0700 Ullr Time
03/04/2319
Western Aurora Ocean, 30 miles from the Freya Strait
The skies of Ullr-1 were overcast, never clear or devoid of cloud coverage. During the days, the bright orb of the Ullr star hung over the planet, its rays casting the planet in a glow that, while too weak to dispel the wretched cold, gave Ullr's men and women of danger more vibility to ensure their survival. Over the dark blue, almost blacken, surface of the water, a light mist formed to obscure with a foggy veil. Though the fog was always an impediment for the seafaring colonists of Ullr-1, the movements of the waves directed by the shifting, biting wind could be distinguished. The Aurora, on good days, maintained a constant swell governed by both the wind and the cosmos. On bad days, the swells could drown hundreds of men at once, or launch chunks of ice that can damage a ship significantly.
Fortunately for the crew of the ISV King Solomon, the mistress called Aurora was in their favor for the day. There would be no diversions from the intended path, due to the frequent storms in the waters around New Maui. The swells were quite large in size, but unable to disturb the massive ice-breaker as it cut cleanly through the water. The ocean wind had chilled the atmosphere down to some thirty-degrees Fahrenheit - a warm temperature on the otherwise chilly planet. Light flakes of snow fell upon the deck as the King Solomon cruised gently along. Across the horizon, to the east, the star could be seen through a wall of clouds. A flight of Caladrius birds flew past it, adding their characteristic squawking to the ambience of Aurora.
Morning activity aboard the Rover vessel was low - a skeleton crew could keep the otherwise automated ship on course and alert for potential threats through the night, while the crew-at-large got their rest. A couple of deckhands were serving as the night shift. Sailors who had served under Captain Roelef van Graan commented upon the rather "liberal" way that he ran the ship, in regard to what he did and didn't allow his crew to do on a day-to-day basis. In his own words: "As long as you do your job the way you're supposed to, then do whatever floats your boat." Could valid complaints be made concerning the apparent lack of discipline aboard the King Solomon? Sure, but discipline aboard ships in Ullr waters was set at a low standard, with the exception of Ægir naval crews.
Thirty minutes later...
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-K!"
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-K!"
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-K!"
Did it worry Horace that the star had already risen? Caladrius birds, or Caladrii, understood the day and night cycles well enough that they would often communicate this in the form of their recognizable squawking. They were like chickens, in a way. Many captains kept Caladrii as pets; twenty-five-inch tall, thirty-pound white, fluffy birds that liked to hop around as much as they flew. Easy creatures to earn the trust of.
Horace was not like other Caladrii, not in the slightest. First off, the sun had risen thirty minutes prior.
This particular Caladrius bird was five inches shorter than the other birds its age, yet Horace weighed close to forty pounds. Where Caladrius birds had two legs, Horace only had one. Caladrii are known for their sharp eyes; the eyes of Horace seem to float around aimlessly in their sockets. Horace was attempting to hang from the tall communications boom that hung above the ice-breaker, as opposed to perching atop it like a normal bird. What drove a man like Roelef van Graan to keep an animal like this, was unknown.
Horace hung from the boom, the talons on his one foot latched tightly. Each time he turned his head in the direction of the wind, his eyes would bounce around lifelessly. Occasionally, he would expand his wings in a spastic motion.
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-K!"
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-"
With a slight breeze, Horace lost his foot. His talons released as he was in mid-squawk; he began to plummet to the ground. His winds moved in the same spastic motion as before, which did nothing to help him fly. Instead, Horace slammed down onto the metal deck with a thud. Surprisingly, to any bystanders, the bird would stand up once more, seemingly un-phased by what had just transpired.
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-K!"
"SQUA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-K!"
Captain Roelef van Graan, Captain's Quarters
"Fucking goddamn stupid bird..." Roelef called out in a low mutter, stirring slightly atop his bed.
Pain, left hand. Why the fuck is my hand hurting? With the dim glow of the morning rays acting as his light source, Roelef held up his left hand. There was a gash in the center of it; nothing too gruesome, but serious enough to coat his hand and forearm red. Goddamn, what now? Roelef groaned and looked over to his left, only to find dried blood coating his white sheets. Why the fuck was I bleeding? What the fuck did we do last night? His head was throbbing, body aching. He could feel the slight - yet noticeable - tinge of nausea in his stomach, and his abdomen cramping. Oh, okay. I got drunk. Did I cut myself on some glass?
His eyes focused upon the end table; there was a piece of paper on top of the minuscule items that were there before it. Paper? With a bit of effort, he rolled onto his stomach and reached over with his right hand, picking up the parchment. His eyes began to study the handwriting; that's mine, alright. I can tell my shitty handwriting anywhere. It's drunk gibberish; definitely mine.
Blood. I signed my name in blood. I couldn't even write my name correctly. I guess it's a legally-binding document. He set the paper back down on the table and slid himself off of the bed. It was time to get to work; he and his crew were racing against time, against other crews that hoped to claim the route - and possibly the Leviathan - for themselves. To do that, they had to start the day off right. Breakfast and Briefing. Time for those, and then we steam this bitch on full-speed for the Strait. Roelef donned a pair of black sweatpants, an olive drab t-shirt, a pair of winterized combat boots made of grey canvas and rubber, and an olive-drab pullover. No sense in putting a lot of thought into what I'm wearing right now. I can shower later.
