EP. 1 - "We're Gonna Go Strait Through, Get It?" (FO IC)

by **Cylarn** » Sun Oct 15, 2017 7:10 pm

'Day 4 - The Approach'
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?

by **BettaMin** » Sun Oct 15, 2017 9:36 pm

Deck Hand Tomas Essofi

The many smells that wafted around Tomas Essofi's berth where not entirely of the displeasing sort. Some were stronger than others, including the smells of loose hand-rolling tobacco and a number of sailor's choice beers. Others were a bit more refined, like the musk, citrus, and slight diesel scent of an unlabeled cologne bottle or the more sweet smell of cocoa butter. The fouler smell of feet so common in any male residence blended only slightly with the scent of marijuana. The place reeked, that was for sure, but not in a wholly terrible way.

Tomas, amidst this bouquet of smells, woke slowly and painfully, his face contorting in disgust at his own state nearly immediately. Hell, he thought to himself. Almost thought that I hadn't made the dumb ass decision to enlist on any ship on this frigid rock. He jumped at the sound of the intercom, shaking his head in annoyance as the wake up call played through.

"Bloody hell," he cursed, before spouting a few more curses in a few of the many languages of New Andalusia.

Tomas was quick to take a shower, returning to his berth to don an A shirt, a pair of green wool pants, an old leather belt, tall brown leather boots, and an old shearling flight jacket. After drying his hair, he pushed it back under a cap. The cap was an olive green and featured an old graphic at its center that had long since faded, likely advertising
the owner's affiliation to some likely defunct shipping company.

He made his way slowly to the galley, his eyes squinting against any degree of light that was above his current tolerance level, which was sitting at zero. He closed his eyes, praying silently that he wouldn't be the awkward first to show up. Coffee was the only matter of the day that had any importance to the New Andalusian. Luck, however, did not favor Tomas. He was, to his own displeasure, the second entry after the Captain.

Tomas was quick to hide his own displeasure at having to perform any degree of social interaction in the morning and put on a bright smile. He straightened at the door and gave a respectful nod to the Captain, saying "Good morning, Captain, trust you slept well," before walking intently to the coffee machine.

by **Herador** » Sun Oct 15, 2017 11:54 pm

He took a long drag off his cigarette, taping the ash off into the emesis basin he had on a surgical tray sitting next to the exam table he was lounging on. Cole took another drag and as he exhaled took in the ambient smell of his medical bay, bleach and the unfamiliar intrusion of salt. He loved his sickbay, he'd never had his own medical office before, always sharing dingy ICU's and Trauma Wards, but the Solomon's had a charm all it's own. He was in the sole exam room that sat with it's door in the short entry hallway which itself emptied out into the main room with two beds that each had only a few feet in between them, storage, and the work table with two very old computers to keep their records on at the far end. The door to his personal room sat on that side too. All told it wasn't very large, he was used to much bigger. The far side of his sickbay had the entrance to the ship's only surgical theater. As the last bits of tobacco burned and he started to puff on filter he set the cigarette into the basin and let it snuff out in the puddle of water as he swung his legs over the table and stood with a stretch.

Walking out of the exam room he saw the crewmember he'd been assigned as the nurse, McCafferty, laying down on one of the general care beds.

"How long have you been down?"

She opened one eye, "Bout twenty."

"Set an alarm for fifteen more then I want you to go upstairs and see if they can use you for something."

"Which upstairs?"

Cole shrugged, he just wanted her to be busy. Sighing he said, "I'm going to pick up some breakfast, want something?"

"Won't I be gone when you get back?"

He gave her a long look that implied he expected she wouldn't. In the time he'd known and trained her he found she had taken a liking to the easy ride that sickbay had become. "Fair enough." She mumbled back. "Some eggs or something, I guess." she put her head back down and closed her eyes.

He took off down the passageway that led down the length of the ship to where the galley was located, thankfully they were on the same deck. Stepping inside the room he sidestepped their captain at his espresso machine, one of the deckhands had already said hello.

"Morning gents," He took the crumpled paper pack of smokes out of his pocket with a lighter in his other hand, he'd seen the Captain smoking before and he'd be fucking shocked if the deckhands all didn't just breath nicotine at this point "either of you care for a smoke?"

by **Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States** » Mon Oct 16, 2017 4:25 am

Navigator Fridojen Polloon
The bow
Damn early

The older someone gets, the less sleep that person requires. It was a fact and a curse Fridojen had learned to live with. In the cold void of space there really is little to do except for sleeping and reading. Even video games grew to bore him after weeks on end without solid ground under his feet, so sleeping and reading it was, day in, day out. And the older he became, the less sleep he required, so the more he read. The more he had to stare into the dark abyss of space, watching the stars pass by slowly as he went.

Fridojen looked up from the bow of the King Solomon. Stars were a strange thing on a planet’s surface. They turned slowly across the night sky, turning radially around one fixed point along the planet’s axis. Of course, the stars were stationary; it was the planet that moved. However, despite all the experience of years upon years of spaceflight, Fridojen never got quite used to that. It was something he had to remind himself of every time he looked up. Hard-coded into the human experience it was, even if you spent the majority of your life off-world. Planets do not move, and starts are just pretty lights hung up against a sky-bound carpet.

Even though the stars moved from his perspective, they were always the same stars. In spaceflight, the stars and constellations changed constantly as the ship progressed, morphing and twisting into new shapes as you went. Distant stars turned slowly, close stars shot by as you passed them in warp. Here, constellations stayed the same no matter where you went. Well, as long as you remained on the right side of the planet, of course. Fridojen looked down again, checking the booklet he had bought for a small fee in an Archangelsk bookstore: a record of all the constellations that had been defined by the planetary government. It was a mixed bag of old heroes, more recent historical figures, and corporate logos of companies that had paid enough. To the west, there was Ajax: an ancient Greek hero of the Trojan war. Fridojen had read both the Odyssey and the Iliad, although he’d read the former with slight nausea. He had often felt like Odysseus in his little water freighter.

To the north, the constellation ‘hammer and sickle’, after an old Earth political symbol. What exactly it had stood for Fridojen had forgotten: the following centuries had mixed up socialism and ‘the will of the people’ so many times it was hard to keep track of that particular period. It had something to do with equality, Fridojen thought, but what that had to do with farming implements and hammers he didn’t quite gather. Had they been the ones with the concentration camps or the gulags? Or the internment camps? To the south, he could just spot the Aegir company logo above the horizon. Aegir had bought the best constellation for their logo to appear in, visible by everyone on the planet at least once every year. It was Fridojen’s least favourite.

Closing his booklet and placing it in his inner coat pocket, Fridojen leaned over the side of the bow. Below the front of the ship crashed through the water, pushing aside any ice that came in its way. Fridojen had plotted a safe course in the ship’s computers. Based on whatever data was reliable, they would be going straight without problem for at least another two hours. Then, he’d have to check the sonar and radar again for icebergs and shallows. Being a navigator on such an advanced ship was boring, sometimes. Luckily, it wasn’t as boring as navigating for a space ship. Here, there were land tongues and shifting ice sheets that could not be penetrated. That kept it at least somewhat lively.

Slowly, the sun started rising above the horizon. Near the bridge, Fridojen could hear Horace screaming his lungs out, as he did every morning. The silly beast hung upside-down from the communication boom, apparently undisturbed by the sudden onset of wind. Wrong: he was disturbed, crashing down into the deck. Of course it didn’t harm the beast: Fridojen was beginning to think the thing was immortal, or at least protected by some sort of divine intervention.

