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

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Content Warning

Petals of Titanium contains numerous scenes of very frank war violence and traumatic death. It also has discussion and description of backstory-child abuse as well as allusions to sexual assault. It was never my intent to linger on these things unduly or luridly, but it is important to provide due warning ahead of time.

Saturn is laid out in front of you, a massive, banded giant, the plane of the rings, dotted with the lights of orbital stations and habitats, stretch as far as your eyes can see. A sight that always literally takes your breath away from the sheer grandiose majesty of it all -- more than a light hour away from where human life began, and here they are, thriving among one of the great natural wonders of the solar system.

"How is your board?"

"All green, captain," you reply. Your fingers, sheathed in their interface gloves, dance across the holographic display mounted in front of you -- everywhere you check, all of the readouts are, indeed, nominal, without any of the flashing indicators or piercing alarms that would mean something terrible happening. It's an ordinary bridge shift; four hours of relative boredom, strapped into your familiar chair alongside your familiar shipmates. It bears repeating, though -- you can't beat the view.

Then, suddenly, it isn't an ordinary bridge shift. Your board lights up red, and all around you, the same begins to happen for everyone else's. Frantically, you scroll through your displays, trying to salvage what you can, trying to stop your systems from going down completely. It's like nothing you try has any actual effect. Your fellow crew members are visibly locked in the same futile, two-handed dance.

"Engines are failing!"

"Shields are down!"

"Weapons unresponsive!"

"Captain, I can't hail the mech bay! I can't hail anything!"

BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT!

"That's the proximity alert!"

Sure enough, as the scan is brought up on the big display -- and somehow the scans still work, when everything else is down -- you can see countless red dots appearing in the general area. They're so close, that through the ship's viewport, you can actually see them. An entire fleet of enemy ships, the graceful figures of humanoid mechs pouring out of carrier bays, all of them heading toward Saturn and its many colonies. And all that's standing between them and everyone is one small, damaged ship -- your ship.

BZZZT! BZZZT! BZZZT!

"Captain?" you look over, and realise, with a start, that the captain's chair is empty. In fact, all the chairs are empty but yours -- the bridge, formerly fully staffed, is now deserted, all except for you. All you can do is sit and watch, with horror, as the enemy mech flies directly up to your helpless ship, so close you can see the ocular ports mounted in its head, aims its weapon, and fires.

--

BZZT-BZZT-BZZT-BZZ--

Your hand groggily slaps down on the button mounted into the wall beside your bunk, silencing the alarm. The clock tells you you got your allotted six hours of sleep, but it feels a lot closer to two. With a groan, your hands fumble at the restraints holding you into your bunk -- in truth, a sleeping bag slung to the side of your cabin, to keep you from literally floating away in the ship's zero gravity. Freed from the restraints of the bedding momentarily, you let yourself drift for a second or two, running your hands over your face to try and shake some life into yourself. It doesn't do much, and in a moment you simply drift into the opposite wall, your head striking the bulkhead with a dull thunk. Your cabin isn't large, after all -- your bunk, a modest workstation and writing surface, and a hatch leading out into the main corridor. "Rose, what time is it?" You mutter, still holding your position for a moment longer.

The pleasant, feminine tones of the ship's AI assistant chime in to inform you: "It is currently 0330 ship time, half an hour before second shift. You are scheduled to begin bridge watch in exactly 30 standard minutes."

"I know," you say, although Rose doesn't respond. Grabbing onto a handhold on the ceiling of your cabin, you re-orientate yourself with an expert flipping motion, and drift in the direction of the wall panel obscuring your cabin's tiny, closet-sized head.

It's been barely more than ten Earth years since war tore the solar system apart -- you remember those days, of course. You're not that young. Young enough, though, that it already feels like something from another life. You were a child back then, with little understanding of what was happening around you, and less say in it. Now, you're a young woman, and a junior ship's officer.

Here in the Saturn subsystem, it's easy to ignore the rest of the solar system. With numerous lunar colonies and orbital habitats, to say nothing of the substantially-terraformed Titan, Saturn is largely self sufficient. You're hardly Earth or Mars, but it's a far cry from one of barely populated ice giants. You're still far, far away from the inner solar system, from the teeming masses of humanity on the inner planets, with their endless ships and endless mechs, who can't even properly control Jupiter now that the fighting's done, let alone a planet on the farthest reaches of human civilisation.

