Echos of the past (FT Semi Open.)

[The Fedral Union]

A Reply to this post.

Star log dated 06-28-28, Captain Travis Asimov GRV Tyrian FFG-82


=After a week long stop at Talos station for some much needed R&R; we've finally been given our new orders, I .. Honestly didn't expect us to be out of dock for another half a week; the crew are no doubt disappointed. Various ships en-route to Talos and the station itself seemed to be the target of some; quite frankly confusing and even lightly disturbing broadcasts originating from sector grid 1942.

Star Command; unlike some of the other alliance members had their eyebrows raised, what ever the case is they just like me cant make heads or tails of what its trying to say; this is where me and my crew come in. We're heading out at 1450 shipborne time tomorrow; I just hope what we find , if we find anything. Additionally we've gained some new crew members; I was hoping we could teach them the fine art of anti piracy duty on the ship but they'll have to settle for searching for a proverbial needle in a haystack instead.=

- End Log-

Captain Travis Asimov folded his hands on his personal desk in-front of him; the holographic computer display flickering off in an instant; the blue and real color aura that it had emitted was instantly gone; he had been serving as the Tyrian's captain for more than four years; originally he wanted a posting on a destroyer or cruiser.

But as fate would have he was given a work horse; after his dismay had passed he quickly learned that this old ship meant living life on the edge; quite literally. The Tyrian wasn't equipped with most advanced gear; the best luxuries of larger ships; but she was a smart and quick ship with a dedicated crew. And that’s all Asimov could ask for.

He Sunk in to his chair; it was nearly 0400 local time, Asimov rubbed his eyes with two fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in a swift motion and yawned, he had been battling his fatigue for more than a few hours by this point. It was a loosing battle yet for some reason, some reason he couldn't exactly pinpoint his mind was uneasy. Was it the shortened stop over at Talos? Or this mission; what ever the case he pushed those thoughts aside and stood up from his chair; Tyrians Avatar shimmered before him; her smile as bright as ever.

-”Finally getting some rest captain?-

Asimov nodded; he ran a hand over his short well made dirty blond hair glancing at the effeminate figure of the AI in full military uniform. He turned toward a modest bed within his small quarters; asking the avatar in a tone that could almost come across as lamenting.

-”You think we'll find any thing? Some long lost race, some pranksters with a nutty sense of humor? Or just a ghost of something long dead?-

Tyrian replied as she watched the captain take a seat at the end of his bed; he was already in his sleeping attire so to speak a semi conformal pair of metaweaved under-alls.

-Who knows; hell we barely woulda caught the signal if it wasn't for other reports; and we don't even know if it was the complete thing. Even someone as smart as me cant answer that question; there are just too many unknowns. If it weren't for the fact, that the sector in question was near our route to the Epislon sigma station in Talonian space; I would have suspected that Star Command would have chosen a science ship filled with eggheads to sift around the area.. “-

Asimov grinned a bit; he wouldn't have put it as “exactly on their way” but he thought to himself perhaps he was over thinking things; maybe it was just a strange anomaly, they've dealt with them before even if their specialty was just catching up with criminals; and seek and destroy missions of vagabond missions. Asimov settled in to his rack eyes looking up toward the sleek roofing above; he stated before the avatar of the ship dissipated in to nothingness as if it was a specter itself

“Just promise me if we're out there looking for an eternity you'll find us some rocks to blast. Until we're pushing up the daises.”

The ships living minds projection nodded; and Captain Asimov closed his eyes; his mind still suppressing its uneasiness the humming of the ships power conduits and engines; those familiar noises he grew accustomed too over the years settled him. And he drifted in to a land of dreams as he dozed off.

Captain Asimov was stirred awake from his slumber by the nearly incessant bleeping noise that eliminated from the computer console on the right side of his rack; it couldn't have been more than six or seven hours since he fell asleep, Asimov glanced over to the sharp glow of the projected clock on his desk. It read 01000 hours; He let out a sigh groggily shifting from his rack and planting his feet upon the soft blue carpeting that was the norm around the ship. Asimov rubbed his eyes and yawned stretching out his slender semi built form in the process. He quickly shuffled out of the gravi bed; feeling the tingle of warmth that its force field created wash off his body.

-“Tyrian, whats the ships status?”-

Asimov would say in a plain voice making his way toward his storage locker; the door silently slid open to unveil that black gold and platinum trimmed uniform neatly suspended in some manner over a pair of black hefty combat boots.

The avatar of the ship replied to Asimov in its usual mild tone that had a hint of an unknown accent.

-”Everything is nominal... You worry too much about me; If anything was wrong with me you'd notice.”-

Asimov smiled lightly , replying as he quickly donned his uniform.

-“You're probably right about that.. But what can I say; a captains got to know his boat.”