There were two things that made this ship more enjoyable than spaceflight: the other living organisms and the breeze. Spaceships don’t create a breeze. Warp travel doesn’t even create movement per se. Travelling at a constant speed doesn’t feel like anything. When the engines cut out, nothing would make you think it was actually moving. There was no engine hum, no shudder… If he didn’t have his computers, Fridojen would have gone mad already, thinking his ship was just stationary in space. Only the moving starts alluded to something different. Also, it was nice to have people to talk to. Not often, of course. Fridojen didn’t really get social and emotional cues. Spending so long in isolation does that to a man. However, some conversations were quite relaxing, especially with the other New Andelusian natives. Hearing their tongue reminded him of home.

As the captain requested, he began to walk towards the galley. Only when he began to move did he notice how cold it was. Planets could get freezing cold, especially these frontier worlds that had not been properly terraformed. It was nothing like New Andalusia, of course, but Fridojen found that place way too hot. He shook his head, trying to focus on the ship, the cold, on walking. Thinking of New Andalusia could become painful very quickly. Every minute spent on this ship was a minute his family was running out of water. Things were fine, probably, but you never knew what could happen. Three summers before one of the storage tanks had collapsed in on itself. If that were to happen again… He shook his head again, and buried his hands deeply into his pockets.

As he entered the galley Fridojen spotted three others. The captain, of course; Fridojen didn’t quite know what to make of him. He was relaxed and eager at the same time. Clearly, he had seen some shit, but what that exactly was nobody could see. A war? A particularly nasty game of chess? A long line at the Spaceship Registration Services? Fridojen produced a frown at the thought of the SRS. Bastards. The other was a deck hand from New Andalusia: dark-skinned, dark-haired… A typical New Malagan if ever he saw one. That city was a hive of scum and villainy, to quite one of those old-timey movies he liked to watch. 2D even, without surround sound, those were humans were still portrayed by actors. Computer animations did the job much better, of course, but it wasn’t quite the same. And thirdly, there the doctor. Doc Rafterman as Fridojen called him, both in person and behind his back. He was New Andalusian too, from one of the mining towns. Fridojen both felt sorry for him and despised him, although he knew the latter feeling was uncalled for. He couldn’t help what the mining companies did. Still, it felt like he was somehow complicit. Not anymore, of course. They were all in the same boat.

“Buenas” he said shortly, walking to one of the empty seats. Talking was for when he’d had his morning warm-up.

by **Backatri** » Mon Oct 16, 2017 3:05 pm

Ted Gerhardt, Berth Deck
Gerhardt sat in his rather cozy cabin, reading his worn and heavily annotated version of the Geneva Accords. He was lucky that he had lost the investigators. He was unlucky that he had to lie low on this frozen rock. Gerhardt searched the book for loopholes, so that if he ever returned to Earth, he could do so without having to hide. Amidst the various essays and notes from lawyers and diplomats who had wrought the modern version of the document, Gerhardt had added his own, less civil, scibblings. While reading up on biological warfare, a dabbling hobby of his, Gerhardt found a passage pertaining directly to Ullr, which surprised him. He read the passage.

Following the tragic events of 2295 (see: Richardson, Parker. A History of Violence on the New Frontier, as well as the testimony of Security Chief Wes Hardhome before the Sol Republic Criminal Court in 2296), on the Great Gap Ice Floe during the suppression of a workers revolt, known as the "New Nunavut" Movement, the use of any indigenous species on Ullr, with special attention given to Leviathans, for combat of any type is strictly prohibited by any party.

Gerhardt shuddered. The Leviathans were such and unknown force that there was even the Geneva Accords couldn't add in a Latin name. There wasn't one.

Gerhardt also remembered what he had heard about those workers back 2295. Some sea captain who was absolutely sloshed had told a very slurred, abridged version of the tale in the bar at New Maui. Even through his alcoholic stupor, the sea captain had shuddered while telling the story. Gerhardt wondered if the captain knew about the incident. It was bad enough the Aegir built a monument to the very people they tried to kill.

The man's thinking was interrupted by a hard thud on the deck, then some squawking, then an announcement from the Captain.

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.

Well. Gerhardt might have been lying low, but he still had to work for the captain. On the way to the galley, Gerhardt looked into the medical facility where he would have the honor of working. He saw somebody lying in the sickbay, either dead or sleeping. Gerhardt made a mental note to tell the Chief when he got to the galley.

Gerhardt climbed a few more stairs, passed through some bulkheads, burned his arm on an old espresso machine, and found himself next to the Chief, the Captain, and a deck hand. He arrived just the Chief pulled out some cigarettes. Not a (huge) smoker, Gerhardt turned away momentarily to get himself some coffee. When he turned back, the Navigator had arrived. Felt out of place, a Earther on a ship full of New Andalusian. Oh well, at least they just made jokes about him being a bureaucrat rather than jokes about being in the corporations. Chief Rafterman never got mocked, but the feeling was palpable in the quiet moments between the crew. Gerhardt said a few hellos to his Captain and Chief and took and empty seat.

by **Reverend Norv** » Mon Oct 16, 2017 5:11 pm

Field Notes - 02/04/2394 - Approaching Freya Strait

They remind me of pirates, at least at this stage. Bad pirates.

Consider. There's the willingness to keep pets - indeed, almost an expectation of keeping pets. Widespread alcoholism. Games, wagers, a certain reckless pride in bad decisions. With pirates, I thought that this related to a kind of collective death-wish. They were outcasts, cut off from sources of identity, struggling to find meaning in life. They felt, at some level, that they were already dead men walking, and so to spit in the eye of death became like a religion for them.

But the average lifespan for a pirate was less than two years. Roelef has been at this for almost a decade. Which is strange. Pirates who survived that long developed discipline. They survived because they found the meaning that the others were all looking for, so they figured that their lives did matter, so they took reasonable precautions to ensure that they went on living. Those crews became communities. This ship is not a community. It's a bunch of bloodied loners. Pirate ships like that, in my research, didn't last long.

Issue: sample size. Is the King Solomon typical? Or did I end up signing onto an unusually dysfunctional Rover vessel? If the latter, then I am likely to die. Ships go missing in these waters under the best of circumstances.

Another issue: am I being overly normative? I'm Spandauan. I was raised to believe in discipline, purpose, principle. Does the absence of those things in this crew skew my judgment of their effectiveness? Or, more specifically, am I so wedded to the model that I developed in the last five years that I can't be objective about the effectiveness of subcultures that deviate from that model? Have I made the theory the judge of reality, rather than vice versa?

I don't think so. Can't be sure, though. Problem: I am having trouble sleeping. I haven't spent any time on an oceangoing ship since I left the Fallschirmjägers.
Being belowdecks at night makes me feel claustrophobic, so I have started sleeping in the VTOL's crew compartment. That way, I feel seasick instead. Still can't sleep well, but at least I'm not quite as uncomfortable while I lie awake.

On the other hand, I actually am enjoying myself. The horizon is far away out here, a thin line in the grey dawn, lost between the murky sea and the cloudy sky.
It makes me feel free. Am I unusual in this? Other people on the Solomon don't seem to talk about it. Or do they feel it subconsciously: the thrill of isolation,
the awful freedom that comes of being beyond all hope of rescue?

Daily notes: I was up before dawn, because I couldn't sleep. Did my morning routine: fifty push-ups, a hundred sit-ups, twelve minutes of shadowboxing. It's a relatively mild day, no colder than a spring morning back on the farmstead. Insomnia also seems to be an issue for Fridojen, the navigator. He's New Andalusian. Most of the crew are either New Andalusian or Arengwadean. It's an odd mixture. I'm still trying to figure out how important those different backgrounds are to the dynamics here.

Anyway, Fridojen was already up and about when I gave up on sleeping and resigned myself to seasick wakefulness. He seemed to have spent the early hours of the morning up at the bow. His background, as I understand it, is in the water trade. I don't know exactly why he's spending so much time planetside. He's not the talkative type.

