April 7th, 1892, eight weeks before my birthday.
I suppose it's rather fitting I start a new journal now of all times, what with the rather large shift in circumstances from my previous entry. But, before I get into that, I imagine I should introduce myself incase any future reader should stumble across my chicken-scratch.
With that in mind, allow me to introduce myself to you, whoever you may be. My name is Jacksfell Toutais, but everyone just calls me 'Jack'. I'm not sure I like that nickname—I always thought that 'Jacksfell' was deserving of a much more dignified title—but, as these things so often do, it stuck like a high-powered magnet to a ship's hull.
Anyways, I am was a Shipwright's Apprentice under old Bartimaeus Clarkersen, one of the shipwrights in Her Scarlet Majesty's Naval Design Buerue Bearue Bureau—I always have trouble spelling that word, my apologies. I haven't yet come across a pencil nor eraser, so I've been forced to utilize a pen for the time being.
During my tenure under Master Clarkersen's tutelage, I managed to successfully a construct a rudimentary boilersoul and achieved proper cultivation for the very first time! Up until then, I'd been stuck making steam with an open flame, like some sort of Podunk rube.
I know, I know, reaching First Heat at 15 isn't all that impressive, sure, but it was a big step for a gutter dreg like me! Master Clarkersen had gotten fed up with how long it took me to fire up my clappers, so he'd shown me the proper boiler building techniques. I've made a lot of progress towards achieving Engine Expansion, too, in the three years hence.
Though... I'm not really sure how much more progress I'll make, now that I'm lacking Master Clarkersen's guidance...
...
I guess I should probably fill you in on my current situation, huh?
I mentioned above that I wasn't a Shipwright's Apprentice anymore, right? Well, it ties into that. You see, it all began nine weeks ago, when I was heading out to collect the morning post from the pneumatics hub—Master Clarkersen refused to have an input/outlet tube in the house, for he had something of a feud with the man responsible for inventing the current model.
The walk to the pneumatics hub was a long one, which was an unfortunate surprise as I always tried to time my transit so that the city-plates would finish shifting by the time I started travelling. Usually, I could make it to the hub servicing Residential Plate A-17 in only fifteen or so minutes.
With the changing seasons and lengthening days, the plates started their rotations at a later time so that the upper crust could enjoy the scarlet sunrise without having to share it with the lower plates. That's what Ford always said, back before Master Clarkersen took me in, but the schedule change always managed to catch me with my furnace cold. As such, instead of my usual fifteen minutes, it took me an entire hour to step through the hub's double doors.
As expected of an upper plate building in the Scarlet City, the pneumatics hub was gilded with red-gold and built of a mirror-like white stone. The doors were made of a dark wood I couldn't recall the name of and had a collection of dark steel lettering designating as a pneumatics hub. I believe the wood was imported from one of the recently colonized frontier planets—I'd heard one of Master Clarkersen's associates talking about having trouble ordering some—but that's all I know of it.
Had I still been the Jack from three years ago, I would've been struck dumb by the sight before me as I stepped through those doors. Opulence greeted my gaze in the form of a large lobby built in the shape of a semi-circle. Wood panels covered the walls as good, sturdy stone made up the floors. A green carpet showed the path to the walled row of clerks waiting to attend to whatever business a client might have.
Fortunately, three years is more than enough time to grow accustomed to finery—even for an slum-dwelling urchin like me! I didn't pay much attention to the other people in the lobby, as I was still fuming from the long walk. Had I, I might have noticed the peculiar presence of a pair of armed men dressed in red standing just inside the doorway. Had I done that, maybe I'd have avoided my current dire straits.
Spending so long in the upper crust had dulled my senses to a frankly disconcerting degree. To think I had grown so used to the lack of armed guards in stores and on the streets that I didn't even notice when there were two there! What would Ford say, had he seen me fail to even blink at the presence of two armed men?
...It's best to not think about Ford or what he'd say. I left that life behind. I won't be seeing him ever again, and that's a good thing.
...
Anyways, back to the story.
The clerk was a young woman with dark curls hidden under a flat-topped hat and a pretty set of emerald eyes. She was about my age and looked like she didn't belong in her uniform. She kept adjusting how the dress jacket rested on her shoulders and how the shiny buttons kept the one-size-too-small uniform tight against her chest—not that I was looking or anything! It was just obvious that her uniform was sized incorrectly, that's all!
Moving on, I told the woman I was here for my mail and handed her my copy of Master Clarkersen's steamkey as proof of identification. She nodded and turned to the tube directly to her left in the little clerk alvoce alcove in which she worked. Inserting the key into the apparatus, she turned it to the right and the infinitesimally small pocket of steam contained therein released directly into the piping. After a few moments' wait, a chipper ding! signaled that the machine was ready and the clerk opened it up to reveal that the mail had arrived.