The avatar scoffed; after all he only “Thought” he knew it like the back of his hand.; not many sapients if none at all could possibly grasp the nearly infinite variables and the inordinate number of components needed to operate a ship, even an older one.

Within the hour Asimov had made his way to the CIC through the sleek yet antithetically pleasing and winding corridors ; officers who had passed by this man of somewhat tall stature brought their hands to the level just above their eyes rendering a salute; that he promptly returned. It was still a few hours until departure time; Asimov knew that by said time every officer assigned to his ship would be with her. The Captain reflected on his thoughts before his slumber; he was less troubled than before the facade on his face was that of any man in service; professional and curt yet disciplined. He expected that demeanor of every man woman and AI in his crew; at least while on duty. Asimov stepped out of the gravlift that had taken him three or four decks above his quarters and on to the mid sized CIC deck; where angled and sleek construction where both conflicted and augmented by some of the computer consoles, a memento many thought of the ships long history in star command. But this ship was far from what it used to be when it was commissioned; its capability had been greatly enhanced in various retrofits. And the CIC reflected this; his eyes glanced around just as he briskly walked toward the command chair. Panels aglow with the light of holographic schematics of the frigate ; sensor readouts and various other things where lining several of the bulkhead walls of the command center. The primary hologrpic display that graced the middle of the room between two stations now lay before Asimov.

He couldn't wait to see that thing come alight once more ; part of him wanted to stay in dock at Talos for quite awhile longer but the part that wanted to be out there amongst the stars quickly extinguished that longing. He was a man of space; a man of duty. He sank back in to his chair awaiting the arrival of his first officer with a cadre of new crew members and AI drones no doubt of various races to arrive.

-You're up early sir..-

A slightly sarcastic remark came from his ixcumanian engineering officer; Asimov turned and glanced at him give a soft fight as he looked over that humanoid dragonic form so common for his people, he smiled and nodded the bags under his eyes readily visible .

-Well; you know the old Terran Expression Commander Iroiks; the early bird gets the worm.. In this case our worm is trying to figure out what the hell we're going to be looking for in sector 1942.-

The ashen colored reptilian furrowed a eye-ridge in interest.

-We're not taking the gate toward the Talonian station then I take it?

The avatar of Tyrian shimmered on to the bridge her expression was obviously one of being unexcited. Asimov nodded to the avatar and then turned to his engineer saying in a mildly exasperated tone.

-”That's right; we're taking the 10 day trip.. We'll keep up with our primary mission of course; keeping those damn crooks running with their proverbial tails or literal tails between their legs, but we'll also be conducting a little bit of digging in to that strange signal that was broadcasted.. It gives me the chills frankly-

Iroiks gave his species equivalent to a slight shrug witch was a soft stretch of his normally folded “wings” replying in a slightly rumbling tone that sounded almost as if it had a growl for an accent.

-“I've heard it.. But to me it was more unorthodox and confusing than “chilling”.. I don't know why command is sending us out so early to investigate something a probe or dedicated science ship can do. At any rate; it will give me time to hibernate.-

Tyrian chimed in shaking its head.

-You can all go to bed and the ship will just be fine; besides even if its nothing we'll no doubt get to where we need to be in less then ten days. I don't know whats got you worked up about this captain; it was just a bunch of gibberish.-

Asimov shifted in his chair looking forward and replying in a general term.


-I don't know, it just bothers me; wouldn't it bother anyone? Even if it was just a conglomeration of signals that turned out to be the ravings of a lunatic we'll at least get to do our jobs as I'm pretty sure there are a few uncharted bases of operations in those areas.-

Tyrian nodded; Irokis was mute for the moment; what more was there to say? He turned away and returned to his operations station interlinking with the ship and the rest of the command staff; he and Asimov felt familiar embrace of both warmth and cold slither in to their thoughts logic, and emotions from them and the ship.

---1325 hours--

Asimov's finger tips drummed along the armrest of his command chair; his eyes wearily and tiredly glancing about the room, then with the speed of a thought ; he sensed the instant his first officer had come aboard. It was time now; to brake in the new recruits, he stood from his chair as his halfling of a first officer Commander Jioenas Sieon stepped off the grav lift, behind him a cadre of several fresh faces from mantoid to human.

He stood and turned with a brisk snap military right face toward his first officer; who saluted him on behalf of the recruits and himself. Asimov returned the salute and broke the ice with his usual informal style of speech and motivation.

-“Welcome to the GRV Tryain; I know she may not be what you envisioned for your first posting but this is a tall ship with a proud history of service, we chase down criminals; we destroy bases of operations and we help keep the freight moving, in short we're the workhorses of this fleet. If you cant handle getting a little dirty well.. One wonders why you joined star command in the first place.

There are no hero's on this ship; only men women and sophonts who do their job, just because we're not a big fancy destroyer or a cruiser or the like; doesn’t mean we aren't important. But it also doesn’t mean we're better than any one else you may have your specific talents but you I and the rest of this crew need one another and the ship to survive out there.