Horace woke most of the crew. That's Roelef's bird. Short, fat, one leg, can barely fly. Seems mentally troubled. I wondered at first why Roelef kept it around. Then I got to know Roelef a little better, and stopped wondering. On this point, at least, my model stands: when you face danger without backup, self-awareness is an essential survival strategy. Having illusions about yourself is the surest way to get yourself killed. I wonder if Horace is Roelef's memento mori: there but for the grace of God, etc.

Copied down Roelef's morning message over intercom.

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.

Informal. Friendly. Fits the model: strict chains of command collapse under pressure/isolation.

I am stating the obvious. I need more sleep.

Got dressed - jeans, sweater, boots, gloves, Wehrmacht body armor, then leather coat. Strapped my P08 to my hip. Lots of archaic firearms on this ship: conditions aren't ideal for modern weapons. But Spandauan guns are designed to work through pretty much anything, and I keep my flechette pistol plenty clean. I wonder about what the cultural effects of being surrounded by deliberate technological anachronisms might be. Can a pragmatic adaptation eventually create a quixotic worldview?

Went to breakfast. Galley is clean, spartan, except for giant antique espresso machine. Emma probably accounts for the cleanliness, but the coffee machine seems like Roelef to me: that romantic nostalgia, like his lever-action rifle. This is a nostalgic trade, I suppose. Are all dangerous and isolated jobs like this nostalgic, in our communal and interconnected era? But most of the crew do the work because they have to, not because they yearn for an imagined past of rugged individualism. There's no nostalgia in Emma, for example: only desperation and raw survival instinct.

Roelef was in the galley, sipping an espresso: wild-haired, wild-eyed. Tomas was near him. He makes me a little uncomfortable: too smooth, too confident,
hard to get a read on. Then the doctor, Rafterman, smoking constantly. He reminds me of the spaceborn firefighters I studied: raw professionalism embodied to such an extent that the man underneath buckles under the pressure, and becomes self-destructive in an attempt to find an escape from the stress of his existence. Then one of the doctor's assistants, Gerhardt, an Earthborn - unusual here. He's too friendly, but he bristles at mockery. I don't think he's typical of these ships. He feels like an aberration to me, an exception, though I'm not sure why just yet.

I stood out when I walked into the galley: half a head taller and forty pounds heavier than most of the crew. I got myself an espresso. I don't find that the caffeine helps me wake up, or at least not much, but it's a good way of fitting in. Everyone seems to drink coffee on this ship. It's a communal ritual.

I didn't say anything. I grabbed a chair, turned it around, sat down in it with my arms folded across the top of its back. Sipped my espresso. Watched. I try to watch pleasantly, non-threateningly, with an expression of mild curiosity rather than obsessive intensity. Mostly it works. When people are particularly sensitive about being watched, it doesn't. I don't think Gerhardt likes it, for example.

Anyway, I paid attention. It's what I do. And I sipped my tiny cup of coffee, and I waited.

by **Nature-Spirits** » Mon Oct 16, 2017 10:34 pm

The sounds of spastic, heavy breathing and strange contortions of the larynx filled the cavity of Emma's room. She sang into the darkness of the unlit box that she slept in, spartan and immaculate. The only decoration was a collection of small carvings: one in soapstone, the other two in bone. The stone carving depicted a man in a parka, carrying a gun and a harpoon, smiling jovially. Another depicted a child, sitting on the ground and staring up in wonder. The third carving was slightly larger than the other two, and it depicted a stylised Leviathan, serpentine and alien, grinning toothily. These three were all the carvings that she'd salvaged from the ruins of her home. The rest were lost, along with so many other things that she used to take for granted.

She was awake long before the sun. She'd had a dream about flying, along with an airborne shoal of fish, above the frigid waters of the Aurora. She saw the face of Aunt Lucy -- not her true aunt, but she'd been a close friend to Emma's mother and had played an important role in the girl's childhood. She was the one who taught Emma throat singing. It was usually an activity for two, and they would stand face to face, singing into each other's mouths in an intimate expression of love.

As Emma sat singing now, it was not an expression of love, but of grief. At the end of her dream, she'd seen Aunt Lucy get swallowed by a great aquatic creature, before it turned and devoured herself -- and at that point, she'd woken up. Shaken and alone, she paid tribute to Lucy and the rest of her family that she'd laid to rest, two years ago.

She was disturbed from her reverie only by the Captain's voice over the intercom. She stopped, turned on the light, and glanced over at the clock. Hmm, didn't realise it was so late. Oh well. She'd intended to get to the galley before everyone was up, but it seemed that that wouldn't be the case this morning. Too bad.

Emma went about her morning routine, thoughts of Aunt Lucy floating through her head. She wondered whether the dream was a sign -- perhaps Aunt Lucy was warning her of a coming danger. Or maybe it was just a dream. It was hard to say. She would have to consult the spirits later.

She stepped out of her cabin dressed in an olive green shirt, faded black jeans, and a lightweight black cardigan, while shrugging into her fur parka -- another remnant of home. As she headed up to the galley, her thoughts turned to breakfast -- specifically, what to make. The food on the ship was designed to be long-lasting, so much of it was powdered, freeze-dried, and otherwise preserved. It didn't sound particularly appetising, sure, but Emma was unconcerned with such objections. She'd grown up in difficult conditions, eating whatever was on hand. She'd been taught from a young age how to make unappetising-sounding things palatable.

She entered the galley silently, and looked at those who'd already arrived with a calm gaze. Good, she'd beat most of the crew. Those who were here were already drinking coffee and breaking out cigarettes. She smiled coolly as she strode over to the cooking appliances. "Good morning everyone." She spun a few knobs on the stove and opened up a cupboard, her fingers moving over the small boxes until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a box of powdered eggs and a container of dried jellywasp -- a primitive lifeform native to Ullr-1 consisting of sweeping gelatinous "wings" designed to catch plankton and small fish, attached to a central bell, analogous to the jellyfish she'd heard about from Earth. This wasn't particularly nutritious, but it helped to fill the stomach. She dumped it into the large automated steamer-rehydrator along with a helping of tomato powder and dashi, for flavour, then turned back to the prep table. She looked sharply at Cole, remembering that he'd taken out his cigarettes. "No smoke near my workstation," she commanded, before grabbing two woks from above the table and placing them on the hot burners. She poured some oil into the woks, then dumped the powdered eggs into a mixer along with a large amount of water. After blending the eggs, she poured them into the woks, added some freeze-dried leeks, and set about stirring.

She worked methodically, focused on the task at hand. There was no room for idle chit-chat, not at the moment. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts and her cooking.

by **The Knockout Gun Gals** » Tue Oct 17, 2017 1:26 am

Security Staff, Kim Lee Hoon

Damn, the hot water for the shower is not running at the moment, and there is only warm water for now. Well, better warm than cold, too. Kim woke up from his slumber, he just slept after his night shift done and replaced by another one for the next shift. To be honest, it's not just one for each shift as the ship itself, the King Solomon, is big and requires more security. Fortunately, they have enough. Kim held still on his eyes first before moving to the shower, his M70 intact on the table.

Poured on some water for his shower, he remembered about the good times of his childhood, the good ones. Not the supposed-to-be good ones, but the real good ones. After shower's done, he returned to the quarters, and put off his rifle. Since this is supposed to be just a breakfast, but considering they are on a harsh planet, he brought upon his M88, a Zastava pistol, supposedly came from 20th century of Earth. After a second thought, he brought his rifle too.

He reached the galley, where it seems there hasn't been everyone else there. Giving quick salutes, "Good morning, Captain, gents," before taking an open seat for himself.

by **Cylarn** » Wed Oct 18, 2017 7:54 am

Captain Roelef van Graan, Galley

One at a time, Roelef watched his crew filter in, his attention diverted from the mess hall window to the growing social congregation within the Galley.

