Petals of Titanium -- My Life as a Mecha Setting Bridge Bunny Quest

It isn't good coffee. Of course it's not -- it's reconstituted, shelf stable sludge, melting as it heats up to what has been determined to be the ideal drinking temperature until it produces a thin, hot, off-brown liquid that at the moment somehow feels like the greatest thing you've ever tasted.

"Just think," Anja says, looking at your expression with amusement, "when we get to Phoebe, we can find you some bad coffee that was actually made in a pot." She snaps the tab off of her pouch of 2 EGG, SCRAMBLED, activating its own warming process.

"Oh, so they do have actual gravity?" you ask, politely putting aside your coffee pouch in order to speak for the first time. You've heard conflicting accounts over the past few days. A distant rock on a long, strange retrograde orbit, Phoebe is too small to even maintain a round shape, making a full sized orbital station an engineering nightmare, and leaving a conventional surface base to operate in microgravity. As distant an outpost as Phoebe is, several times farther from Saturn than the next closest moon, seemingly no one you've talked to has ever had occasion to visit it.

"They just use the moon to mount the big equipment for the actual listening post," Anja says. "The long-range comms arrays and the telescope. The actual crew station, where we're docking, is just going around Saturn nearby, in an almost identical orbit. A bog standard orbital platform with a ring section and everything." She raises a finger in a twirling motion, miming the motion of the spinning station part in question. Her smile fades, and she sighs a little. "Which is great and all, but I always get a couple hours of vertigo whenever I go straight from zero-g to walking-around grav."

"Hopefully it won't be too bad," you say, sympathetically. Before ruining it, by adding, without thinking: "I don't normally get vertigo." And it's true -- not since you were a child.

Anja makes a face at you.

"What?" you ask, in the midst of preparing your own eggs.

"Of course you never get vertigo," she complains. "I bet you never get sick -- it might make you leave a hair out of place."

"Oh, stop," you sigh, peeling the pouch of 2 EGG, SCRAMBLED open in order to carefully maneuver the uncomfortably uniform pieces into your mouth.

"My skin is drying out left and right, and my hair is always awful. I didn't used to feel bad about it, because… well, we're on a ship, and we're in zero-g. Then I met you. You wash your hair with the same navy issued goo I do! It's infuriating!" She's teasing, more than actually angry, but there's a grain of honesty in the complaint, as always, even if Anja tends to exaggerate the rigors of space travel on her appearance. You've always thought she was quite fetching, in spite of the face she makes when you try to inform her of this.

You're taller than her, with a soft, smooth, dark complexion a shade or two lighter than your mother's, and black hair that, sure enough, somehow knows how to behave even without the benefit of gravity. With your willowy build, pouting lips and flawlessly donned uniform, you cannot, privately, deny that you cut a particularly elegant figure in most group settings. That doesn't mean it would actually do to encourage her, of course. "It's tied back," you offer, simply.

Anja continues to look unimpressed. "Everyone's hair is tied back, North," she says. "Yours is the only one that looks like that."

You smile, only a little sheepishly, and take a long sip of coffee. "Are you looking forward to talking with your family?" you ask. The ship's external comms are fairly tightly controlled during transit, with limited tightbeam access to a select number of relays in range. A base as large as Phoebe would certainly have facilities enabling personal calls.

"Yes and no," she says, mouth quirking thoughtfully. "It'll be nice to talk to mom and all, but she'll make me badger Hiro to call her, and then I'm stuck with him hearing all about how bad 'that worthless boyfriend of mine' has been while I'm gone. And then she'll get Hiro to badger me about dumping him again."

"It's sweet how Sub Lieutenant Ito tries to look out for you, at least," you say, charitably. You can understand how this sort of thing can be annoying, but your own family situation is such that you can't help but look at Anja's -- mother at home on Titan, siblings, a foster brother of sorts serving on this very ship -- with a degree of sad envy.

"He should be more worried about actually maintaining that hunk of scrap metal he pilots than about my love life back home. And I'm a serving officer -- this is a military ship. He shouldn't be acting like that anyway." She finishes off her eggs with a decisive air.