Things are good here -- you're safe, insane dreams aside. This is a routine patrol of the outer subsystem, a few months of cramped shipboard life on your part before you can enjoy some well-earned shore leave back on Titan. At very worst, you expect to have to frighten off a pack of mangy space pirates hiding in a depleted mining sat or something similarly pathetic. You're not expecting a real fight, and you're certainly not equipped for one.

You wash your face, fix your hair, and blearily glide over to a different wall panel, this one sliding open at your touch as easily as the first did. It open to reveal a storage space containing your entire working wardrobe -- several identical uniforms, which you are expected to put on before setting metaphorical foot outside this room. You have your alarm timed to give you just enough time to grab a pouch of coffee and some sort of breakfast before your shift starts, so you immediately began pulling the clothes on.

What is your uniform, though? What force do you serve with, and who is the distant, looming enemy enemy you're so obviously concerned about? What are the forces at play in the solar system beyond your control?

--

It's the far future. Humans have long ago taken to space, and colonised many of the worlds in our solar system, bringing their petty wars and conflicts with them -- space battles between warships and combat mechas, political intrigue, the clash of ideologies and will on a grand scale, and at the centre of it all, a group of intrepid young pilots who must somehow put things to right.

That isn't actually your story. Oh, that story is definitely happening -- you know those pilots, work with them, in fact. But that's not your job. Your job is to be the one sitting at the chair on the bridge frantically reading aloud worrisome statistics. You're the voice on the comm announcing who launches next. It's not a glorious task, but you're still part of the team, and you can still make a difference, even if you have to do it in a goofy sci-fi miniskirt.

This first choice will determine a lot. It's not simply you choosing what organisation you serve under -- it's you choosing which organisations exist, what the larger conflict is about, and the tone and backdrop of the setting you're being dropped into. Is this a story about a group of plucky space militia defending their system from outside conquest? The Ragged remnants of a failed spacer rebellion trying to hold onto what little they have left? The last loyalist holdouts in a civil war that was won a long time ago, fought among knights and lords and princesses?

The organisations and scenarios mentioned in the options not selected will not exist going forward, these scenarios are mutually exclusive with one another. In any event, you are defending the Saturn subsystem and its colonies from a larger force that dominates the solar system, set at the end of a fleeting peace following a period of bloody war that you weathered in your childhood. There's a lot to keep in mind!

[ ] The Alliance for an Independant Saturn -- AFIS

AFIS is a coalition of various colonial militia fleets put together to guard Saturn's de facto independence against the oppressive Union of Terran States, violently formed well after Saturn became self-sustaining, and now seeks to exert more direct control over the distant system.
- You're a ragtag group of militias fighting against a militant, expansionist state. People from all walks of life band together to form an informal, quirky, but surprisingly effective military force.
- Many of your ships are older, converted ore haulers or other commercial crafts, but your mecha are often innovative, if slightly improvised. They're not as sleek as what they're up against, but that hides a few nasty surprises.
- Choose AFIS for a plucky underdog feel -- you're outnumbered and outgunned, but you're fighting for your home.

[ ] The Coalition for Free Spacers -- CFS

The CFS is a rebel state that once represented much of the orbital habitats in the solar system, from the power relay stations around Mercury to the mining colonies of Jupiter and Saturn. Largely crushed by the Earth-Mars Republic that claims these colonies as its own, with Saturn as the only major foothold that hasn't fallen.
- You're a faction of hardened rebels clinging to what little you have left, for your own sake and the good of all spacers, an ideal that's gotten more than a little tarnished over the years as the brutality of war led to a string of atrocities that it's difficult to be proud of.
- Your ships and mecha were built and designed in secret before the war, and were purpose built for space combat. Your mecha are sturdy and heavily armoured, but your ships fare better in ambushes and quick raids than in extended combat.
- Choose the CFS to play a more morally grey faction with a checkered past. The Republic are colonial overlords responsible for many injustices, but the CFS's hands are far from clean.