Arengwadeans (like himself) and New Andalusians made up the two main nationalities on the King Solomon. A New Andalusian, Tomas Essofi, entered first. Roelef was not a man to judge the backgrounds of his crew, but he knew the name "Essofi." New Malaga's finest criminal family; nuts for Leviathan "Oysters." Those are Leviathan testicles, for science folk. Roelef hardly noticed that he chuckled at the thought of "Leviathan Oysters" as a delicacy - and reportedly potent aphrodisiac - among the rich and power. Tomas had greeted him, all straight-laced in the doorway with an unusually large smile on his face. The morning act. Roelef gave a nod back, and a faint smile, at the deckhand.

"First one in," Roelef said as his deckhand fetched some coffee. "Best hit the throttle on the espresso. You're putting the King through his paces once we break through the Strait."

Roelef took a sip of his coffee. Any twenty-something stoner can learn to steer a fucking boat. Between Polloon and myself, we can get this kid working as a Helmsman. Before Roelef could follow up his response, the "Good Doctor." made his entry. Rafterman; the quintessential chain-smoking, yet good-hearted, ship doctor. Another Andalusian, with an extensive apprenticeship background in medicine; something worth more than a medical degree. Roelef got a read that the doctor was in search of more adventure and opportunity in his life. A mundane motivation for a Rover doctor on Ullr-1.

"The last thing any of us need is another lecture about not smoking in the Galley," Roelef stated, recalling a similar incident involving Emma, the cook, and a nameless deckhand. Roelef chuckled loudly, just as Polloon entered.

Polloon, the water merchant. Roelef had witnessed Polloon's negotiating skills come in handy back in new Maui, when the New Andalusian evoked strong words and obscure SolFed maritime commerce laws to keep the King Solomon from getting searched by Security at the New Maui Harbor. A valuable asset, but Roelef caught the signs that Polloon was concerned about far more important things than his own survival or material wealth. Decades of living close to death had numbed Roelef to the lingering fear, enough for him to sleep restfully. Polloon seemed to be a storied fella who had walked on the edge of death before, but he could not sleep.

"Bom dia," Roelef offered to Polloon's greeting.

Gerhardt came in next, said some quick hellos, and then sat down quietly. Roelef got an odd vibe from the medic, but otherwise saw him as harmless. Schafer came in next: the Spandauan warrior-intellectual. Although the guy was younger than Roelef, the elder Captain felt a tinge of intimidation from the guy. Well-built, young, idealistic, he embodied what Roelef could have been, had he stayed in the service. Schafer was up front about his intentions on Ullr-1; he was writing a manuscript about "warrior cultures," though he used a much more eloquent explanation. Roelef was intrigued by this; who wouldn't be, at the least bit, tickled by the offer of being used as a subject in a written work? Mirroring Schafer's quiet introduction, Roelef gave a nod.

Emma entered next, his direction full of purpose as she prepared to get breakfast underway. She seemed to be cold; being a female cook aboard a ship of mostly men, how could she not be? Roelef caught on that she didn't like him too much, but that was something easily explained. Free Staters and Corporatists never really got along too much. He shrugged off such thoughts, motivated by the desire to keep everything professional - and devoid of bad blood - between them.

"No smoke near my workstation," Emma ordered with force and vigor at the doctor.

Roelef looked around at the men.

"Let's go to the tables, no sense in crowding Emma while she cooks her..."

Roelef walked over to the steamer as Emma began to add in a jellywasp. Yep, I'm gonna poop that out. He turned back around to the men.

"Well, it's not crab. Anyways, let the lady cook. Move your asses into the mess."

Roelef proceeded to exit the galley, pushing open a metal door as he crossed into the mess hall. Metal tables, booths, and padded stools - all bolted down - sat arranged around the galley, room for an entire crew of sixty, compared to the current crew of twenty-five. Some nautical items - nets, harpoons, shark trophies - were secured to the walls, giving that...nautical atmosphere in a much larger dose. Roelef approached the back booth - the Command booth - and sat down on the table, waiting for everyone to pile in.

by **Reverend Norv** » Thu Oct 19, 2017 3:11 pm

Field Notes - 02/04/2394 - Approaching Freya Strait

Roelef watched the crew come in. I watched Roelef, watching us. He paid attention. Is this how he lived so long? Can you substitute attention - real attention - for discipline? If you know your crew well enough, their uses and weaknesses, maybe you don't need to be sure that they can all pull the same direction. Maybe you can put each of them to work where he or she is most useful.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Roelef nodded at me.

We'll find out.

Emma came in next, and looked us all over. There's a stillness in her, a glacial deliberateness that sits uneasily with her youth. Trauma. She reminds me of my first command, of eighteen-year-old kids doing their conscript service on Nieuw Maastricht. Old before their time; frozen over.

Emma walked over to the galley, rehydrated some kind of gelatinous sea creature with various reddish powders, mixed powdered eggs and water, and started cooking breakfast. Most of the food on the Solomon is strictly non-perishable. I'm not totally sure why. We have electricity; we could use refrigerators. Maybe these sorts of anachronisms are themselves part of the culture of self-reliance, like the ancient firearms? "We don't rely on anything we can't repair ourselves," that sort of thing? It would make sense with some of my other findings.

Emma snapped at Rafterman not to smoke "near my workstation." The possessive is interesting. Confirms some other observations. Not communal, this crew; individualist, even jealous of their various roles. Of course, everyone in a dangerous job is jealous of his role, but that role is usually defined more broadly: "Rover," not "Rover cook." Maybe it's because this is a fairly loose chain of command? Roelef is in charge, and the rest of us are all basically equal, so there's an incentive to jockey for dominance?

Roelef told everyone to move into the mess, so as to avoid crowding Emma: "let the lady cook." Roelef is very conscious of Emma's gender; maybe it's because she's so young. Anyway, he looked at Emma and her dried gelatinous ingredients, and didn't seem impressed: made a joke about it not being crab. I'm not sure what that means: is crab too rich for our blood, or is anything better than crab? The class associations of foodstuffs don't translate well across cultures.

I followed Roelef into the mess. It's comfortable; a little run-down; a lot like the rest of the ship. It's clearly intended to accommodate a much larger crew than our current one. There are old-fashioned nets and harpoons and taxidermied sea creatures on the walls. I think there's a connection between the anachronistic decorations and the excessive size of the hall: both produce a feeling of nostalgia, a yearning for a past time when the ocean was filled with romance and adventure, and when a spacious mess hall would be crowded with people drawn to both. There's something mournful about that room, a sense of quiet grief for a lost world that maybe only ever existed in Roelef's own imagination.

One of the booths is reserved for command staff. These days, of course, that descriptor applies only to Roelef, yet he still headed straight to the booth. Again, nostalgia. He sat on the table, not in the booth, and that might be the perfect example of Rover leadership: simultaneously reverent of the traditional trappings of command, and cheerfully subversive of them at the same time.

I sat down in one of the bolted-down chairs - stretched out my long legs in front of me - crossed them at the ankles - tried to ignore the low-level seasickness that still bothers me in the mornings. I fished out my notebook and pen from a pocket of my leather coat, and glanced over my notes from yesterday. Roelef clearly had something to tell us; I waited for the rest of the crew to arrive, so that he could speak his piece at last.

by **Rupudska** » Thu Oct 19, 2017 7:23 pm

Delilah Davis Patterson, Quarters

Make no mistake, Delilah was not a morning person. She got up, but not even special forces could condition her to appreciate the mornings on her native Arengwadea, let alone on the soggy snowball that was Ullr-1. But still, she got up, as sleeping in equalled death in many a situation she had found herself in before, and death was a far better motivator than being yelled at by a drill instructor, or a Major.