"Was that really such a big problem?" You ask, tentatively.

"No," she relents, "but it bothers him to bring it up. Song just dislikes the modifications to his Banner on principle. And also him. So she was being difficult."

"Oh, dear," you pause, slightly alarmed, your coffee pouch partly to your mouth. You lower your voice before continuing: "She's not going to cause… too much trouble for him, is she?" Ensign Song, the newest and youngest member of the Rose's small mecha squad, was outranked by Sub Lieutenant Ito, on paper. But the Songs, everyone knew, held a seat on the Imperial electorate council.

"No, she's not," Anja says, confidently. "Even if only because I have to keep reminding him that she could ruin his career. Someone has to think about his well being if he's never going to. What?"

"... Nothing," you say, innocently. Anja could be very preoccupied with Ito's own affairs, in spite of her complaints about the reverse. "I'll be glad to talk with mother again," you add, truthfully.

"You said she's on Iapetus?" Anja asks, her expression softening a bit.

"Over it," you correct. "Anchiale Station, with the Outer Fleet." It's been a few years since you've actually been in the same room together; she was deployed to Iapetus shortly after you started at the fleet academy. But you stay in contact when you can -- you're the only family either of you have left. The black box hanging beneath your shirt suddenly feels very solid, almost uncomfortable against your skin.

"... We need to get going," Anja says, remembering the time, with an apologetic look. Reaching into her breakfast packet, she produces the last pouch -- small, and containing only several soft, white tablets. You follow suit.

Bone tablets, as they're universally referred to. In truth, they're a supplement intended to retard the bone and muscle degradation caused by months in zero gravity, as well as making up for the nutrients your diet of spacer food might lack.

The two of you visibly brace yourselves, shove all three of the pills into your mouth in unison, and instantly make faces of abject disgust. As a bonus, chewing them cleans your teeth -- which is fortunate, as the taste is so foul and lingering that it would be impossible to eat them anywhere but at the end of a meal. You get them down, though, as you do every day, unstrap yourselves from your seats, deposit the empty packaging in the nearest recycling shoot, and push off at slightly unsafe speed in the direction of the vertical that will take you to the bridge.

The command deck is one level up and towards the rear of the ship, nested in the deepest, most well-armoured part of the hull, fed scan data and three dimensional camera feeds from hardened, redundant camera sources. It mercifully doesn't take you long to arrive there -- the Ranger class is larger than most scouting vessels, but it's hardly a battle cruiser. Crossing into the command area has an instant effect on both of you. Shoulders stiffen, expressions turn professional. You're on the job now, and if that demeanor does sometimes relax in the long hours of monitor duty in the bridge, it at least serves for your superiors to see you arriving with the bearing that suits an imperial officer.

There's a length of otherwise empty shaft before the bridge, in order to serve as a last line of defence in case of boarding or armed mutiny, ending in a reinforced hatch. As you begin to round the corner toward it, voices begin to carry from the far end.

"... the captain has not yet committed to a course of action, then." The speaker is a woman. As you round the corner, you catch sight of blonde hair and a blue and silver pilot's suit -- you instantly recognise Lady Perbeck, superior to both Sub Lieutenant Ito and Ensign Song, commander of the Rose's assigned mecha squad. You barely have time to process them halted in front of the open hatch to the bridge, speaking to First Officer Grayson, before a hand reaches out, and yanks you back around the corner. From the way the conversation continues, it seems that neither senior officer spotted you.

"Not that I'm aware of, Lady Perbeck," Grayson says in his deep, patient voice. It has a kind edge to it he can't quite erase, even when he's trying to be stern. "But with all due respect, I will be recommending shore leave when she wakes. It's been over ninety days since our last docking -- we have the crew's wellbeing to consider."

