Hello and welcome to what will hopefully become a series of engaging, character-centric RP's set in a bleak, futuristic environment.
I'll cover participation first:
I'm not the most active NS user, but I do always return to the forums after (at most) one month of absence. This is mainly the result of my occupation, which means I understand periods of inactivity better than most. As a result, this will be as fast or slow as the individuals participating. For the sake of everyone else, however, I'd like one quality (two paragraphs, or thereabouts) post per month to remain an 'active' character. If you exceed this without some sort of warning ("Hey, I'm going on vacation/had a baby/relative died/etc") you run the risk of your character being 'written out' after a period of time. They may vanish in an 'ambiguous event' of some sort, like when a character in an action movie is on a boat that explodes and is presumed dead. Should you return later, you're welcome to write yourself back in if you wish, like when the aforementioned character reappears in the sequel, having "jumped clear of the blast in the nick of time". I'd rather not kill anyone off, but for the purpose of keeping the story moving it will have to happen. I'm fine with having a few abandoned characters tagging along but won't drag a mindless horde through a story.
I'd like you to have some degree of writing ability, understanding at the very least how to correctly spell and form sentences. I'm no professional author by any means, but 'text-speak' abbreviations (h8, thx, lol, brb, etc) will not be tolerated. On that same note, understand and follow the general rules of the II Forum and NationStates roleplaying in general. They're pretty simple:
-No 'GodModding': Should be self-explanatory, but basically no one's invincible
-No 'MetaGaming': No one is 'all-knowing'. If events are occurring halfway across the galaxy, your character would not have first-hand knowledge despite the fact that you, the author, just read about such events.
-No 'Mary Sue' Characters: Since this is not a 1980's action movie, I'd like some character development. People have flaws, quirks, and other oddities that make them interesting and unique. Build the character to suit the environment. No 35-year special forces veteran with a spotless record would take work on a vessel like the one you'll be inhabiting, no 16-year-old super-soldiers, etc. Your characters have to make sense and at least be passably interesting. "Oh look. Another guy under 30 who is good at everything ever."
-Most importantly, have fun and enjoy yourself.
-I'm capping this at SIX participants so I can keep up with everyone.
Characters:
Again, this is meant to be entertaining to write as well as fun for others to read. I don't like setting an age limit or anything like that, but actual children wouldn't be permitted on a vessel like the one our merry band of vagabonds will be roaming known space in, so characters will need to be at least 18 years of age. I don't have a species limitation either, as the Argonian Empire exists in the NS Multiverse and trades widely with any number of other space-faring nations, governments, and what-not, and as such any species is permitted. Keep in mind, however, that if your species needs a number of specialized considerations to exist in a conventional nitrogen/oxygen atmosphere they might not be a good choice. Most planets the crew will visit (and indeed, the vessel itself) has an oxygen/nitrogen atmosphere.
Keep things believable, and keep in mind this isn't a ship full of crusading white knights. The Argonian crew all have their own shady pasts and some were outright criminals at some point, pushing them into this chapter in their lives. Most of them have skills other than combat they've honed over their checkered careers, and most are ex-military of some type or description. A few of them are mentioned in the opening post, and might be excellent guidelines.
A note on magical powers or 'otherworldly' abilities: While Argonians have evolved a psycho-kinetic/telepathic ability they refer to as 'The Gift', individuals with sufficient skill and power to actually employ this ability at will are exceedingly rare, and are highly regulated by the Argonian government. Use this as a guideline if your character has this manner of talent. On that note, not every new recruit would have such abilities, so take that into consideration as well.