Sitting up, she blearily reached for her 'eyes' - technically they were mechanical vision enhancers, not true prosthetics, but she only took them off to sleep, so they may as well have been her eyes. She stretched her back, allowing the servoes in her mechanical limbs to let out a gentle whine as the sheet slid off to expose both her natural body and the metal and 'wiring' of her arms and legs. It was purely aesthetic of course - apart from her fingers and toes, her limbs were coated in a bulletproof transparent metal that protected the lights and wiring.

She walked straight into the shower - advantage of sleeping in the nude - and after a few minutes of cleansing dressed herself in black flannel-lined pants, a long-sleeve striped flannel shirt in red and white, rubberized winter boots, and a grey zip-up hoodie with the seal of the Arengwadean Army on it. She finished dressing just as the captain, a fellow Arengwadean, called everyone to the galley. There was one last thing Delilah had to do, however.

Pulling a long steel case out from under her bed, she took out her sniper rifle - the Longinus Mk IV, standard issue to Arengwadean special force snipers. Stock made of Aciaria regia, royal steelwood - a lovely reddish, chatoyant wood that was especially suited to high-caliber rifles due to its combination of light weight and immense strength. It was a semiautomatic helical railgun with a built-in silencer and a slowed acceleration which allowed it to carry high explosive and HEAP shells. While not as good as older weapons against the cold, it was her old favorite, and it held up well enough. A quick field strip, and an equally quick putting-back-together. She could do this blindfolded, and had on occasion just to prove it. She loaded up its twenty-round magazine with the typical solid-lead 7.62x54mmR. She attached the grey-green sling and slung it over her shoulder, walking towards the galley at an easy pace.

She wasn't late, she was fashionably on time. Very big difference, and she entered only about thirty seconds after Emma. Thirty-two-point-six to be exact. A whiff of the air told her the breakfast would be rehydrated eggs and jellywasps. Which always confused her - why bother with nonperishables when you can easily fit a fridge on the bloody ship? It's not like there was a shortage of cold on this snowglobe.

"Selam," she said as she entered the galley itself and plopped down on one of the steel seats. As usual, she sat at a slight angle allowing her to momentarily stretch her long legs under the table before sitting straight ahead, slightly reclined, with her legs crossed under her seat.

by **Nature-Spirits** » Fri Oct 20, 2017 1:10 am

Roelef directed everyone into the mess hall, which suited Emma just fine. It gave her an opportunity to be alone, at least for a little while. He mentioned crab, his tone suggesting that he probably wasn't eager to eat jellywasp. She shrugged to herself. She'd eaten crab exactly twice, and hadn't found it to be that much better than anything she'd grown up eating. It couldn't compare to the pungent flavour of snow cat, or to the slightly sweet taste of strok. Maybe it was better than jellywasp, but she'd grown up eating the stuff. One of her favourite desserts as a child was jellywasp pudding, a dish using the gelatinous creature as a base and sweetened with sugar, which in her youth was acquired only through trade. And anyway, it was a cheap, easy food source.

While the eggs were finishing, she turned and opened one of the refrigerators. She stared at its contents for a minute before pulling out a container of saskatoon berries. Truth be told, she wasn't especially used to preparing fresh food. As a child, most of the food she ate was meat. Most contact she had with vegetables was freeze-dried or pickled, and only gained through trade, mostly with pirates. Plants were scarce on Ullr-1, and it wasn't until she was 7 that the Nunavummiut managed to cultivate edible berries and tubers -- and even then, they weren't a primary source of food. When she lived with her old pirate gang, fresh food was more plentiful, but she continued to hunt her own meat and fish, and they were occasionally forced to rely upon their less perishable food stores. In a way, the type of food she prepared was a way to connect to her roots.

Emma placed the saskatoon berries on a cart, and put a large serving spoon in it so that everyone could take a share. She turned to the steamer, and opened it to smell the plump jellywasp within. Perfect. She lifted it out with tongs onto a cutting board, and began slicing it into short strips. She laid it out on a serving plate, and added this to the cart. Finally, she put the eggs in a large serving bowl and placed this, too, on the cart. She double-checked everything, then wheeled the cart into the mess hall. "Alright," she announced, trying to sound chipper. "We've got eggs, we've got jellywasp, and we've got berries." She looked around, and saw that a few people seemed to share the Captain's view on jellywasp. "Now," she continued, "I know some of you aren't used to eating that second item. Fine. Don't like it, don't eat it. I won't be serving it every meal." She smiled and raised her eyebrows.

by **Cylarn** » Sat Oct 21, 2017 9:41 am

Captain Roelef van Graan, Mess Hall

Roelef had his feet resting on the ground, his body facing the Galley as the crew slowly began to filter in, rifle unslung and resting on top of the table behind him. The deckhands, the handful of engineers and security officers - they all walked in and began to form a line before the window. The collective gait of the line was a slow stumble forward by tired bodies. They look hung-over as fuck. I'll ask the doc to dose up the crew with dramamine so they're not throwing up. Emma approached from the Galley, pushing along a meal cart - or "chuck wagon," as Roelef called it - with the fruits of her labor laid out in serving plates and bowls. Jellyfish, berries, powdered eggs. "Insta-Mix Runs." He chuckled aloud, seemingly at nothing.

Emma was doing her best to sound happy and bright. Only problem was that the Free Stater was too smart for her own good. She knows that most of us don't like damn jellywasps. I want some damn crab, honestly. Anyways, she sounds a tad bit defensive, pretty much calling out any potential jellywasp complaints. Direct. Once Emma finished her announcement, Roelef decided to speak up, raising his voice.

"Keep your food down, folks," he called out. "If you vomit, it's your job to clean it up. I want Command sitting at my booth, so we can talk business and give the morning orders."

With that, the crew began to approach the chuck wagon, collecting their morning breakfast. Some loaded up their plates graciously, as to fill their bellies for the long day ahead. Others stacked their plates lightly, worried that they would up-chuck their meals later on. Roelef waited as the crew gathered their food, entered the Galley to get various beverages, and sat in the Mess Hall, encompassing every table and booth in the room. Roelef waited patiently as the crew was served, before going up to get his own plate. He chose generous helpings of eggs, berries, and the dubious jelly wasp, sprinkling some salt on each item, sans the berries. For his beverage, he produced another - larger - mug of espresso, before joining the Command table - and his staff.

Roelef sat at the head of the table, at the point where it curved around in a "c" shape. His staff - Polloon, Patterson, Schafer, Rafterman, and maybe Emma - sat at the table, dining on their morning breakfast and sipping their coffee. Holding his white mug, he took a sip of the espresso and followed it up with more words. As he said the names of people and departments, his gaze shifted between the respective heads of those specific departments.

"We're gonna hit the sheet in the next two hours, and that's two potential hours in which someone could beat us to the Strait. It's a race without rules, so Patterson, I want the swivels stocked and loaded; get the deckhands to help you move stuff. I leave the loadout to your liberty. Rafterman, I want meds distributed to the crew; make sure they're not throwing up breakfast. Don't get em too fucked up; I want them to function. Other than that, make sure that Medical is on stand-by for triage and emergency care."

Roelef took a bite of his jellywasp, followed up by a mouthful of eggs, scooping his fork into each item and spearing chunks of food. Salty, processed stuff - but filling nonetheless.

"When we approach within vis-range of the Strait, I fully expect to encounter other boats. We're gonna go by the book, and the first boat that breaks the ice is responsible for reporting it. Polloon, I want you and Schafer to send out notifications to the SolFed Frontier Office, as well as to Morozov. It is vital that we make contact with the authorities as soon as the bow breaks the ice; we're not losing this payday."