Its a razor thin line of order and disorder we're walking. My best advice as your commanding officer; is to take the lessons you learn while serving under my command and Tyrians command to heart. You're going to learn the need to rely on your wits, training; and most of all instinct. This ship isn’t a place for hotshot jockies either; we may bend the rules now and then but get this straight, you can prove yourself by doing your job well not by gaining what in the academy we like to call tunnel vision. I believe since you're all recent graduates you are familiar with that term yes?.”-

Every one of them nodded; Asimov smiled his tone turning more formal now.

-Welcome Aboard; commander get them linked in and escort them to their quarters. I expect everyone of you to be at your post on time; get your gear squared away.”-

They all nodded some where astonished at just being on a ship others were astonished at the seeming bravado ,informality; yet professionalism of their captain. They quickly made their way back to the grav lift Tyrian activating their linerlinks as commander Sieon nodded to the avatar; Asimov took his seat smiling.

-”Commander; I hope you read or got a datalink copy of our orders?”-

The black and white furred halfing nodded; he took a seat next to the captain.

-”Well what do you make of it?”-

Sieon couldn't exactly dismiss or prove anything so it took him a split second before he replied in a calm voice.

-”I think it could be worth checking out, I wish we wouldn't leave port so soon; but luck for the crew I managed to acquire some rare locally distilled spirits. Some of them obviously a normal human cant drink but.. -

Asimov raised a hand to stop the commander in mid sentence.

-”Am I the only one a bit unnerved?-

Sieon again thought about it; he had to admit the cryptic nature of the transmission was somewhat unappealing, he answered after a short pause.

-”Well sir, I'm pretty sure you aren't It strikes me as odd, there could be a number of things or sources of those transmissions. They could be well out of date by now; would be an interesting archeological find if we did locate it.”-

Asimov shook his head and then smiled; Sieon always tried to look on the bright side of things, Idealism was something that Terrans seemed to be in abundance of at times. Asimov changed the subject toward the procedures for unlatching the ship.

-”Status on our departure hour Tyrian?”-

The avatar replied warmly.

-Ten minutes and forty three point two seconds.. Or rounded down for your sake, ten minutes..”-

The avatar was a tad bit sarcastic with her remark at the end of her statement. Asimov greeted it with a feigned warm smile.

-Thank you; begin departure procedure, fire up the D-core and when we're cleared in those what nine-minutes now? Take us out.-

He crossed one leg over the other glancing up to Tyrian's avatar; he may not be able to delve deep in to the secrets of creation itself but Asimov wasn't exactly a man who one would underestimate; nor was his crew.


It was now time for the ship depart; at exactly 1400 hours give or take a few seconds. With a silent whirr and clank; the latching clamps on the Warrington class frigate de-coupled from its smooth angled gray hull. Beneath the shadow of the station ; the ships phase engines roared to life ; it turned nimbly away from one of the many large docking rings that Talos had; the station was truly massive Asimov sank in to his chair as the screen showed the magnificent glitters of lights from the titanic structure grow smaller and smaller until to his astonishment and to the crews astonishment,

They could see the star the station was oh so gracefully orbiting; the incandescent glow of light that radiated through the darkness upon the various habitation sections; each section of course contained their own transplanted member worlds environment; the view of Terran blue atmospheres on one or more sections; mixing and meeting with different colored atmospheres formed by different gases; seemingly fading in to them to form seamless rings; each with its own crescendo , and own unique verity of life.

The ship quickly turned away banking instantly to the port side, Asimov and his crew almost let out a collective sigh; such an odd place but unique amongst the stars. Now it was time to turn toward the matters at hand; this patrol. Asimov shifted in his chair sitting up as he glanced to the avatar of the frigate; and so within a few seconds the slender angled hull of the ship tore open a bridge toward the infinite and almost undefined realm of hyperspace/meta space. In an instant it was engulfed by this maw of swirling energy and exotic radiation that closed with in the instant the ship had entered the realm. The portals luminosity was evident to anyone watching even on the day side of the station; but for only a split second. The ship was now in transit; the hyperspatial tube around it seemed to be filled with an aura of colorful particle matter that cascaded off the ships DIF, only to fade in to the undefined realm of hyperspace; where by witch all the forces of the universe came in to being yet also broke down. It was a confusing place; many sapient's still didn't fully grasp it; and even the immense minds and processing abilities of the avatars had limits in this realms understanding.

Asimov linked with the scanners outside could see the cascading particles of energy dance across the hull of his ship; a soft smile crept over his face; this he would think to himself is the place he belonged. Amongst the stars and amongst the beauty of this meta-space. It would take a few days to even locate the source of that odd transmission; but nonetheless. The fear of the unexpected abated when the excitement of defining the unknown took center stage. The Tyrian was a fighting ship; no doubt about that, but like all ships it had multirole applications, and this. This exploratory drive is what drove Star-command to reach out; even if they had to keep a stick behind their back to ward off predators.