You were about to shoot Anja an annoyed look for pulling you back -- eavesdropping is hardly the sort of behaviour that Captain Andre encourages or would look kindly on -- but at this, your eyes go wide, and you see the mischief die in hers as the two of you exchange a look of mild horror. The implication that the captain might not allow shore leave is more than a little shocking. As a matter of course, the entire ship is expecting at least a day of leisure for most of the crew, possibly two or three while they restocked and the luckless engineering crew conducted routine maintenance tasks that wasn't safe to carry out while the ship was in transit.

There's a lengthy moment, before Lady Perbeck responds. Her voice is clear, but both deadly serious and devoid of warmth, and more than a little critical: "You do remember that this is not simply a routine patrol?" she asks. "We aren't out here on the edge of the system to chase off pirates or arrest traffickers "

"I am aware," Grayson says, with the kind of unphased confidence that only another highborn could muster, "that we are keeping watch against incursions from Jupiter."

"This is your first posting, Lieutenant, so you may not be familiar with the facility. It's a glorified watch post with minimal defences around either the installation or the station. We do not want to be caught flat-footed in dock in the event of an attack."

"We'd have plenty of advanced warning," Grayson says, somewhat taken aback. "Like you said, it's a watch post. It's not a large station, we could have everyone back inside the hour."

"An hour isn't good enough," Perbeck says, unsatisfied. "Especially not if half of the crew are drunk or worse. My people will be conducting regular reconnaissance passes, but there's a limit to what we can do without CiC support." This news will undoubtedly be taken somewhat apocalyptically by Lady Perbeck's people, consisting of the pilots and the three maintenance crews responsible for keeping each of the machines operational. As they are in practical terms somewhat outside of the ship's ordinary chain of command, even if the captain does order shore leave as per expectations, she is unlikely to countermand Perbeck's own orders. Perbeck's subordinates would be forced to stay on board the ship, evidently on alert, while the ship crew enjoyed at least a brief respite.

Beside you, Anja is mouthing something that looks a lot like "poor Hiro."

Grayson takes this all in, before, carefully neutral, responding: "As you say, ma'am."

"You clearly disagree," she says. "Speak freely."

There's another quiet, considering moment before Grayson responds: "So far, we've seen no evidence of the enemy. Just because the orbits are close right now doesn't mean that the usurper is going to drop everything and invade a fortified system this far away from his base of power. They still haven't completely pacified Jupiter, from the last reports we got."

"The last reports we have from Jupiter are far too old to be relied upon," Perbeck counters. "If the station comes under attack with our people under leave, we will have no capacity to mount a proper response."

Grayson is silent for a moment, before saying, carefully, "With all due respect, ma'am, we are not here to defend Phoebe. In the event of such an attack, our first duty would be to simply evacuate and report back to high command by whatever means possible. This is a scouting patrol, not a defencive formation. You are, of course, well within your right to make your case before Captain Andre, but as her first officer I feel obligated to give her options."

You hear a feminine sigh that seems a little exasperated, as if an essential point is being missed. "Very well," she says. "We'll continue this discussion once the captain wakes." Her tone turns a little dry. "... if only so that our two ensigns around the corner can stop eavesdropping."

Your face heating at the realisation that you were seen after all, you push yourself into view, followed a little reluctantly by Anja. The two of you offer a salute, returned by both of the superior officers.

"Ensign North," First Officer Grayson says, looking more amused than angry. "Right on time. And impeccably groomed as always. Ensign Li, you may want to take notes." It's not, you know, a serious reprimand. First Officer Grayson has, perhaps, overheard one too many frustrated outbursts from Anja on the subject of your hair and general appearance this far into an extended military voyage.

"Yes sir," Anja replies, deadpan, demonstrating an impressive capacity to make the phrase clearly mean 'go to hell.' She can't resist the slightest hint of an eye roll, however.

The corner of Grayson's lip turns upward. He's broad rather than tall, powerfully built and barrel chested, with mahogany skin and hair trimmed neatly beneath his peaked officer's cap. Not mandatory when not in dress uniform, but Captain Andre wears hers seemingly at all times, and Grayson follows suit. Despite his inexperience, he's a sturdy, reliable presence that the crew has responded well to, in addition to being a much more approachable officer than the Captain, for all her other qualities.