Once his clothes were on and his hand bandaged, Roelef walked over to the mini-bar that sat in the center of his spacious quarters. With the combination of Jerry St. Louis Coffee Liqueur, Admiral Kolchak Triple-Distilled Vodka, and milk cream, Roelef made his "morning fixer." Kinda sad that I need a pick-me-up almost every morning...whatever works. He mixed the concoction in a short tumbler, adding three ice cubes as he stirred the concoction. When he felt that he had stirred enough, he took a long swig of the beverage, finishing it in a single pull. No burn; just the smooth, delicious taste of a coffee-esque beverage with an Eastern twist. Roelef felt a tad-bit better. Right, next thing I need is breakfast.
Before he went out the door, Roelef tied his boots and walked over to his wall locker. Opening it up, the contents were revealed to be a collection of old firearms and ammunition; among them were two AK-74s with wooden furniture, a PSG-1, a Marlin 336, an Ithaca 37 "Stakeout," and a Stafford Arms RA-56. Roelef grabbed the 336 and a box of .45-70 shells, slinging the rifle over his right shoulder by way of a leather sling and stuffing the shells into a pouch pocket. Right, let's go to the bridge.
Captain Roelef van Graan, Bridge
Climbing a set of stairs, he arrived in the Bridge - towards the top of the ship. Terminals displaying important information on holograms and screens were scattered around. A large, rectangular window, made of impact-resistant one-way glass, flanked the front of the ship. Facing the glass, in the center of the room was the Captain's chair, complete with arm rests, a series of monitors, and a wheel for controlling the vessel. Roelef took a moment to examine the empty room, relieved that the cruise control, auto-nav, and safety mechanisms all held out for the night. One could make all the remarks they wanted about Rovers; most of them didn't have their ship.
Alrighty, time to check the stats. He made his way over to the Chair and took a seat, adjusting his butt to the red satin pillow that sat on the leather chair bottom. He unslung the 336 and laid it across his lap before tapping a series of buttons on the monitor. A hologram appeared, and Roelef studied it closely.
Roelef smiled. Looks like she's running steady. We'll be at the Strait in no time. Those messages can wait; time to call everyone to breakfast. He reached out with his right hand and picked up the intercom. With his thumb on the transmission button, he gave the wake-up call.
Good morning, King Solomon! I trust that everyone slept good last night? How about a shout-out for the night shift? Nothing noteworthy went on last night, so let's call that a good omen. It's time for breakfast as well as our morning briefing. After that, we're pushing towards our target destination. Don't ask me what we're having for breakfast.
That'll be all, guys.
One shell after another, Roelef loaded the rifle. It was a "Guide" model from the 20th Century, from back before the days of spaceflight. Modern firearms, like energy-based weapons and fancy pulse-driven assault rifles, could only do so much in the extreme temperatures of Ullr-1. Older weapons, chambered for brass cartridges, tended to stand up better than anything carried by the galactic powers. .45-70 was a large load, just as good at killing snow cats as it was at killing grizzly bears. Older firearms - both civilian and military - were commonplace among the Rover crews, the small security forces, pirates, and any jamoke who had fifty creds to blow on hunks of metal and wood, with names like Zastava and Kalashnikov and Khyber.
Roelef removed a thin, rectangular tablet from a charging port on the console in front of him. The screen flashed, showing a series of meters and different options. All I need is this remote. Ship's on-course for Freya, so now we can all eat. With that business settled, Roelef began his trek through the multi-storied main compartment of the ship, from the "Tower Deck" area of the Bridge down to the Galley on the "Top Deck."
Captain Roelef van Graan, Galley
The Galley of the King Solomon consisted of a modern, if somewhat simple, kitchen area, with two refrigerators and two freezers - in addition to a single freezer room and the "guts cooler" on LD-2 (Lower Deck - Two). The floors were of a white, drab tile for the sake of being able to easily manage spills. The ovens, fryer, and other appliances were positioned against the wall, freeing up the center of the room with a large prep table and an overhanging collection of pots and pans. Such a method of organizing pots and pans was dated; things tended to fly around in ship combat, but one could argue that Roelef van Graan wanted to give everyone a good-enough reason to not hinde for too long in the Galley.
Roelef entered the Galley, his walk unremarkable as he approached the espresso machine. It was an antique, unlike many of the other appliances. The copper beast; the creature of the many centuries that continued to produce a delectable beverage. Roelef took a minuscule, white mug from beside of the machine, and placed it under the receiving end of the aging monstrosity. He prepared his morning espresso with no great fanfare. Could go with a cigarette, but breakfast first.
The first sip of the espresso was divine. Roelef leaned back against the prep table, basking in the robust taste of the grounded beverage. His eyes were focused towards the kitchen service window, out towards the identically-metal-walled room on the other side. Who'll be up first?