So all that the crew could do now was.. Wait and see; what would they find? If anything. Questions circled; and would continue to circle. It was obvious at this point, Asimov closed his eyes lightly; Tyrian and Sieon glanced at him; he glanced back.

-Something wrong?-

Sieo merely shrugged lightly and said in a casual tone.

-”You look tired as hell captain, I think we can handle operations for a day. You should go rest up.”-

Asimov sighed he was about to open his mouth and say something to the effect of a protest that he was “tired” but fatigue and that feeling of exhaustion; as well as Tyrians near glare made him realize that the two where right. Asimov had little rest over the past night.

-”Another hour and I'll go hit the graviracks.”-

[Dyelli Beybi]

Dyelli Beybi was a bizarre state, or more accurately collection of States Each one, which ranged in size from a small island to twenty worlds, ran itself in, more or less, blissful isolation from the others. They spied on each other constantly, skirmished regularly, but all got together at the 'Parliament of the Teyrnasoedd' and 'Council of Leaders'... which was where things got really confusing.

In its more recent history, Dyelli Beybi had fought an extremely brutal civil war against one of its member States which had been involved in the practice of slavery, a war which had become known as the 'Liberation of Talv'. Like everything involving Dyellian politics, it was highly complicated. Not one, but two expeditions were simultaneously launched against Talv by the coalition that became known as the 'Brythonic Alliance' and a force coordinated by Central Government which became known as the 'Imperial Expedition'. Each force was supported by native (an alien species known as 'Prenael') irregulars on the ground... though as if that wasn't enough, Rheged, a key State in the Brythonic Alliance, was also funding a separate rebellion in the hopes of extending its sphere of influence separately to the other Brythonic states.

Following the war, Rheged and the Imperials favoured a multi-State solution to Talv, while the Alliance favoured a unified planetary body. Talv ended up with five States: The imperially aligned States of Carangwaith and Berlas, the directly Imperially governed State of Eskgar, the Rheged aligned State of Merovingdor and the United States of Free Talv. It was complicated and messy and very Dyellian.

Almost as soon as the ink was dry on the Declarations of independence, Free Talv attempted to annex Merovingdor. Despite being equipped with second-rate Rhegeditian gear, the Merovingdorians had the advantage of hostile terrain and, arguably, the best Prenael regiments on the planet. The USFT officially recognised the independence of Talv a week later. This, in turn, sparked a series of border skirmishes between the USFT and Berlas who felt that the USFT was in control of territory which should be theirs. The Imperial administration intervened, and the violence stopped, though the States remained openly hostile to one another and began an arms race culminating in contracts for space warships.

Although wary of the possibility of another war in Talv, the Imperial administration was supportive of these efforts as they would increase the overall compliment of the somewhat under-sized Teyrnasoedd fleet and in an effort to both educate Prenael officers and reduce parochialism, invested in a scheme to place potential Prenael officers of Commander rank and above on foreign ships (both other Dyellian and, to a lesser extent, non-Dyellian ones).

Edledhril Vanlond, nominally 'Commodore', was one such officer. A Merovingdorian, Vanlond had been a participant in the 'Battle of Varcowa', a particularly bloody affair in which an under-equipped rebel force had seized the central districts of a somewhat peripheral city in Northern Talv... then managed to hold on through weeks of street fighting until a relief force equipped with Rhegeditian tanks and heavy artillery had arrived. It had been something of a sideshow in the context of the wider war, but had developed something of a place in Merovingdorian folklore and established Vanlond's reputation as an extremely gifted Commissary. It wasn't the most dashing thing to be, but it was necessary and important - under Vanlond supplies reached the right people in the right quantities at the right time. She had been the ideal candidate for command of the, yet incomplete, Merovingdorian orbital station and the Admiralty had snaffled her up as soon as it became clear she was interested in making the jump from the Department of State Security.

She appeared on the bridge as they made the jump to hyperspace, quietly ensconcing herself in a corner where she would not disturb the running of the ship. She understood that she her placement on the ship might have been seen as difficult and annoying, while a Commodore in a Navy without any ships was likely to be viewed as a bit of a joke. That was fine, Vanlond could live with scorn - years as a slave had left her more-or-less immune to the opinion of others, but at the same time she didn't want to make Asimov's job any more complicated than it needed to be.