It was as she handed the mail over and bid me farewell that I realized she hadn't returned the steamkey. When I told her of this little hiccup, her face turned the most beautiful shade of red I'd ever seen. The closest color I could compare it to would have to be the Scarlet Tower itself as it straddled the boundary between the earth and the heavens. Like the sunrise lights up the sky, her embarrassment illuminated her face like nothing I'd seen before.
If I had been thinking clearly at the time, I might have pondered why she shook so hard as she worked to reapply the lock and free the key from its grasp. She shivered and quaked like an old boiler that hadn't been serviced in a century—a warning sign that all good engineers should know by heart—but I was too entranced by the way her lips thinned and her brows furrowed to think anything of it.
Just as she finally manages to slide the key free, her nerves finally get the best of her. As the key leaves its lock, a sudden muscle twitch sends polished brass flying high into the air. With hands as slick with sweat as hers, there was no way she was going to competently be able to catch it, but she still tried nonetheless.
Her efforts, though appreciated, were ultimately futile. After all, even a cultivator at First Heat can catch something as slow as a falling key—not that I needed steam to do it. The trick to catching anything, as I'd learned in my youth, is not to chase after the item as so many try to do, but to position your hand so that it simply falls into your palm.
Like I was figuring the range calculations for a ship's guns, I deftly followed the key's arc and gracefully held out my hand just in time for it to fall gently into my palm. What wasn't so graceful, though, was the clerk's flailing motions as she near-leaped across her desk to try and snatch the key before it fell.
Her hand met mine and the gears in my head ground to a screeching halt. Not because I was holding her hand—though that was certainly nice—but because of what my fingers felt on her skin.
Most members of upper crust society have never worked a day in their lives. Their hands are soft and untouched by the rigors of hard labor. Any person working on the highest plate—even in the role of a service clerk—would be expected to have hands as soft as silk.
Her hands were rough and covered in callouses, but not the kinds of callouses one gets from tightening bolts or handling brooms. These were the kind of callouses you only get from working one very specific job that requires a certain set of very specific tools. Given her hands' lack of artisan's mark, there was only one way she could acquire callouses of that nature: picking locks.
The thief-in-clerk's clothing stiffened as realization flashed through those verdant eyes. Her fingers twitched against my palm as she felt the callouses my own hands had—the very same as hers—and the fear only heightened.
To be honest, I'm not sure what I was going to do next. Maybe I would've kept her secret? Maybe I'd have snitched? Heck, maybe she'd have even tried to out me before I could out her. Regardless, I never got the chance to find out.
A hand fell on my shoulder as a gruff voice grunted out a string of chilling words—the words that all youths fear; "Mister Toutais, Her Scarlet Majesty requests your service in Her Royal Navy."
There wasn't anything I could do, the Scarlet Empress doesn't make requests. I had a week to get my affairs in order—as is allotted to those such as myself who were in prior employ—and then I was shipped off to training. Training wasn't anything interesting, mostly just information I already knew from my time as Master Clarkersen's apprentice and basic physical conditioning as well as how to properly hold oneself in the presence of an officer.
Eight weeks later, I write these words as I ride one of the Scarlet Tower's hundred lifts to the stars. I'm to be an Ordinary Seaman aboard the HSMS Summiteer as she hunts for merchant vessels off the gulf of the Four-Fingered Nebula, on the three-way border between Scarlet Empire, Callaxian Concordat, and Solar Federation space.
The next three years of my life will be spent aboard that vessel. It could very well be my tomb. It's happened often enough in the Four-Fingered Nebula, after all. The Summiteer wouldn't be the first ship to be lost amongst those purple-green clouds.
The elevator makes a bleet! as it passes the halfway mark. Only a few more minutes to go now... As the next step in my life soon approaches, I'm left with a choice.
How will I spend the rest of the elevator ride?
[ ] A - Master Clarkersen has provided me with a collection of personal notes and archival documents regarding the capabilities of Federation and Concordat vessels. It would be wise to study them well before I'm forced to experience them first-hand.
[ ] B - Alongside those notes on enemy craft, Master Clarkersen also compiled all the information he had on the HSMS Summiteer. Learning the ins and outs of the Summiteer before I ever step foot on her decks would be invaluable.
[ ] C - Instead of studying, however, I could get to know the other people riding the elevator with me. Making friends now could be the best decision I ever make if we wind up fighting side-by-side in a boarding action.
0~0~0
Hello and welcome to Space Ship Quest! In this quest, you play as Jacksfell Toutais as he navigates his recent conscription into Her Scarlet Majesty's Royal Navy. Will he manage to make it back home alive or will he be just another name on the roll-call of the damned?
There are no dice rolls. That is to say, all you folks have to do is make choices and I tell you the outcome. Easy as pie.
This won't be a very long quest, as I'm running it to give myself a bit of a break from NorseQuest, but it is a quest that can very easily have sequels made. I imagine it'll take me only a few weeks or a month to wrap up what I'm calling 'Part One', which will primarily consist of Jacksfell's first patrol as well as getting to know the officers, crew, and world.
You may vote either with the full vote or just the letters. Either works. The vote will be called tomorrow and voting is open.