The Setting:
Set for the most part along a far edge of the vast and fractured Argonian Interstellar Empire that borders an up-and-coming technologically-advanced entity calling itself the 'Adeex Galactic Cartel', and relations are 'strained' to say the least. The Adeex are culturally obsessed with amassing wealth, and have become shrewd traders as a result, keen on any opportunity that could increase their own individual holdings and elevate their status. The Argonian Interstellar Empire is massive, spanning a number of star-systems and hundreds of worlds. Ancient and powerful, it is still a slowly-dying husk of its former self, clinging to past glories and ancient traditions. Already embroiled in several 'Wars of Reunification' with systems that have either attempted to split from the Empire or have recently been rediscovered, their formidable fleets and numberless legions are bogged down and slow to respond to outside threats. Forces have built up along the border with the Adeex to repel what is seen as an eventual invasion as Adeex economic elements become more and more common sights along the border worlds. While reasonably advanced and more physically powerful than their Adeex cousins, the Argonian forces are outnumbered and out-classed by superior technology employed by the Adeex military. While the Adeex express only peaceful intentions, they've quietly built up a substantial military force of their own along their border with the Argonians in response to the increased military activity as both sides peer with suspicion at one another and millions of civilians on both sides fear being caught in the crossfire.
In the midst of all of this is the 'High Plains Drifter', a designated rogue trading vessel intent on turning a profit in this atmosphere of unease and mistrust. There are few jobs the 'Drifter' won't take, and even then prices are negotiable if you're willing pay for the less scrupulous stuff. Coming off a rash of reasonably-successful trading runs and some less-than-legal activities, the 'Drifter' is in need of some new blood and has anchored on the planet Thraska at the edge of Argonian space to pick up new recruits and resupply...
IC:
It has been said that 'void-born', those who came into this universe in the endless expanse of space, never truly feel at home on the surface of a planet. There had never been any official studies conducted to look into this phenomenon, but it was a popular wives' tale among members of the Imperial Navy. Atticus Kerrich felt that this explained a great deal of his uneasiness as a youth, and provided a convenient excuse for his nomadic tendencies as he aged. Orphaned at a young age, he'd been sequestered to the Imperial Youth Academy on Argonia to repay the kindness of the Empire with military service. While unsure of the exact details of his birth, he'd been able to piece together enough evidence that his parents were spacefarers of some sort. Once he'd arrived at the Youth Academy, Kerrich had been given a variety of aptitude tests to determine how he'd be best put to use. Lacking aptitudes in starship piloting or the makings of a special operations soldier, Kerrich had been trained as a naval provost. The Imperial Navy lacked a dedicated 'Marine Corps', and therefore relied on the Naval Security Division to repel boarders and keep order among the Imperial Guard regiments that were ferried between warzones on massive troop barges. It was a thankless, difficult job, much like that of a Guardsman. Guardsman regiments were tithed from various populated worlds throughout the Empire, and didn't need additional recruits from the Youth Academies. Constant warfare resulted in a steady stream of war-orphans, and from those orphans came everything from administrative specialists to acolytes for the feared and mysterious Black Watch.
Kerrich fell somewhere in the middle, with enough combat aptitude to keep him out of a life of ink-stained fingers and paper-pushing. Granted, he statistically would enjoy a much shorter life than that of a clerk but that was beside the point. Kerrich had always been cunning, and that had permitted him to make the most of the hand he'd been dealt. As a provost he'd become notorious for his 'selective' application of regulations, often confiscating contraband just to turn around and auction it off to the highest bidder. He'd become something of a kingpin in the black market that existed on every Imperial vessel, especially the troop haulers. The ground-pounders would gladly trade wages for extra ale rations, 'torpedo-juice' homebrew, or any type of recreational drugs. Kerrich developed an eye for these things, quickly growing adept at manipulating the limited commodities in his chosen market. This mercantile aptitude got him in as much trouble as it made him acceptably wealthy, at least by provost standards. By the time his life changed for the better, he'd been promoted five times and demoted twice for behavioral infractions. Everything had changed during an operational rotation on a destroyer during an anti-piracy campaign in the Kalhashi system, when he'd had the misfortune of fighting off two boarding torpedoes worth of screaming pirates by himself. To this day, Kerrich avidly denies he did anything heroic, his self-serving nature preventing him from accepting that he did anything aside from preserve his own life. For his efforts, Kerrich was given a commendation and released from service with a 'Letter of Marque'.
