There was no doubt in my mind that this place was to die for.

To complete the picture from my perspective, there was a baby grand staircase with its own moving escalator in front of me, inviting newly arrived visitors to explore the terminal’s upper levels.

On each side of the staircase stood clearly marked restrooms. But at the moment the lines in front of them weren’t emergency-related, but rather a conglomerate of people–each person waiting patiently for their turn at a sky tube car.

Everyone here appeared to be in good spirits. No agitation, kids playing amongst the crowded lines in varied levels of excitement here and there…?

The tension inside me left as quickly as it had appeared since leaving Shark's Bay.

Then I recall being bumped into and my indignation made itself known right then and there!

I screamed out at the offending person in question, but the assault continued without question.

At that point, I was ready to let him have it with my personal side arm--an HT-909 Brasner blaster. But the second I had it partially pulled free from its holster, a stern voice stopped me from going any further.

"Don't." I remember him telling me.

Why wasn't I surprised? Some idiot schmuck decides to take the fun out of a little personal confrontation and thinks that they are some kind of god or something--by preventing me from doing what came natural?

This time, I decided to play it safe and let whomever was behind me have the upper hand. The last thing I wanted was a firefight in the middle of a crowded terminal.

Especially with the Praetorial Guard.

That's the face of my worst enemy. The one whom put my father away for something that wasn't his fault.

My scowl deepened--more than a match for the serious expression on this guy's face. Everytime I looked into the eyes of these creeps, it was more of a reminder of my own humiliating failure of not being able to stop them from taking my dad.

Eight long years...

The Guardsman asked me what my business here was. I was tempted to say something else but admirably refrained.

Not when six more Guardman were just behind him--all armed, all meaning business--should the situation warrant it.

But unlike the guy I was dealing with, these guys all appeared to be bored.

I could see why a little trouble on the surface was enough to alleviate any kind of lax activity.

So when the guy prodded me again with his rifle, I calmly devised a way to keep my cool and keep these guys from suspecting anything.

I went through the motions like any other surface dweller. When I was asked again why I was here I said:

"I’m just here on business."

The guard studied me intently, clearly suspicious.

After a moment, he asked: "What kind?"

"Educational." Was my cryptic response.

"ID?" He requested out of habit--letting a moment of exasperation get past my better judgment.

With a sigh, I handed him my piece

"Here. You wanna frisk me to while you're at it?" I asked him bluntly.

The man snatched the card from my hand and read what was printed on the ingrained plastic surface.

"Isis McGowan?" He muttered out loud in surprise.

"Yes." I said, feeling defensive.

"You were the pilot of the Viper X-1 which won last year’s Desert Storm, is that correct?"

When I realized that he wanted nothing more than a personal confirmation of something, I calmed down.

Nodding, I answered, "Barely." But I was also distracted from this line of questioning. Pressed for time, I didn't want to drag this out any longer than necessary.

Thankfully, the guard seemed to sense that and handed back my ID card.

"Very well." He told me emphatically. "You may continue unhindered. But remember: You will be monitored until you leave."

I had no doubt that was going to happen. These creeps were like the worst voyeurs imaginable. Always dogging you no matter what you did--even if you had to take a leak.

Privacy was something of a luxury when you dealt with the turtleheads. (A nickname I gave them because of the way they looked to me in their armored shells.)

The guard stepped back to let me pass, but it didn't stop me from giving the rest of his crew a neutral look. I so much wanted to kick their armored butts!

But I knew that the act wouldn't get me very far.

The armor of a single Praetorial Guardsman consisted of a heavily layered shell molded to the wearer’s specifications in an instant while broken down into segments for each portion of the human body–arms, legs, torso and so forth.

Once on, each part acted like quicksilver, linking up with each other, solidifying completely. This way, there would be no inherent weaknesses to exploit at all.

Another aspect of the armor was its unique durability. Being a next generation design, it was programmed with a mnemonic interface which allowed the armor to react instantly to any given circumstance, changing its molecular density when needed–becoming either malleable and extremely soft to the touch (like velvet) or as hard as any known material or substance in all the universe.

Hence the nickname 'turtlehead'.

I stepped onto the moving escalator and rode my up to my next destination, but my thoughts weren't on the present, but the past. Memories of Trell as a little boy and my father!...

Oh how I missed him terribly!

The escalator dumped me into a much wider corridor--wide enough to accomodate several lines of people if need be.

Looking down, I found the same color schemes in the carpet and walls. Nothing ever changed in these terminals. The construction and paint schemes almost remained the same--in one form or another.

However, that's where the similarities always ended.

But what got my attention here was what appeared to be intricate murals of some kind. Holographics was the word for them. Interactive imagining surfaces which displayed something of interest, either personal or of a historical nature.

In this case, I was witnessing something I have never seen before:

A gigantically smooth-blue skinned creature with a large tail and small flippers arching through one display, plying its way through a holographic representation of what appeared to be a large body of water--and appearing out into another companion panel.

The magnificent creature pierced the surface and used all its muscles to propel itself through the air, before coming down hard–sending up a mind-blowing spray of holographic water in my general direction. The sound of its impact adding to the noise of the water shook me to the bone; leaving me awed by what I had just witnessed with my own eyes.

The blue whale disappeared from view, leaving behind a trail of disturbed sunlight and bubbles. Seconds later, a mournful cry erupted from the display.

Then it seamlessly restarted again a minute later.

I was so totally beside myself; feeling more humble and more awestruck. Such power and beauty was being represented and no one could tell me what it was that I had just witnessed.

I remember placing my fingers up against the panel--wishing there was some way I could communicate to this magnificient animal, but I knew it was nothing more than a silly girl's fantasy.

I could feel the depth and power of the creature itself as it went through its motions--the subtle vibrations tingling my skin. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was being exposed and drenched by this whale's presence--my hair all wet from the spray it exuded in another shot; even as it made another mournful cry--calling out to whatever brethren still remained buried in the depths of this simulated ocean.

I sighed then...feeling strangely at peace with myself.

Isis