Roelef ate another combo-bite of his food, washing it down with a gulp of espresso. He waited for a response.

by **BettaMin** » Sat Oct 21, 2017 10:06 pm

Deck Hand Tomas Essofi

"First one in," said the Captain as Tomas took a mug from beside the machine. "Best hit the throttle on the espresso. You're putting the King through his paces once we break through the Strait." Tomas responded with a dutiful chuckle, still not quite awake enough to form a response. He felt instant relief at the mere sight of the hot espresso dripping into his mug. That's the best part of this job, he thought, pulling the mug to his lips and blowing on the surface gently before taking a sip. Finest damn coffee I've ever had.

One of the many stereotypes about New Andalusians is that they are sentimentalists. In a world pushing outwards into new unknowns, New Andalusians are often seen as among the most rooted in tradition. Tomas fit that stereotype, except in his own unique way. He saw the value in old things and old ideas. Things like the espresso machine, for example. Despite being older than shit, it produced a quality of coffee that only old things could produce. It was like the machine was an old, skilled tradesman. There were plenty of those in the markets in New Malaga. They didn't experiment. They stuck to what they knew, and got really good at it. It didn't have to be new or complicated to be good.

Of course, if that sentimentality were to be pointed out, Tomas would argue that the stereotype was racist, and that, of course, it made sense. Of course old things have value. Nowadays, factories are producing for huge populations. Nobody cares about quality. It isn't economical to care about quality. Prayer beads were another good example. Tomas, despite not being a religious man, always carried a set of real wooden prayer beads. Prayer beads were mass produced in imitation wood, and while intended to be smooth, occasionally had production defects. They could be produced quickly and sold quickly, but they couldn't match the quality, in Tomas's opinion, of handmade wooden beads.

Tomas's smile faded as his thoughts drifted towards home. New Andalusia was nothing close to Ullr-1. He hadn't thought twice about the work needed to get your hands on Leviathan Oysters before landing this job. The cold was unbearable, especially for someone raised on arid New Andalusia. Still, there were plenty of New Andalusians on board. He knew they were on the same metaphorical and literal boat.

Tomas shook his head at Rafterman's offering of a cigarette. Not now, he thought, But I guess that goes to re-enforce the stereotype that every damn CMO in the galaxy smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, or more often than not, both. As the rest of the crew filtered in, he exchanged greetings, generally responding with the more cheerful and upward-curving "Buenas" or the grunted "G'morning".

Emma fired up the rehydrators, lost in thought as soon as she got to cooking. Tomas didn't raise or lower his expectations for the coming meal. Emma was a good cook; she could make it work, even if the ingredients were terrible. Jellywasp didn't seem like ideal food for a man in Tomas's state, but he wasn't picky.

Patterson came in just after Emma, with a short "Selam". For Patterson, Tomas code-switched briefly into his first language, Arabic, and responded with "Alaykum Salam." Tomas couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by Patterson. She was one of those people, Tomas felt, that was smugly aware of their attractiveness and want to flaunt that detail in little ways constantly. The sniper rifle ticked Tomas just a tad more. Isn't that overdoing it? Even a little? He hated himself a little for being attracted to her. But who wouldn't?

Tomas coolly sipped his coffee, his calm disposition never faltering despite the many little thoughts that flicked through his head. He took one last sip before refilling the cup as the Captain started moving people to the mess. He joined the crew in line shortly afterwards, chuckling and exchanging more greetings with the rest of the crew. Glad I took it easy last night. Hell, that guy looks green.

He made himself a plate that primarily consisted of berries, with only a sampling of egg and jellywasp filling his plate. He was in a berries mood. He didn't have the craving for berries before he saw them, but when he saw them, he wanted them. He had to have them. Besides, while caffeine wouldn't help the lingering cotton mouth feeling, the slight sourness of the berries would. He made a slight show of putting the jellywasp on his plate, just so that Emma wouldn't get angry. He made sure to get a portion that looked big, but wasn't really, so he didn't really have to eat that much while still avoiding her wrath. He sat down with a sigh, decompressing and looking casually around the mess before starting to eat.

by **Backatri** » Sun Oct 22, 2017 12:28 pm

As the crew moved through the galley, Gerhardt's mind began to race. Had he been to quiet with his morning hellos? Gerhardt knew he would never smoke but was he to mean in denying them, by turning around and getting his coffee? As the line shuffled forward, Gerhardt got a new cup of coffee, as well as some of that jellywasp stuff. He found that it was delicious when buried in raspberry vinaigrette. Operating on two fronts, Gerhardt both weighed his food options and worried about his actions that morning. Gerhardt swung his head around to see if any of the crew were observing him closely. They weren't.

Gerhardt did notice that a fair number of the crew who had entered were armed. Gerhardt realized with a start that he left his King's Rifle MA-10 in his berth. His left hand began to twitch ever so slightly. Gerhardt knew that the crew would look at his hand now that it was behaving oddly, so he used to weight of his tray to steady it while he sat down. The captain entered into a briefing on the new mission. Stay sharp, act professional, the whole deal. A lot of it didn't apply to the medical team, but it looked like he and Rafterman would have to stand at the ready, and give everybody pills. The crew was looking at the cap now, easing Gerhardt's mind and reducing the twitching to an irregular jump.

Gerhardt realized the he hadn't done any tinkering in awhile. Granted, any evidence of his activites could lead those SFBI agents right to him, but by god augmenting people was his hobby, and without Gerhardt was lost. Maybe he would augment himself, something that Gerhardtcwould have never done in the past, but now times called for it. Rafterman would never assist him, and with his room right next to the operating theater, Gerhardt would, it seemed, have to operate on himself. He shuddered to think of how risky that was. Even on his best days, a surgical procedure from Gerhardt was dicey, and if Gerhardt went to indulge in his habit, it was near fatal.

The Jellywasp was, regardless of the worries in Gerhardt's mind, delicious. Having spent a lifetime on earth eating food composed of algae, even dehydrated food was paradise. Topped off with raspberry vinaigrette, the meal was perfect. The cap's lecture grew quiet, and the galley was filled with the clinking of forks on plates.

by **Herador** » Mon Oct 23, 2017 7:03 pm

Cole inhaled a plate of eggs and whatever else the cook had put on it at one of the bottom ends of the U shaped table, he was used to eating lumps of things he'd rather not know the origins of. Captain seemed to be focused pretty sharply on the upcoming operation and Cole couldn't really wrap his head around it. Ice breaking didn't seem like it should be this cut-throat, but Roelef had ordered gun teams to station and the surgery prepped. He leaned back and looked out the window, was this going to be a mass casualty situation? With three trained medical personnel... well two trained medical personnel and McCafferty, could they handle the load if an HE round hit midship? It wouldn't be pretty, that was for sure. He'd already been drawing up a protocol for Mass Casualty Triage heavily based on the old company doc's GBRYB system. Green tag was a minor injury, you might even be able to send them back out, and mostly had cuts or fractures that would need care eventually but with a quick dose of painkiller they could get moving out of the incident area and onto secondary care. Blue was a patient in a condition where self-locomotion was difficult but the patient could survive without immediate serious medical care; broken bones, moderate limb injuries, and burns could all be labeled as Blue. Red was immediate care required, though the patient wouldn't require immediate surgery they needed a doctor to see them now; a patient in danger of bleeding out, one who had trouble breathing, or one who was in and out of consciousness all qualified as Red. Then Yellow, Yellow meant they needed surgery and they needed it now, a patient who was on the way out was Yellow and if Cole got the system in place he'd be the physician in charge of Yellows for the first time in his career. The weight of that hit him in the gut. Black was the last, patients who were already dead or who any time spent on them was going to be a waste, you covered the dead ones and gave the dying a double dose of morphine, then you moved on.