Such letters were exceedingly rare, bestowed only on such individuals deemed worthy of trading outside the borders of the Empire. Known as 'Rogue Traders', these individuals answer to none save the Emperor as far as their business ventures are concerned. Typically given to nobles or venerated war-heroes, it was far out of line for a lowly naval provost to receive such an honor for such a minor act of heroism. There was more to it, there had to be, but Kerrich didn't ask any questions. He took the offer to leave the Navy without a second thought, along with the rickety freighter included in the deal and never looked back. Such chances were once-in-a-lifetime, and he wasn't about to let them realize they'd given this high honor to the wrong Kerrich. It was a common surname, after all. That had been nearly a decade ago, and since then Kerrich had done well enough to upgrade his vessel. The "High Plains Drifter" was a decommissioned destroyer, stripped of most of its high-grade armaments long ago and converted for civilian use as a bulk hauler.
Kerrich, through a combination of bribes and sheer guile, had commissioned a number of upgrades and had nearly returned the old war-horse to its former glory, although it looked from the outside to be a decrepit scrap-heap. The truth was somewhere in the middle, most of the upgrades being slap-dash in nature. The 'Drifter' had enough firepower to hit above its relative weight-class, at least for a minute or two. Advantageous for a vessel intended to trade outside the relative safety and security of Imperial space, the 'Drifter' carried a compliment of ground troops as well. Like many of his kind, he'd decided to diversify his revenue streams. The crew undertook about as many barely-legal mercenary contracts as they did legitimate trading runs. Kerrich had gone to some lengths to secure a suitable crew, many of which had been part of the original group who'd inhabited that first shabby freighter and at least partly responsible for their recent rash of success.
Chief among them was Selous Vrash, a former Guardsman from a tribal Scout regiment of some renown. A fifteen-year veteran and survivor of four campaigns, Vrash was a solid multi-discipline specialist. Commando-rated Scouts tended to be just that. He'd stumbled across the grizzled Scout purely by happenstance, after a deal to transport some illicit cargo had gone terribly wrong during his first few years as a Rogue Trader, before he'd truly found his feet. One bar-brawl later, he'd hired Selous to serve as the ship's "Scout Master", a made-up title he'd thrown out in an attempt to sweeten the deal. The ship already had a crew, with everything from engineers to comms specialists and engine crews, so "First Mate" wasn't something he could put on the table. In practice, it basically put Selous in charge of the ground team when Kerrich wasn't present, which was more often than not. In practice, that meant former Scout-Sergeant Selous Vrash was the one drawing fire while Kerrich handled all the negotiations and nonsense that led up to it, as well as making sure everyone got paid afterward. Aside from his duties as a ground force commander, Kerrich frequently consulted his Scout-Master on a number of topics. Both men were survivors at heart, and after nearly a decade of misadventures they'd developed something of a bond. Kerrich was too selfish to bother with a term like 'brotherhood' but their relationship approximated such a level of trust, even if Kerrich's narcissistic tendencies cringed at the such a familial label.
Other long-time crew members were Krag Maddox, the sticky-fingered demolition specialist; Milo Tackitt, a disgraced officer from the famed Defiant Rifle Regiments, and Brother Teebo, a humorless tech-adept from the Brotherhood of the Machine Cult. Maddox did his part on the ground team, usually peppering in inappropriate comments between chain-smoking cigars. He was a brute of an Argonain, crass and vulgar. From what he'd been able to gather about his demolition man, Maddox was a conscript from one of the Defiant worlds, a ganger press-ganged himself into serving as a sapper in support of men like Milo Tackitt and the troops he'd once commanded. His only truly redeemable quality was his savant-like ability to wire explosives and get into things he otherwise shouldn't.
