The continuing mission: From one target to the next, I’ve already locked on to the second pod and sent the executables.

Many things go through your mind, when you have your finger on the button. Primarily, it is the gravity of your actions you’re left pondering. A keystroke is a cheap and easy way to dispatch with your problems. Onscreen, the pod is flickered again. No matter. Flicker away. The data received has already been working for some time now. In this space or any other parallel dimension, the occupant – Spegg or whoever that may be – succumbs to the cold and the lack of O2 and the pod eventually blows.

Since these survival pods are often meant for prolonged journeys, they store an enormous amount of power and systems energy. When they go off, in the darkness of space, it’s a truly exotic and magnificent light. In any kind of atmosphere, it would make a significant blast. In a densely-knit municipality, it would surely level everything in a one kilometer radius. I’m counting down the last minute. The pod’s vents are closed and locked, so there’s nowhere to run.

With only seconds more, I am peering over the top of the console at the systems bank in the cockpit and watching the pod through the viewport. Soon, another explosion, one more phantom pod deleted from the nav system. I couldn’t stop the process now even if I wanted to. I didn’t write a backside contingency plan key into the code. I’m waiting, watching, wondering. What am I doing? The International Deep Space Administration has policy that clearly states that all errant pod jettisons must and will be re-acquired by all means necessary. I’m hunting them down and terminating them. This is destruction of company property and evidence of sabotage to company property. I may never see…

Detonation finally. Brilliant light. So close to…

»»abrupt transmission end««

[Communication sent: 10JAN2186 Shinkai Maru 5]

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