It was at this point Cole realized he was a single nurse understaffed. If he could have one nurse handling intake and helping out with Greens, another handling Greens and Blues, and Gerhardt and himself handling the Reds and Yellows this might be going smoother. Could he rely on the crew to sort themselves out effectively? Probably not, every patient wants to be seen right away, nature of trauma work. He'd have to have McCafferty work the intake and just hope no one hit Yellow.

Cole raised his hand. "Captain, I sent a proposal your way a few days ago for the handling of mass casualty triage situations, my GBRYB system? Have you had a chance to read it over? I think that if the worse should come to pass my department is going to need to have a system in place and ready to go that the rest of the crew is onboard with, hopefully if we're all on the same page we can keep some people from going Black Tag on us. I was thinking that since I don't think we have the color cards handy we can just have crew self report or write the color condition on crew members foreheads. My only concern is..." he let the "is" drag out then took a sip and tried to frame the next part as diplomatically as he could, given he was currently surrounded by most of the crew, "less than accurate self-reporting, due to the stress of the situation. If you follow my meaning." He knocked back the rest of his water and took an unlit cigarette out of his pack, rolling the filter in his mouth and tasting the tobacco as he inhaled.

by **Rupudska** » Mon Oct 23, 2017 7:59 pm

Cylarn wrote:"We're gonna hit the sheet in the next two hours, and that's two potential hours in which someone could beat us to the Strait. It's a race without rules, so Patterson, I want the swivels stocked and loaded; get the deckhands to help you move stuff. I leave the loadout to your liberty. Rafterman, I want meds distributed to the crew; make sure they're not throwing up breakfast. Don't get em too fucked up; I want them to function. Other than that, make sure that Medical is on stand-by for triage and emergency care."

Roelef ate another combo-bite of his food, washing it down with a gulp of espresso. He waited for a response.

Delilah didn't intend to be rude with the speed she ate, but to some it could have come off as that, as she attempted to down it and her espresso as quickly as possible. Especially the espresso. It was no Arengwadean blend, and she could easily tell. Really it was just brown caffeinated water, and all the cream and sugar in the galaxy couldn't save it from that fate. For a while, Delilah had tried, but month upon month of the shit, along with her own purchased bags of the good shit going missing within days of her bringing it on board, led to her giving up. Resigned to fate, Delilah drank the caffeinated poo water, with cream and sugar.

She downed it completely before answering Roelef.

"If they're anything like this rig, light high explosive rounds should be more than enough to scare them away. And if not, actually aiming at something important will stop 'em. But just to humor you, I'll tell the deckhands to bring up a few loads of armor piercing. Just in case."

by **The Knockout Gun Gals** » Tue Oct 24, 2017 12:33 am

Cylarn wrote:Captain Roelef van Graan, Mess Hall

"We're gonna hit the sheet in the next two hours, and that's two potential hours in which someone could beat us to the Strait. It's a race without rules, so Patterson, I want the swivels stocked and loaded; get the deckhands to help you move stuff. I leave the loadout to your liberty. Rafterman, I want meds distributed to the crew; make sure they're not throwing up breakfast. Don't get em too fucked up; I want them to function. Other than that, make sure that Medical is on stand-by for triage and emergency care."

"When we approach within vis-range of the Strait, I fully expect to encounter other boats. We're gonna go by the book, and the first boat that breaks the ice is responsible for reporting it. Polloon, I want you and Schafer to send out notifications to the SolFed Frontier Office, as well as to Morozov. It is vital that we make contact with the authorities as soon as the bow breaks the ice; we're not losing this payday."

Kim took out the plate of his and put some powdered eggs and jellyfish. He didn't particularly like the jellyfish, but if there is one thing he knows is that he needs to filled the belly of his with food and berries are not the choice here. Powdered eggs are still eggs, even if they are in a powdered-form and no longer a whole solid-form like it used to be in the past. The coffee on the other hand, wasn't kind to his belly so he resorted with the hot water. Just...hot water.

"Alright, captain. I'll notify the rest of the security to be on guard."

by **Nature-Spirits** » Thu Oct 26, 2017 12:05 am

Once everyone was settled with their food, Emma finally got herself a coffee and took her place at the Command table. She knew that she didn't technically need to be there -- she wasn't in command of anything except the galley -- but it was the principle of the thing that drew her there. She had the right to participate, so she would. And, truth be told, she didn't trust the other department heads -- and least of all Roelef -- to make decisions in everyone's best interests. Under an autocratic or oligarchic system, even one such as this in which excessive formality was often eschewed, commanders inevitably became alienated from those they commanded. This never bade well for the commanded. Participating in Command meetings was the one way in which Emma could monitor and contribute to the decisions of the commanders, and by the spirits she was going to do it.

She listened with interest as Roelef discussed what would happen over the next hours. She had to give him credit for one thing: he was experienced. The man had been doing this for years, and that surely counted for something. She almost scowled at her plate when he mentioned that it was a "race without rules" -- that reminded her too much of her pirating years. Those two years had been a time of zealous cruelty, recklessness, and depression. She didn't like to dwell on that part of her life.

Maybe this isn't too different, though. A smirk played across her face for a moment at that thought. As an ice rover, she still enjoyed relative autonomy. She still worked in a hazardous occupation. She still couldn't trust anyone completely, however bad for cohesion that was. The most important difference, to her, was that she wasn't directly harming anyone as a rover. Although she didn't like participating in the exploitative operations of the corporations, however marginally.

Emma took a bite of jellywasp. It was nothing spectacular, she admitted to herself. She would never admit that to anyone else, of course, but within the confines of her brain, it was an acceptable observation. She decided that she would cook something better tonight, to celebrate their success. Fish, with a nice helping of vegetables and tubers. If all went well, the crew would deserve it. And if something went wrong, they would need it.

by **Cylarn** » Fri Oct 27, 2017 7:53 am

Captain Roelef van Graan, Mess Hall

When he finished speaking, his crew - both Command and not - offered up their remarks, suggestions, queries, and other things that Roelef could easily consider to be complaints. He took a moment, with a chunk of jellywasp at the end of his fork, to observe the room with a blank expression. Wow, they're all looking at me. Did they all think that was the briefing? I was just talking to the staff; I guess now I have to play it off smooth, like I planned it all along. On the bright side, they all listen good. The first person to speak was Rafterman.

The good doctor brought up his implementation of a ship-wide triage system, color-coded by condition and full of jargon. The Captain listened politely as he considered the words spoken by the youthful Rafterman. He was an intellectual; maybe not college-educated, but he had more practical - and just as much academic - experience as a first-rate trauma surgeon from anywhere in the galaxy. Thus, his brain deduced and analyzed the data around him in order to tackle the various obstacles that were waiting before the King Solomon. A good doc on the Aurora is always worth his or her weight in gold; however, the Rover's life is one of simplistic effectiveness, at least in the eyes of a man like Roelef van Graan. I skimmed through that thing; if I can't expect myself to remember color codes, can I expect everyone else to do so?

Rafterman also brought up a valid point: inaccurate self-reporting. We all fudge the numbers at some point; ask for more support when we need, ask for more painkillers than we need, ask for more money than we need...I gotta be realistic, and trust the instinct of the medical team.

"I read over the color system, Doc," Roelef stated, snapping his fingers at the doctor. "C'mon, smokes, let's go."

Roelef held out his left hand, but continued talking.

"I agree that we need a triage system, but I find color codes to be a bit difficult to memorize, especially when you put red before yellow. Still though, you implement what system you think is best and base it upon the assessor's opinion. Use magic markers if you have to, alright? Have the fella doing triage write down the arrival time and perceived medical condition. If I were you, I would devise a symptom scale system for non-emergency injuries; have the assessor interview the subject and their medical assistance revolve around their individual symptom scores as well as their cumulative scores."