[ ] The Imperial Navy of the United Solar Empire (in exile)

After a succession crisis led to a bloody civil war, the clear winners were the late emperor's eldest son and his newly rebranded Holy Solar Empire. The losers, loyal to the emperor's middle daughter, his legally appointed successor, fled in defeat to Saturn in the hopes of recovering and regrouping.
- You're the navy of an imperial government that still claims to be the rightful rulers of the entire solar system, professional soldiers of a regime with proud aristocratic traditions that are beginning to crumble.
- Your fleet is greatly reduced in size, but still consists of purpose built warships with top of the line weapons and hardened defences. Your mecha are expensive and advanced. All of this has put a strain on Saturn's limited resources, however.
- Choose the Imperial Navy if you want to play in an anachronistic setting with knights and aristocrats alongside advanced spaceships and mecha -- you're of relatively low birth, but there's room to go far, these days.

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Character Sheet Protagonist

Name: Amani North
Rank: Ensign, Imperial Navy of the United Solar Empire
Specialty: Long range scans

Traits:
- Daughter of an unlanded knight of the Order Lunar
- Graceful
- Talent with reading languages, codes and ciphers

Appearance:
- Moderately tall
- Willowy
- Black hair
- Brown eyes
- Dark complexion
- Bishoujo sparkles

Reputation:
- Found a hidden signal revealing enemy activity in the area, accidentally making her superior look like a fool.
- Worked hard to fix a non-critical problem with Lady Perbeck's unit
- Has followed regulation and procedure whenever possible

Bonds:
Anja Li
- Good friends -- you work and eat meals together, and you've gotten closer over the course of the voyage. She wants to spend time with you back on Titan and set you up with her boyfriend's awful friends.

Countess Gloriana Perbeck
- Lovers -- You helped repair her unit, increasing her performance in combat and making her life easier. You got to know her and shared tea and a romantic walk with her on shoreleave.

Dame Nalah North
- Mother

Lieutenant Mosi North
- Your sister, with the Divine Navy of Correction.

Spoiler: The Titanium Rose

Name: HIMS Titanium Rose
Ship Class:
Ranger Class heavy reconnaissance craft

Ship Traits:
- Lightly armoured
- Moderately well armed
- Very fast
- 3 mecha capacity
- Armour gaps

Ship Status:
- Minor hull damage
- Short-handed
- Low on oxygen
- Carrying refugees

Modifications:
- Marines

Mecha Deck:

BAY01:
ISM16 Huntress long range fire support model
Commander Countess Gloriana Perbeck
Active

BAY02:
ISM32 Banner (Hiro Ito custom) general purpose space model
Sub Lieutenant Hiro Ito
Active

BAY03:
IDMX Morrigan
Guardswoman J6
Active

Spoiler: Glossary of characters

The Titanium Rose, crew and passengers:

Andre, Lillian: A commander who captains the Titanium Rose.

Bal, Faiza: A young civilian girl, related to a mechanic stationed on Phoebe Station, currently on board the Titanium Rose as a refugee.

Grayson, Pietro: A lieutenant, first officer of the Titanium Rose.

Griggs, Sam: A mechanical specialist serving under Lady Perbeck on the Titanium Rose.

Ito, Hiro: A sub lieutenant who pilots a mecha and is stationed on the Titanium Rose. Like a brother to Anja.

Li, Anja: Amani's fellow ensign on board the Titanium Rose, and friend from work. Like a sister to Hiro.

Mazlo, Rupert: A sub lieutenant who serves as chief comms officer on the Titanium Rose. Amani's direct superior.

North, Amani: The player.

Nowak, Carole: A nervous but experienced ship's mechanic petty officer first class aboard the Titanium Rose.

Perbeck, Countess Gloriana: A countess, mecha pilot, knight of the Order Galatea, and commander of the mecha squad stationed on the Titanium Rose.

Song, Soo-ah: An ensign who pilots a mecha and is stationed on the Titanium Rose. Green, but highborn, and her family is very important and powerful.