Vanlond was an interesting creature. She looked, for the most part, like a Cauasian human in her early twenties with a healthy tan. Tall, with sandy-blonde hair and intelligent green eyes. She was slim, with fine boned features, though just enough muscle on her frame that she didn't appear fragile. If one didn't know anything of her species it would be impossible to guess she was over three centuries old. She wore a blue-grey uniform with thick gold epaulettes with a crown, two stars and a globe on each and, perhaps unusually for a military, a loose fitting skirt that fell the just above her knees and tall brown leather boots. On her head she wore a peaked cap. Under that she had tied her hair back into a bun that was not only functional, but served to reveal her long, slanted ears; reminiscent of the leaves of a magnolia tree. If she hid those there was nothing about her that gave her away as Prenael rather than human.

It was all very interesting, and this 'hyperspace' was completely alien to her - not at all like the Dyellian subspace tunnels, which were pitch black. Rumour had it, 'hyperspace' travel was faster as well. It would be interesting to see how this mission panned out, she decided. They were going into uncharted territories with a fairly open mission brief - the kind of mission that was very hard to plan for and where things could go horribly and unexpectedly wrong. Whatever happened, Vanlond would definitely learn something, and she was more than ready to put her hand to any task... if Asimov wanted her to.

[Oppressorion]

Pedego was convinced that the Overwatch Council wasn't just uncaring and aloof, but evil. Not because the night Citizens rebelled against the regime some decades ago was still called The Breaking of the Will (and closed three cities for two weeks just for clean up), not because of the compulsory neural implants meant to control her personality while on duty, and not because of its near-complete inability to trust anything or anyone it couldn't control - no, not those. But anyone who decided to strand her in a one-man pod for months at a time deserved to be revolted against, with prejudice. It wasn't even her fault - well, okay, it was her fault. But really, one bad repair shouldn't have cost her career - it was just her luck that it caused the department's AI to malfunction and issue a six-hour alert against a phantom threat caused by faulty wiring, one that the clerks were still trying to catch up from after the entire floor was evacuated.

After that incident, Pedego had found herself facing transfer after transfer, as well as a definite hit to her Luxury Licence that had gotten most of her amenities back on City 43 confiscated. Eventually, she'd been summoned to her latest Overseer, who'd offered her a deal - unusual in itself, as Overseers didn't normally ask first. He'd been in a meeting asking for volunteers for a new surveillance program - new advances in technology had made small stealth pods viable for inhabitation at last, but it was a long, solitary job inside a planet's rings for months intercepting transmissions from GESO's Talos Station. The idea was that since it was about a light-year away, any encryption protocols used would be long outdated by the time they arrived, not to mention conflicting protocols from different nations sometimes forcing them to speak plainly instead. Pedego would be back in two seasons, max, and by then the mark on her record would have expired and she could have a decent apartment again. All she had to do was send off an irregular weekly report with the most interesting bits highlighted, and not attract attention - not a terrible deal.

That was two months ago, and Pedego had counted every weld, read every manual, and pressed every button she could find that wouldn't immediately kill her (and even then that took some effort). Stealth meant total isolation, without any link to Oprusa - like, say, a new shipment of volume-vids. Or a bath. Or, Council be willing, some air-scent - one could only breathe the same recycled air for so long. Her day was a monotony of reading/listening to the last night's haul while solarside, picking out the bits she could understand, and sleeping as the pod moved back into range on her planet's dark side. Receiving a psychic torrent of confused imagery and severe arithmetic issues, then, was- well, it wasn't boring, and that was enough for her. A message pod launched the same day, and within an hour Pedego had a set of freshly-printed recall orders. Not that she was actually meant to print them - Pedego really, really liked those orders.

They came in the morning. A ship came rocketing out of the system's star to the planet by evening, and effortlessly it scooped up the pod into its cargo lock without a single course correction, even as it rotated. Pedego was thrown around the cockpit - her head slammed back into her chair as the acceleration sent her blood to the back of her skull. She didn't scream - what would be the point? Besides, her chest felt like it was all it could do not to cave in under the G-force, let alone breathe. The ship itself was turning as well - swinging right around the planet back towards the star, and the GESO signals became weaker and weaker as the airlock was withdrawn into the ship's main body. Pedego was still shaking from the pickup even as the room repressurised and welding torches dismantled her pod's outer shell. Guards hauled her out of the pod, leaving her to almost spill onto the deck as a man wearing a Captain's uniform waited for her to get up.

"You're Operator Pedego, right? Peri Delan Golan?" Pedego, unfortunately, was too busy waiting for her guts to catch up with her. The Captain sighed.
"Very well, then. For the record, you are Operator Pedego, I'm O5-01 Aryuvie, and this is FLG Stabiliser. Sergeant, escort our new arrival to her quarters....and a shower, for that matter." Pedego, for her part, remained lifeless as the squad helped her to her feet. Aryuvie stepped closer.

"You'd better look lively about it, Operator...the Council wants to meet you. As soon as possible. "

Pedego's already pale skin drained of any remaining colour. Without a word, she let the squad lead her out of the room, even matching pace as they broke into a light jog.