Lady Perbeck is a stark contrast beside him. Pale, leanly athletic and a good two inches taller than the first officer, her long, golden hair is tied back in a simple knot, as if she expects to have to put on the helmet tucked under one arm on at any moment. The ornamental silver insignia on the shoulders of her pilot suit, in place of a more traditional uniform's braided epaulettes, informs you that she's a commander, and depict the emblem both her outfit and her family crest. Lady Perbeck is, of course, a lady -- a countess with substantial holdings on Mars... currently lost to her, as well as a knighthood from the Order Galatea... presumed rescinded. All in all, she is a thoroughly intimidating person who has sacrificed more than many to the Empress's cause.

Fortunately, she doesn't appear to take offense to the exchange between Grayson and the two of you, even if she also notably does not seem even slightly amused, her features coached and unsmiling. "We're preparing for another long-range reconnaissance sweep before our final approach," Perbeck informs Grayson, as she begins to glide away in a fluid, dignified motion. "We will, of course, keep in communication."

As the three of you watch her go, Grayson raises a slightly weary hand to his face, a rare display of frustration. "Well," he rumbles, a moment later, "I think the three of us all have stations to man." Obediently, you and Anja follow Grayson through the hatch.

The bridge of the Titanium Rose looks identical to its appearance in your dream -- the classic imperial delta configuration, flattened and elongated somewhat to account for the narrow confirmation of the ship, with the pilot chairs at the front near the commander's chair, with the other workstations closer to the fore facing inward, towards the spine of the ship. In addition to the smaller screens in front of every workstation, there are large, simulated viewports lining every wall, with a detailed, three dimensional display of the space around the ship projected into the centre of the room.

Unlike your dream, it isn't fully staffed -- in the interests of not having everyone operating like zombies from lack of sleep, when not docking, departing or on active alert, the bridge is manned by rotating skeleton crews. The view out of the simulated ports is also very different. Rather than an expanse of hydrogen and helium, too large to see through the viewport the way the planet looks in the inner system, now Saturn is a distant, ringed marble, almost as small as the flare of radiance that is the distant sun. Despite your proximity, it will be some time before you can make out any visual signs of the small, carbon-black rock that is your destination.

You watch as First officer Grayson glides over to the command seat, and Anja pushes off in the direction of her own station in the CiC.

Where do you go? What is your primary specialisation on board this ship, and the station that you man in combat scenarios? What else are you particularly good at?

OoC: As with the previous vote, these two questions will be counted as a set, so as not to ruin any interesting combinations anyone had in mind. I can already think of a few that would offer interesting advantages.

Primary specialisation:
[ ] Active defences
Kinetic shielding and an array of short-diffusing point defence beam weapons are standard issue on military ships, in order to protect from projectiles and enemy mechas both. You are the one responsible for maintaining these defences in the face of various interference, with prioritising energy draw of certain defencive tasks over others as the situation requires, and, with authorisation, drawing power away from less critical systems. A ship's defences ordinary fail in combat very shortly before that ship blows to pieces.

[ ] Long range scans
The ship receives and interprets "passive" scans more or less constantly in order to pick up signals, electronic/heat signatures, and the gravitational fields produced by moons and other celestial bodies -- as well as "active" scans for more detailed mapping and imaging of the space around the ship, at the risk of detection. You take this information, interpret it with the help of hideously complicated software, and relay it to the rest of the bridge. Without scans, the ship is blind.

[ ] Primary weapon systems
You apply data retrieved from the ship's passive and active scans in order to calculate firing solutions that maximise intended damage while minimising collateral. Even "small" ship grade weapons are more than capable of tearing through an allied mecha, most civilian crafts, and many less protected space habitats. Sir Isaac Newton is the deadliest son-of-a-bitch in space.

Secondary talent:
[ ] Additional combat training
[ ] Additional first aid training
[ ] Exposition dumping (politics and history)
[ ] Languages, codes and ciphers
[ ] Mechanics (ship and mecha hardware)
[ ] Pilot training (non-combat)