Tackitt was a polar opposite from Maddox in most respects. A ninth-generation officer in the Defiant Rifles with a keen military mind and cool head, he'd been poised to enjoy a lengthy and glorious career in the most highly-respected facet of the Imperial Guard. Tackitt had his flaws, however. He'd gladly shared the details of his departure from military service at the rank of lieutenant, having only recently obtained the rank in the long climb to reclaim his former title of 'Major'. He'd been busted down to sergeant's stripes for the fifth time in his career, mainly for 'conduct unbecoming of an officer', which Tackitt explained in Defiant parlance meant he'd spent too much time whoring from the bottom of a bottle (generally). His commendation list was nearly as long as his disciplinary action record, sporting a number of citations for bravery in combat, as well as a few regimental dueling titles with both saber and pistol.
Teebo was something else entirely. Supremely gifted in the art of keeping machinery running, he was more machine than Argonian at this point in his march towards mechanical enlightenment. Often the butt of Maddox's jokes, Teebo possessed an almost supernatural ignorance to the concept of sarcasm. Like nearly all of his kind, he tended to avoid conversation with 'organics' unless it was absolutely required.
There were others of course, like the new bunch under the command of Kanak Shaz, whom Kerrich understood to be a former stormtrooper. Shaz was missing his right arm below the elbow, replaced by a gunmetal augmentic ornamented with delicate engravings that seemed at odds with the brute it was attached to. Like Kerrich, Shaz had originated in an Imperial Youth Academy somewhere, another war-orphan destined for a life of servitude within the Imperial machine. Unlike Kerrich, he'd demonstrated a remarkable aptitude for combat at a young age and had been thrown into stormtrooper training for the duration of his youth, taught to be an elite killing machine until his age demanded that he be pressed into active service. Shaz hadn't been forthcoming about how he'd lost the limb in the first place, but it was safe to assume he'd not lost it doing something benign. Stormtroopers were the beneficiaries of a suite of genetic enhancements from a young age, growing to be physically larger and stronger than most Argonian males. Combined with their already super-human conditioning, this allowed them to fight longer and harder than almost any conventional soldier.
While tight-lipped in general, Shaz's bunch had a slightly different composition than his own crew, and that had been a bit off-putting. Tackitt had once worked with Shaz before, which had allowed Kerrich to gain a referral. He'd noted a few Scouts, some Verdant Longhunters, and a few human Gungiri Shield-Bangers, all respectable backgrounds. He'd hired them to replace a dwindling number of operational ground troops after a botched salvage operation and he'd been quite satisfied with the decision.
Enough time spent staring out into the darkness, at least for now. Boots ringing on the ancient deck-plates, Kerrich departed from the observation blister on the roof of his vessel. Often a spot of peace and quiet, he could already hear the more rowdy members of his crew filtering into the lounge area, heralded by an echoing series of raspy voices and barking laughter. By his estimation it was the beginning of the ship's night cycle, when most of his crewmen were released from their daily duties to congregate in the nearby common area.
The lounge was a dimly-lit space situated just under the small observation blister Kerrich had been occupying during his brief meditative period, and currently a swarm of activity as crewmen went about their own personal relaxation rituals. Maddox sat nearest the exit, wreathed in fragrant tabac smoke from one of his ever-present cigars. He nodded in Kerrich's direction before taking another pull from the smoldering brown-paper cylinder in his left hand. Selous, too, was seated nearby with a glass of what looked like hist whiskey he absently rotated in a damp ring on the stained table-top, chatting idly with one of the Scouts from Shaz's group, an Argonian named Vektor. Selous threw him a nod as he passed, and the two returned to whatever deep conversation they'd been in before he'd appeared. Others arrived in ones and twos, helping themselves to various spirits behind the self-serve bar and finding stools or chairs to seat themselves on or in. He spotted a few crewmen from the engineering section as well, streaked with grease and soot, and cast them a nod in greeting.
As the captain, Kerrich often forgot about the real heroes on his vessel; those that worked out of sight, behind the scenes under the close supervision of Brother Teebo, keeping the ship's engines and life support running. The ping on his comm-link brought him back to the present once again…
"Go for Kerrich"
It wasn't uncommon that he'd get a call this late, but the caller was unusual. Rolf Kreeger was another long-time member of the crew, a former Guardsman who filled the position of intelligence analyst on the 'Drifter'. He didn't make contact unless he'd found something interesting…
"Boss, there's something you should come take a look at...".