---

It was a much cleaner Pedego that was led to the Council's remote chambers on the flagship, but no less apprehensive - she hadn't even been able to enjoy the shower she'd been craving. It was a round, dimly-lit chamber, with a horseshoe table taking up most of the space and white projection screens covering the walls. Captain Aryuvie stood next to her, as well as the ship's Council officer - a man introduced as O5-04 Edibul. At length -she couldn't tell how long, she was too busy trying not to faint from the stress- the screens lit up. Five faces appeared out of the darkness, with a distinctly indistinct look to them - generically short, smart haircuts, clean shaven among the men and hair tied back among the women. What was distinct were the intense, rapt attention they were giving the group - or maybe that was just an effect of the shot, as the only thing visible in the screens were their faces. The man in the middle - a sign beneath the screen marked him as O9-57- spoke first.

"I understand that Operator Pedego is the source of this meeting. Could she step forward, please?" He spoke in calm, measured tones, ones that all Overseers above a certain level acquired to varying amounts - an effect of the implants while active.

Gulping, Pedego took one step, and then another, until she was in the centre of the table. Five faces shifted to her, analysing her face as she quiveringly,

"I-" She took a breath and straightened herself. "I am Operator Pedego, Consul, currently under O6-09 Dammerult in City 37." O9-57 nodded.
"That is no longer true, Operator. For now, your status is undefined - something the meeting will decide. Before we begin, I want to make something perfectly clear - this flagship is one of twenty in its class. It houses just short of two hundred crew members, and was just diverted from a routine assignment in a nearby system. I have read your repeated requests for entertainment and to cut your own assignment short, and your implants have been reporting dangerously low seratonin levels. So before we proceed and dedicate even more resources based on your report - was any part of it manufactured to provoke a response and get called back early?"

"No, Consul."
"Consul-" 57 looked up in surprise as Aryuvie spoke form the darkness, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Forgive me, Consul, but the acquisition of Operator Pedago was optimised for speed and stealth, not her comfort. She has not been to the ship's medical bay, either. I ask for the committee to be...considering of her condition." 57 did not reply at first, his expression as unreadable as ever. "I forgive you for the interruption, O5-01." He looked back at Pedego.

"None of it? Bear in mind, Operator, that if we find out you lied to the Council -and we will- and caused us to waste manpower and a ship trying to find a phantom threat-" Pedego's eyes widened, something 57 noticed immediately. "Yes, I am familiar with your history. That was written off as a mistake - if you did this deliberately, I assure you that the consequences will be far more severe than moving to a lower class apartment. So I will ask, before we have to contemplate them - did you experience a psychic episode on board your pod, that you believe was caused by a xenospecies?"

"Yes, Consul. I- I understand it looks bad, but I swear that's what happened." 57 paused for a second, clearly communicating with the others before replying.

"We will proceed as if you are not lying, then. You have no way of knowing this" -He glanced at Aryuvie, who nodded- "but your report coincided with a series of incidents aboard Talos Station. Several of our planetside agents reported that were something unusual had occurred, and traffic increased significantly with psionics and medical specialists, as well as scholars of deep space cartography. You are, however, the only person in our control to have experienced it personally. We have the memory file you included in your report, but it appears to be less...rich than described - an effect of the delivery, we presume. You will remain aboard FLG Stabiliser in case your experience becomes useful in the course of its new assignment, under O5-01 Aryuvie - step forward."

Apparently dismissed, Pedego turned and stepped back into the shadows as the Captain replaced her - he briefly put a hand on her back in seeming comfort as he faced the Consuls.

"Aryuvie. Your new assignment is to venture out of Oprusan territory under this committee, and locate the source of the psychic disturbance. Bring it under control, or secure its location for study, or destroy it - in that order of priority. Farsight outposts have reported a Terran Alliance vessel, the Tyrian, making a sudden diversion. It has been linked to delegates present at the incident, and as the Alliance has more subjects that witnessed it, they are presumed to have a lead. Follow them, do not engage but watch them while you search." 57's stare increased. "And let me make this clear to you - you are not, under any circumstances, to allow any other nation to gain control of this ability. Destroy it first, or destroy them, or destroy yourselves - but if another uses that ability against us, all of our mental controls will be compromised. Such a weapon would be....disruptive to the population, to say the least."

No kidding, Pedego thought. I was lucky - it scrambled my brain but I can think now. If it carried rage, or despair, or even simple madness - what might I have I done to myself then, cooped up in a ball all alone? She shuddered, and for a second thought 57 glanced at her before continuing. "A file containing all the details has been prepared and sent to your office, O5. You are dismissed - O5 Edibul, please step forward for your briefing."