Without thinking, he dropped his hand as his Arengwadean sister began to speak up about stacking up the armaments with high-explosive rounds for the purpose of scaring them off. Roelef didn't intend to take chances with other ships. Piracy was a cheap thing to do, and so were ship-to-ship incursions. Gestures of intimidation - like turning the deck guns and swivels towards the enemy, or "redirecting" other vessels - would often turn into warning shots, followed up by an exchange of fire. So many ships wandered into New Maui and New Archangel with substantial body damage from random shootouts. Sometimes, the deck guns and artillery was not used; the crews of most boats had firearms on board, and firefights and pot-shots were not unheard of. Boarding, though rare, happened.

"I'm all for scaring them, but I want more AP than HE on the deck, right?" he stated, the "Afrikaner" dialect from Arengwadea's central savannahs beginning to pop up. "We'll play it as safe as we can, but Rovers tend to have a death wish. Be ready to sink 'em."

His tone was flat, monotone, as he told her to "be ready to sink 'em."

The crew continued eating, listening to the Captain speak. Some of the other deckhands and ratings began gossiping and exchanging rumors, allowing for the Command Staff to turn their discussion inward.

by **Herador** » Sat Nov 04, 2017 12:56 am

Cole took out a smoke and handed it over to the captain, lighting one up of his own, if the Captain was doing it he was going to risk the Cook's wrath.

But a symptom scale... not something he'd thought about. They'd had one before back home, it had been a color system too but that might throw people through a loop so... maybe a numeric system? Wasn't worth worrying about now, what was on his mind was the last bit, and it had him inhaling hard, that kind of exchange would be rough. Some of the crew were old hat at this and had been working these waters for years, Cole had no doubts that they'd been in some bad spots and learned to cope, but some of the faces were as fresh as his and that had him worried. He'd seen dead bodies and miners so mangled you could hardly tell there was a person under all that blood, but could some of these kids say the same? He considered offering the Captain a psych rotation for the crew, a few every day just to check up and ask how they were. He'd bring that up later. He just didn't like the idea of sitting in his room while the big guns boomed waiting for a screaming patient to get dragged into his medical ward, the thought reminded him of the few times he had to stand in the hospital receiving bay waiting for a mass casualty situation.

It wasn't pleasant.

He tapped his ash into his cup absent-mindedly as his imagination went to a darker place: what if they were boarded? Cole didn't carry a weapon, his mentor hadn't forced him to swear any long-form oaths, only a single simple one: Primum non nocere. Cole took it seriously, and the idea of harming anyone willingly didn't sit well with him, but he imagined a pirate breaking into his Ward, realizing it was a medical office, and wanting his supplies. Meds had to be worth their weight in gold on these oceans and how many would a pirate go through to get them? He needed a weapon. Before now he never considered harming another soul, but he was now sure, if not comfortably, with the idea he'd kill to save one of his patients.

Cole wore his worry on his face when he raised his hand again.
"Cap? How likely is it we're actually going to get into a gun fight?" He paused, not sure how to word this next part, he didn't want to let worry make him look the fool. "... And, uh... what are the chances we might get boarded?

by **Cylarn** » Tue Nov 07, 2017 8:25 am

Captain Roelef van Graan, Mess Hall

Herador wrote:-snip-

Roelef gave a visible, eye-locking grimace at Rafterman, in absence of his cigarette being unlit. It sat in the tips of his fingers, his right hand resting on the table. Well then, I guess common-fucking-decency is hard to come by. So much for that bedside manner. When the doctor began to speak up about combat; specifically, his own proximity to a possible firefight in the bows of the ship, Roelef took a moment to listen. Boarding was serious business. If these guys are worth their salt, then we don't need to worry about boarders even making it off of the deck alive. If not, then we're transforming the below-deck into a tactical nightmare. Rafterman finished, and Roelef quickly and simultaneously leaned and reached forward, swiping the cigarette from the mouth of the doctor. With the pilfered cigarette, Roelef lit his own cigarette, and returned Rafterman the cigarette. He sat back, taking a long puff of the cigarette before exhaling a cloud of smoke. The Arengwadean smirked.

"As for this ship, it's for-sure," he said, chuckling afterwards. "One-hundred percent certain that we will get into a firefight. You can be sure of that, doc. As for the boarding..."

He looked over at his Gunnery Chief.

"Don't take that as an insult. Keep your crew locked on tight."

He went back to Rafterman, dragging the cigarette before speaking.

"That's assuming they can close in without getting slugged in the eye. They gotta get on their deck before they get on our deck. Do you think they can do that effectively when under fire?"

Roelef chuckled, making known his prediction of the doctor's worries.

"Doc, your first duty is to keep your patients alive. That's what you're hired to do. If they come under harm and, by medical definition, their survival depends on not getting shot or stabbed by some guy that's literally in front of you, I am confident that you will act in the best interest of the patient."

Another drag of the cigarette, and he concluded his response.

"Every department on this tub has at least one weapons locker. Cheap, old guns that still can kill a man just fine. In the Medbay, I taped a Beretta 92 under your desk like...six weeks ago. I hope you found it."

With that, the Mess Hall further developed into feasting and conversation. Meals were quickly finished, coffee and cigarettes were ingested, and the dishes were soon all placed neatly in stacks in the Galley, by the crew nonetheless. With the morning ritual of Breakfast concluded, it was time to get a move on.

Captain Roelef van Graan, Bridge

The Strait was visible to the King Solomon now. A blanket of fog, rock, and ice, jutting up from the ocean to create the narrow entrance called the Freya Strait. The ice sheet extended out two miles from this point, and at less than four miles, the ice-breaker was beginning to encounter small, broken sheets rogueing about in the waves. From the comfort of the heated Bridge and with his body planted in his chair, Roelef looked at a screen in front of him. He looked different now; cleaner, his hair slicked to the side a bit, and his clothes were different: a pair of grey cargo pants, his winterized boots, and a black wool turtleneck with the sleeves rolled up. He wore a leg holster, which held a black Beretta 96.

His eyes were on the hologram that rose from atop the console in front of him. It showed a woman, a rather beautiful Nordic woman. Long blonde hair drawn into a bun with some visible braiding, a serious glare in her blue eyes; one might mistake her for an angry Valkyrie, if not for the smart black fatigues and turtleneck of the Ullr Security Forces. Her words were venomous, directed at Roelef's own character. Apparently, he had not only previously scorned this woman - Admiral Stefanie Nysmark - but he had destroyed an Ullr nav-buoy by crushing it with his ship. Any crew present in the Bridge at this time could see the whole message as it played.

"...And if I ever see your sorry ass in New Archangel again, I will crucify you and leave you to freeze naked as a warning to anyone with even the thought of doing the same dumb things as you h-"

Roelef sighed, shifting to the next message. A fat, older Russian man with balding black hair popped up now. The shrill noise of wind could be heard in the background. Judging by his thick winter coat, the Ruskie was likely in the snow.

"Captain of vessel King Solomon, I am Arkady Morozov, of Morozov Company. I bid good fortune to you and crew. This is all."

The message cut out. Weird... Roelef looked over at the sonar monitor. Two blips were approaching from four o'clock, at two kilometers away and closing. Another one - fainter than the other two - was reported at a depth of eight-hundred feet. Just our luck...looks like we're racing to break the Strait now. He stood up, and he shot his eyes at Frido.

"See those ships there, Polloon?" he called out. "I want a summons."

Roelef's right hand pressed down on a call button on his console. The label for the button was "GUNNERY."

"Davis-Patterson, what's the status of the deck guns? Any visuals on targets from the four o'clock starboard?"

EP. 1 - "We're Gonna Go Strait Through, Get It?" (FO IC)

EP. 1 - "We're Gonna Go Strait Through, Get It?" (FO IC)

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