Without another word, Kerrich stepped off in the direction of Kreeger's small workspace.
Situated behind the bridge, the room Rolf spent most of his waking hours in was small by comparison to other occupied chambers, the walls covered with maps and star charts yellowed by age, along with a softly-glowing data-terminal on the far wall. An unmade cot covered in rough blankets stood unused nearby, and the room was thick with the odors of old caffeine solution and the stale musk of cheap tobacco-sticks. It was clear Kreeger hadn't done a great deal of sleeping over the past few days. In the center of the room was a large table, what had at one time been a holographic projector used to brief staff-grade officers but was now only useful as a flat surface. The projection-table, too, was strewn with papers both new and old, along with a number of handwritten notes, data-chips, ashtrays, and dirty glasses.
As Kerrich emerged from the bulkhead, Kreeger looked up from his work. Rolf Kreegar was around Kerrich's age, but had clearly seen a great deal of ground combat. Among the various tattoos on his exposed arms was a rendering of the regimental crest of the 510th Pnumbrian Rifle Regiment, a now-extinct unit of which Kreeger was likely the only survivor. The left side of his head was a dull chrome hue, an augmentic replacement for a nearly-fatal injury he'd suffered sometime in his career. It gave him a menacing appearance at odds with his typically jovial demeanor. Stranger still was the odd asymmetrical look it gave his head, as they hadn’t bothered to replace the ear-fin he’d lost in the bargain.
The data-jack he'd had Teebo install was connected to a cable that ended at the data terminal across the room, Kreeger was multitasking as usual...
"Glad to see you, Boss. I picked up a few trinkets from the usual sources during our last stop-over on Thraska, when we recruited Shaz and his lot. One of them has proven to be quite interesting...".
He held up an ancient-looking data-chit, dangling from a cheap metallic chain. Someone had mistaken it as some sort of talisman, perhaps from a primitive world formerly part of the vast and decrepit Argonian Empire. It wasn't uncommon for items like this to be turned into tribally-significant jewelry or something similar…
"Seems this old data-chit had some primo stuff still stored in its depths. Thankfully the 'Drifter' originated from around the same time frame as this little beauty and they missed a few chit-readers during the overhaul..."
Kerrich dragged a nearby folding chair over and located a half-empty bottle of hist whiskey among the random debris that lined the shelves around the data terminal, along with a clean-ish glass…
"And the significance of this chit is what, Rolf? Seems like you're building up to something.".
Kerrich poured himself a measure of whiskey, savoring the earthy floral aromas as the amber liquid sloshed around in the glass. Like most Rogue Traders, Kerrich fancied himself an individual of taste and sophistication, and had adopted mannerisms to further such an image. He gently rotated the glass, allowing the whiskey to roll around the crystal tumbler as Kreeger got to his eventual point…
"There's been a standing bounty on something the Machine Cult calls 'The Black Code', a string of data-syllables capable of instantly shutting down any machine you speak it at, assuming you speak binary."
Kerrich nearly choked on his drink, feeling the burning liquid light up his lungs as it went down the wrong tube. This topic was vaguely familiar, in that he'd heard about this in his rare conversations with Teebo, especially in reference to a few of the more tricky contracts they'd gotten involved with that set them against automated defenses…
"What's the bounty?"
Kerrich asked, composing himself with some difficulty…
“It’s not listed specifically, like the planet. The planet itself is no longer listed on any official star-charts. It's not been a part of the Empire for centuries, the astrocartographers seem to have simply forgotten about the system it's part of, as well as the planet itself. There's a good chance that it's still inhabited, too. Might pay an additional 'rediscovery' bounty with the Black Watch..."