The Night Lily, Crew and Passengers:

Helios, Her Imperial Highness Dawnstar: A princess of the empire and honorary commodore with expertise in engineering. Friendly and poised.

J6 ("Jaysee"): A mysterious guardswoman first class, of the Imperial Guard, with strange, cybernetic implants and a seemingly close connection to Princess Dawnstar.

Patel, August: An engineering officer formerly overseeing top secret R&D. Currently acting captain of the HIMS Night Lily.

Misc. United Imperial Navy:

Cadorna: A commodore and lord, commanding the facilities at Phoebe.

North, Dame Nala: Amani's mother, who is a knight of the Order Lunar stationed on Anchiale Station, in orbit around Iapetus.

Owusu, Milo: A Lieutenant-Commander and mecha pilot with Special Reconnaissance and Intelligence (SRI). A trained intelligence officer and a skilled pilot. Has a history with Countess Gloriana Perbeck.

The Divine Navy of Correction:

Chavez, Lady Alice: A Holy Empire baroness and commodore in the Divine Navy. In command of the Divine Navy Raiding Fleet.

Costa, Dame Mary: A commander and knight of the Lunar Order in the Divine Navy. Pilots a 32s Banner Recon Type.

Edgar: A Lieutenant and mecha pilot in the Divine Navy. Pilots a 32s Banner Recon Type.

Green, Tyrone: A Holy Empire commander, who leads the mecha forces of the Amaranth's task force. Blunt and confident.

Ivanov: A Holy Empire captain, in command of the Amaranth and its task force. Old and experienced.

Khan: A Holy Empire commander, captaining one of the Amaranth's two escort corvettes. Quiet.

Kim, Su-jin: An ensign and mecha pilot in the Divine Navy, chatty.

North, Mosi: A Holy Empire lieutenant, who serves as a mecha pilot on board the Amaranth. She pilots the Provespa a new scouting model.

Rousseau, Tina: A lady and a Captain in the Divine Navy, captains the HDMS Briar.

Roth: A lieutenant-commander in the Divine Navy, strict, background in infiltration

Tang: A Holy Empire commander, captaining one of the Amaranth's two escort corvettes. Hates Green.

Wallace: A Chief Petty Officer with the Divine Navy. Taciturn.

Misc. Civilian:

Abner, Lyle: Mara Birch's administrative assistant. He's distractingly hot and makes good coffee.

Birch, Mara: The harbourmaster of Quetzle Station.

Choi, Ivan: The stationmaster of Quetzle Station.

Song, Lord Secretary: An imperious public appointee of House Song. Doesn't like his drinking being disturbed.

Zhao, Karel: Anja Li's boyfriend, lives on Titan, he's kind of useless.

Lee, Heinrich: A resident of Quetzle Station who deals extensively in procurement and inventory, very sketchy.

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

The Imperial Navy of the Solar Empire (in exile): 15

The Alliance for an Independent Saturn -- AFIS: 10

The Coalition for Free Spacers -- CFS 5:

You give yourself a quick uniform inspection in the mirror -- a crisp, turquoise jacket, buttons and trim in brightly polished silver, with a straight, knee-length skirt, white leggings and the only pair of spacer shoes you've ever seen that manage to at least look sharp and solid. The end result is flashy, and somewhat ornate, even if all the real braid and finery gets saved for special occasions.

The first time you put the uniform on, you were a little shocked by the sheer amount of innovation and technology that went into making such a uniform halfway functional in zero gravity -- smart fabric in the skirt and tunic to make it hold its shape without being so rigid as to be useless. The empire has never been above spending a great deal of money in order to preserve the illusion of effortless perfection.

Satisfied that your appearance can at probably withstand the critical eye of Captain Andre should you meet her in the shaft, you close the storage panel, tuck your interface gloves into the pocket of your tunic, and begin to key open the hatch. Before you do, however, you freeze, glide back over to your workstation, and retrieve the one thing that you've forgotten -- a small, black box hanging from a long cord, which you swiftly put over your neck, and tuck beneath the collar of your shirt. You never want to forget that.