Pedego and Aryuvie stepped out of the room, blinking in the harsh lights - well, Pedego was. The Captain had his eyes closed as the sound proof door slid shut behind them. "Probably telling Edibul to kill us first." Pedego shook at his words, and Aryuvie softened. "That was your first time facing a Council committee, yes?" He waited for her to nod. "I'm not going to lie and say they're cuddly once you get to know them, but they aren't cruel - they don't take bad news badly if they can see it isn't your fault, something I learned on Es-" He stopped. "Can't talk about about it", he muttered. "Look, that's probably the last we'll hear from them until we report back. Come on, we've still got a few hours before we have to go in the goo - I'll take you down to the medical bay to get checked out. That pickup was rough on you, I can tell." His eyes open, he started walking - Pedego followed, hopefully to rest and let her heartbeat cool down. What are we going to find? And what have I gotten myself into?

[Wandering Argonians]

The Argonian contribution to anti-piracy operations typically consisted of ground troops or special operations personnel in token amounts. The 'Tyrian' didn't rate a serious force commitment, as it lacked the ability to sustain a fighting force of any size. This was not uncommon. Argonian tactics were anything but conventional, and were typically the results of improvisation.

In this case, Argonian high command had improvised once again and assigned a 'short platoon' of Scouts from the 45th Regiment (Commando) to the Tyrian to assist with boarding operations and clearing pirate strong-holds. While intended primarily to path-find for larger and better-equipped regiments, Scout regiments that attained the coveted 'commando' rating were typically highly skilled in close-quarters combat and were popular choices for irregular mission profiles. While technically not a special operations group in their own right, commando-rated scouts often found themselves tasked with similar assignments.

Scouts hailed from the swampy marshlands of the Argonian home-world, and were drawn from the tribes that called that area home. Their city-dwelling counterparts also supplied recruits to the Argonian Imperial Guard, but in fewer numbers than other planets with similarly-sized populations. The Scout Regiments were formed from an accord intended to supply limited aide to the impoverished tribes in return for what were intended to be low-level conscripts with minimal training to round out the recruitment numbers. Instead, the tribes responded by sending their best warriors, who proved to be able soldiers on behalf of the Argonian Empire. The 45th Regiment in particular had gained a reputation as being a hard-fighting unit, despite being lightly equipped by most Argonian infantry standards.

The 'short platoon' assigned to the Tyrian consisted of two squads of eight troopers each, with a single officer in charge. The troopers in question were all seasoned veterans of various campaigns the Empire waged with itself to maintain integrity. On occasion, whole systems would secede and declare their own independence from the Imperial Crown and a fleet would be dispatched to bring the offending planet or system of planets back in line. The 45th had just returned from a successful 're-integration' of Verdant IV, a hellish jungle-world in a system neighboring the one that housed the home-world. After a short stint of R&R on Talos Station, they'd been handed over to Captain Travis Asimov to assist with the anti-piracy campaign. In an empire that was perpetually at war with itself, this was seen as an easy assignment to occupy the remaining members of the 45th Scout Regiment while the command staff returned home to recruit replacements that met the regiment's exacting standards. One simply didn't train a commado-rated scout trooper: they were born in the crucible of the marshlands, forged on anvils of battle, quenched in blood, and honed through a lifetime of combat. Replacing losses typically meant cherry-picking the best and brightest from other non-rated regiments, the process made all the more difficult with said regiments scattered to the solar winds and mired down in conflict in countless theaters across the Empire.

Those that remained were tasked out as a show of good faith for the Galactic Economic and Security Organization, sending one of their most celebrated regiments off to participate in joint operations and hopefully make some sort of favorable impression on their numerous allies. Lieutenant Jesper Kannik intended to do his utmost to ensure that all operations were successful, the Empire looked like a shining and respectful ally (instead of a mess of internal bickering and bloodshed), and most importantly that he didn't lose anymore men. Of the sixty Scouts he'd started with, nine remained. Verdant IV was a death-world, inhabited by a particularly hardy Argonian population. Growing up, he'd heard tales of the Verdanti Rangers and their prowess in jungle environments. They'd lived up to their reputation, but were eventually ground under the sheer might of the Empire and its vast armies.

Kannick's troops had been given a small cargo area to use as a barracks, which they'd filled with a series of portable cots, tables, weapons racks, and ammunition containers. Scouts remained tribal in nature, and many regiments came from the same tribe, resulting in close-knit units with immense cohesion. This was especially so in the remnants of the 45th. While generally seen as rowdy, tattooed hooligans who lacked manners and served no other purpose than to track and kill the enemy, in this case they kept mostly to themselves and avoided interrupting daily goings-on as much as possible. Indeed, few seemed to take much notice of the nine heavily-tattooed reptilians jogging through the lower-deck halls in the early hours of the morning, and fewer still ventured into their tiny area of the vessel during the evening times when the clattering of bottles and the hoots of laughter echoed through the halls.