Kerrich shuddered inwardly at the mention of the Empire's pet psychopaths. Part secret agents and part secret police, the Watchmen of the Black Watch were all-powerful, answering to no-one save the Emperor himself. Kerrich wanted nothing to do with them if he could help it, but he would gladly take their credits, at least if they didn’t execute him and the rest of his crew first…
"Awesome work, Rolf. Now get some rest and clean this place up a bit. Smells like lunacy and sadness in here..."
He slid the half-empty glass of whiskey across the inactive projection table in Kreeger's direction, who caught in neatly, taking a gentle sip. Kerrich left his intelligence specialist to his own devices, none of which were likely to include resting or cleaning his living space in the 'Drifter's old briefing room.
It was a short walk to the bridge, which housed Kerrich's worn, familiar command throne along with his command crew. Orbiting above the free world of Thraska, and in the beginning of the night cycle, the bridge was quite empty. The ship's orbit was maintained via the techno-sorcery in the old vessel's cyclopean computer banks. There wasn't a soul around, and for that he was grateful. This, like most of their operations, would be something of an undertaking, a journey into unknown space to brave unknown hazards for the promise of vast riches and likely attention from the one Imperial office you didn't want to realize you even existed. Still, they needed the money and they were freshly supplied with provisions and crew. If they were going to do this, the time was now. Kerrich seated himself in the command-throne, running his scaly hands over the worn, splitting leather on the armrests until his fingers recognized the cable port.
With a practiced motion, Kerrich unspooled a length of cable and plugged himself into the ship's computer banks via the augmentic data-jack behind his right ear-fin. It was a standard upgrade for starship captains, one he wasn't overly excited about having but one that had proven useful countless times over in both terms of saving himself time and saving his literal scaly behind in a number of engagements with less-than-friendly vessels. So connected, he was able to mentally rifle through a selection of star-charts in search of a viable point to access the inter-dimensional rift they'd use to travel across the vastness of space in a reasonable span of time. Typically this was the job of his navigator, but again it was trending towards the middle of the night and the man had a hard enough task ahead of him, that of steering the 'Drifter' through the eddies, tides, whirlpools and maelstroms of the Sightless Realm; the dimension through which Argonian vessels crossed distances in weeks that would have taken lifetimes using conventional engine technology. He'd leave the finer points for the navigator, a Sightless Gifted named Osborne Verran, to hammer out before departure. Kerrich stared off blankly into the middle distance, absently tapping his fingers in a rhythmless ditty on the worn chrome end-cap of the command-throne's left arm as his mind annotated the most efficient route from Thraska to their new destination.
Again, Osborne would further refine the route based on his own findings. The Sightless were a variant of the 'Gifted' among the Argonian species able to navigate the madness-inducing currents of the opposite dimension that shared the same name. Unlike conventional 'Gifted' (if there was such a thing), Sightless were functionally blind in the normal realm, their eyes clouded a purple hue from birth. Where the Gifted typically exhibited telekinetic abilities, the Sightless were able to look into the opposite realm without descending into madness, piloting vessels through the currents like seafaring helmsmen of old. While a different dimension, damage suffered in the Sightless Realm was no less real, and could quickly destroy even a mighty warship in a mere instant.
Idly, his gaze drifted to the small circular opening in the middle of the bridge, which housed the tube Osborne would soon inhabit for an indeterminate period of time. By his estimation, it'd take over a week for them to make the various jumps to the unnamed system, not counting rest periods for the navigator, which would vary based on the severity of the energy currents on the other side of reality. Too much time in that dimension and he ran the risk of stranding them in the middle of nowhere, far beyond any hope of rescue if Osborne's mind gave out mid-journey. Like navigating the rapids of a river on a terrestrial world, immense concentration was required to guide a starship safely to the desired exit point without incident, and fatigue compounded the difficulty. With his rough chart complete, Kerrich gently removed the plug from his cranial socket, feeling a slight buzz run through his body as he returned to his physical form and the confines of his own mind.
He exited the command throne with a grunt, smacking his gums at the sudden metallic taste in his mouth. Fatigue had settled into his body, but thankfully his cabin was nearby. His palm permitted access to his private quarters, another bastion of solitude away from his other responsibilities, and this one didn't suffer from constant interruptions like the observation blister. While larger than any other cabin on board, Kerrich's own quarters were just as spartan as that of his crew. A man raised in military culture, he wasn't one to attach himself to knick-knacks and useless trinkets. The bed was large, and dominated most of the rear of the room. An ancient wooden desk, hewn from some unknown world's native timber, sat along one wall, next to a chest of drawers and his personal armory locker, in addition to a well-stocked brass cart that served as his personal bar. Dimly lit, he'd also built himself a primitive sitting area out of an old sofa and a mismatched collection of gaudy chairs. He retrieved a bottle of elder-vintage hist whiskey from the cart and flipped the rubber stopper out with his thumb, flopping down on the much-abused sofa before taking a swig.
It was smokey and smooth, with a subtle peppery bite and alcohol warmth towards the end. He situated himself in the middle of his largest piece of furniture, allowing Kerrich to unbuckle the heavy leather belt and holster that carried his preferred weapon, an old Defiant-pattern bolt pistol. Hard-hitting and reliable, he'd owned the gun for years at this point, and quite honestly forgot where he'd acquired the thing. It wasn't standard issue to Naval personnel, and uncommon outside of the Defiant officer corps. Firing large-bore mass-reactive rounds, the bolt pistol was a lethal instrument of death in the hands of a skilled user.
Kerrich counted himself in that category, but even an unskilled user could be quite effective with such a weapon, if they handled the recoil well enough to make a successive series of hits. Bolts were designed to penetrate a target and detonate internally, combined with their large size this made them the most lethal kinetic munition available in Argonian space, but also more expensive than conventional solid-slug ballistic weapons or las-guns, which were standard issue to most Imperial ground forces. He draped the holster over his shoulder, snatching the bottle once again as he decided against remaining on the sofa, where he'd awoken one too many times with a stiff neck after passing out alone at the end of the day. The bolt pistol found a home on his night stand, the holster thrown in the general direction of the armory locker with little regard for where it landed. The bottle remained at hand for another hour or so, before it rolled leadenly from a sleep-slack hand onto the shoddy carpet on the floor.
Morning came far too soon, at least for Kerrich’s weary body. The mildly-annoying klaxxon employed by his alarm clock unit was grating enough to wake the dead, and it technically had on more than one occasion, if a severe-enough drunken fugue could be counted as a form of death. With a groan, he heaved himself out of bed, located appropriate clothing and his discarded holster, retrieved his weapon, and exited his cabin into the bright lights of the ship-board day cycle. Kerrich made a point to be the first man on the bridge, and he usually was. There was just enough time to que up an inky cup of high-content caffeine solution from the bridge’s refreshment station (something he’d had installed, as the Navy ran on the stuff and he didn’t want crewmen trekking to the mess hall every hour) before he seated himself in his command throne. By then, his subordinates had begun to filter in, a loose knot of bodies that untangled itself as each found his assigned station.
Once everyone was accounted for, he turned to his comms officer…
“Send a comm to Selous and Kanak, tell them I want their respective bands of cut-throats assembled in the training bay in the next half-hour.”
The rating nodded, and went about tapping the message into the ship’s internal comm network. Kerrich himself could have easily done the same with a vocal announcement, but this seemed a bit more courteous. Without another word, he slid out of the elevated throne and began the trek to the ‘training bay’, which was little more than a cargo hold where they stored extra equipment, the recon buggy, various piles of fitness equipment, and a padded area for the practice of hand-to-hand combat. A weapons range was an odd thing to have on a ship, but the crew kept a few sheets of armor-plate lying around in one of the other bays to plink at if the bay was empty. These days, it often was. Thankfully las-rifle power packs were cheap and rechargeable by a variety of means, otherwise there might have been an ammunition shortage as well.
Again, Kerrich was first to arrive, seating himself on a battered-looking crate of (likely stolen) field rations, sipping his still-hot caffeine solution. Selous arrived next, and one by one his motley team filtered in. The brute Maddox seated himself nearby, a smoldering cigar-stump clenched in his teeth and a bottle of some intoxicant in his left hand…
“Bit early for that, eh?”