Currently, most of them were gathered around a prefab table and seated on ammunition crates in a cavalier manner, joking and playing cards. Kannik stood off to the side with one of his most senior sergeants, a thick-necked bruised named Kivo Shalak. Shalak was a born troublemaker and a talented warrior, equally bane and boon to Kannik's platoon depending on the setting. Shalak smoked a stubby hist-weed cigar, blowing the fragrant smoke into the air recycler vent next to him in an attempt to be courteous to the rest of the troops. They honestly didn't care, but it kept up appearances of discipline. In truth, even the lowest-ranking troopers would likely have corporal stripes once the regiment was reformed, if they survived this operation. A few already had multiple campaigns under their belts and large body-counts on their knives, but still lacked chevrons of rank. It wasn't uncommon, at least in a commando regiment.

Kannik and Shalak both wore similar tattoo patterns around their arms, indicating they'd come from the same tribe and village. The only real difference was Shalak's ink stopped at the base of his skull, his half-neck tattoo a tribal mark of a non-commissioned officer. Kannik's continued up his neck and down his snout in a half-blade design to indicate his command authority. He still had the silver LT bar on his flak armor vest, but it wasn't a requirement inside his platoon. All of his troops knew (or had known) him by name, by the sound of his voice. They were a grim lot at the moment, killing time until it was time to kill again. The younger lieutenant threw a glance at his senior sergeant. Shalak simply accepted his lot in life. He'd found something he was good at, and intended to keep doing it for as long as possible. Kannik knew two of Shalak's friends from other platoons had either mustered out or disappeared after a secret detail. He'd overheard Shalak mention a few times that Selous Vrash (the friend that had mustered out) was working as a mercenary in the outer territories, Shalak musing over pursing a similar change in careers more than once...

"You still thinking about mustering out? You're a shoo-in for the First Sergeant slot once the company is back to full strength..."

Shalak shrugged, taking another drag off of his cigar and exhaling through his nostrils, almost sighing the smoke out of his lungs...

"Just seems like it's time, boss. Been a Scout for nearly thirty years at this point. Hells, Selous says he's making better pay and picking his own assignments..."

That statement was only a half-truth. Holo-text messages from his old friend indicated that work was slow at the moment, the crew he'd signed with hopping from one legally gray job to the next just a half-step ahead of the authorities. Kannik nodded, clearly understanding. He'd been wearing the crossed knives for twenty years, and was considered young for an officer in the regiment...

"I don't blame you, but you're well-respected around here and the regiment has damn few veteran NCO's left as it is..."

It was Shalak's turn to nod, but in a slower and more solemn fashion. He knew this. Kannik knew that he knew this. Hell, everyone knew this. The fact that his platoon was 90% killed or critically wounded was still a painful reminder of how they'd wound up in that state in the first place. Shalak's own squad had been reduced to two, himself and Corporal Tarn Klix, his second-in-command, after a Verdanti ambush that had ended with both of them being captured after the rest had been killed...

"We'll survive boss. We always do. I may or may not go. One meat-grinder is as good as the other I suppose. Question is if I'd rather die on the whim of some general or war-master, or for the cause of my choice. Pay's irrelevant. I care more about that lot than a mountain of credits..."

The 'lot' in question Shalak gestured to with his smoldering cigar was the group of Scouts flipping cards and exchanging plastic chips. Despite his rough exterior, Shalak truly cared about the troopers under his command, and this was the trait that Kannik most respected about the man...

"Good to know, Kivo. I'm going to check in with the Captain, see where we'll be needed once we reach the destination..."

"Gotcha. I'll make sure the card game doesn't devolve to fisticuffs..."

Shalak smiled deliberately, his ear-fins flaring in an expression of amusement. Kannik chuckled softly as he stepped through the cloud of smoke and exited the cargo area. Like most of his regiment, he was dressed simply: jungle camouflage fatigue pants, lightweight boots, a t-shirt of varying colors (depending on where it was 'acquired' from), and a fighting knife sheathed at the small of his back. The knives were a point of pride for a Scout, a tool and a weapon as well as a constant companion throughout life. Kannink's had been issued to him at the age of seven, when he'd taken his first steps as a warrior. Tradition used to dictate that a warrior fashioned his own blade, but the issued mono-edge knives were impossible to replicate out in the marshes. They were based off of a popular variant of marshland fighting knife submitted as a template for the city-dwellers to mass-produce for the Scout regiments when they'd been formed. Despite being mass-produced, they were of extremely high quality and each Scout tended to personalize his blade in some way. Kannik had removed the synthetic leather from the handle of his knife and carefully wrapped it in course netch-leather. It felt a bit like sandpaper to the touch, and came in handy while gripping a bloody handle in combat.

He knew his way around the vessel rather well by now. It wasn't nearly the size of an Imperial troop transport, and his inborn sense of direction had quickly mapped the halls he needed to reach the bridge...