The demolitions specialist simply shrugged in response and exhaled a cloud of spicy smoke through his nostrils. ‘Early’ was a relative term when it came to his ground teams. Out in the void, they didn’t have many duties aside from maintaining their combat readiness and repelling boarders, if it ever came to that. It hadn’t yet, and once their daily training routines were complete they tended to resort to less-than-productive habits. Alcohol and light drug use were tolerated, so long as performance remained at the high standards set for them by Milo Tackitt, the Drill-Master. The aforementioned former officer arrived soon after Maddox, gently puffing on an expensive-looking pipe. Tackitt nodded in Kerrich’s direction before seating himself next to Selous across the room, the former scout shuffling over to make space. In any other warzone, the two of them might be at odds with one another; but outside of regimental bickering, out in the vastness of space away from the politics of the Argonian Imperial Guard, they were just two former soldiers. Kerrich found that fact entertaining, as the rivalries of the Defiant Rifle Regiments with basically every other unit (especially Marshland Scouts) were well-known.
Shaz’ crew followed a moment later, moving in a tighter group that spoke of their recent integration. Like Selous’ ragtag party, they were close with one another, and didn’t often welcome outsiders. Here, they were the outsiders, the ‘new guys’, and that bonded them further still. Kerrich had no concerns, however. These were professional soldiers of one sort or another, the same sort that made up Selous’ merry band of misfits and cast-offs. If anything, they were more seasoned than Selous’ team, with the amount of new blood they’d had to take on that had led to Shaz’ people being hired in the first place.
Kanak Shaz was tall for an Argonian, a nod to the subtle gene-boosts he’d received in his youth. That was the one thing Kerrich hated about the man, other than his rigid demeanor: He had to quite literally look up to him. Shaz’ band clustered towards the back of the slowly-forming half-circle, maintaining as much unit integrity as possible. He’d initially found it odd that there was so much diversity in Shaz’ unit, in terms of the various species. Where most of his own troops were Argonian, Shaz had collected half a dozen other species, which was surprising given the demanding standards the former special operative demanded.
Kerrich took one last sip of his cooling beverage before beginning, setting the paper cup down next to him on the rough surface of the crate…
“In roughly one hour, we’ll be making the transition to the Sightless Realm, on course to a previously-lost world said to house something of great value. Some lost tech, or some such. I’ve checked the bounty on the item, and it’s substantial enough that everyone gets an above-average share. In the interest of honesty, the bounty has been issued by the Black Watch…”
A few murmurs of concern rippled through the gathered mercenaries…
“...and the Machine-Cult. We’ll be dealing with the latter if at all possible, as they’re more likely to pay us with coin instead of summary executions. If any of you wish to opt out of this operation, speak with your respective team leaders after we’re done here. I’ll understand completely, and if enough of you think this is a bad idea we’ll abort the whole thing, but I assure you there will be plenty of reward money to go around if we can pull this off. It’s a simple salvage mission, but I want everyone ready for a full combat drop onto unknown terrain. All the intel I have about the planet itself is that the atmosphere supports life and it’s not covered entirely in water…”
Kerrich paused once again, letting the information sink in. It was entirely possible this was a trap set up by the Black Watch for their own unknowable reasons, but that seemed unlikely. They’d had a stroke of luck stumbling across the data in the first place, and the location itself wasn’t listed as ‘prohibited’ on any Black Watch list he’d been able to access publically. Still, this ‘Black Code’ was supposedly a powerful tool, a weapon of infinite and catastrophic uses in the right hands. Mere possession might warrant a bolt-round to the back of the head. The Machine-Cult, however, with their love of knowledge, would be the better option. At least they’d be willing to hear his proposal without threats of torture…
“Any takers?”
Every hand in the room shot up, along with a chorus of affirmatives…
“Good. Get with your team leaders, it’s all hands on deck for this run.”