A second later, you have the hatch sliding open with its familiar, quiet hiss. You push yourself cautiously out into the upper crew shaft, first making sure that no one is hurtling toward you in either direction. The ship is understaffed enough that people are frequently in more of a rush than is, strictly speaking, safe. The upper crew shaft -- which becomes a hallway when the Titanium Rose enters into a gravity well or docks with a station -- is a narrow hallway lined with cabin hatches, up and down verticals dotting the shaft at regular intervals, wall and floor paneling in a less vibrant version of the blue and grey colour scheme of your uniform. This whole process has used up five of your precious minutes already; you have 25 left to breakfast and be at your station in time for your routine bridge shift.

Contrary to your dream, it promises to be a less than boring one, if not so exciting as a sudden full blown invasion. After weeks of uneventful patrolling, without so much as a glimpse of petty pirates or smugglers, let alone anything really worrisome, you're approaching the small, barren moon of Phoebe and its lonely watchpost. At this point, even the meagre accommodations that such a small and isolated base can offer have most of the crew operating with an air of quiet excitement, yourself included.

With a yawn, you push off down the hallway, offering the perfunctory greetings you can muster to passing crewmembers before you've had your coffee. The shaft has more than a few of them; you're hardly the only one who leaves things this close when it comes to shift change. A few metres down from your cabin, you grab the handle above a downward vertical port, and push yourself into it head first. Almost everyone is violently ill their first time in zero gravity, without an up or a down aside from the way you're currently facing, but such a reflex has thankfully long since been drilled out of you by sheer exposure. You continue floating down the vertical, letting a deck go past, then catch yourself on the next handle, bringing your momentum to a complete stop, and letting yourself drift out into the mess hall.

The mess hall is an exercise in pageantry, you sometimes think. A testament to the navy's commitment to making sure all of the ship's facilities are usable in every environment it's rated for -- there are actual tables and benches. The former are mostly decorative at the moment, and the latter are useful primarily for the straps built into them to prevent diners from simply floating away. Long experience has also taught you, however, that the tables simple solid presence means that there's always a surface to grip in order to stop or maneuver oneself, even in the middle of one of the single largest crew spaces onboard.

"Well, someone's running late," a feminine voice drawls in a distinctive Titan accent, its owner waving a hand to catch your attention before you can move past. You stop so suddenly that she has to shoot out a hand to grab you, in order to keep you from careening off in the wrong direction entirely. "Wow, you are tired, she says, after a quiet laugh at your expense, her ordinarily high, piercing laugh stifled with one hand. "Oh come on, don't look at me like that, look -- coffee always helps."

Sure enough, she pulls a breakfast packet, fresh from the dispenser, out of her tunic pocket, letting it drift lazily toward you. Now that you're no longer at risk of flying into anyone, you catch it, and push yourself down into the seat beside her, clipping a belt around your waist to keep you on it -- it beats having to join one of the fast moving lines formed in front of the room's three food dispensers.

Anja Li is your fellow ensign, a young woman of about your age with sandy brown hair, blended Eurasian features, and a slightly sardonic lilt to her mouth that's more than a little infuriating on occasion. Like when she's laughing at you for something which, quite frankly, was her fault more than yours. And you've had many occasions to observe this -- she's with you on most of your bridge shifts. She can be good company, even if her background is sufficiently different from yours to occasionally lead to awkwardness. Unlike you, who came to Saturn before the age of ten as a refugee, Anja is a third generation Titan, a relative rarity for even a junior naval officer. Even now, a decade out from Titan becoming the de facto capital and Saturn becoming the sum total of the exiled United Solar Empire, the navy's officer corps is not precisely hospitable towards actual Saturnians, even as necessity has made it incrementally more welcoming toward commoners in general.

You break the seal on your breakfast packet, and immediately fish out the black pouch labelled COFFEE ONE CREAM in five different scripts. A practiced gesture snaps off the plastic tab at the top, triggering the pouch's self heating mechanism. Just the feeling of it growing hot in your hand is enough to breath a little life into you, although waiting for the instructed 30 second brew time to elapse is as torturous as always.

Who are you, then? Where did you come from, how do you act and present yourself toward people, once you've had enough caffeine to actually be awake and alert? And while we're here, just what kind of ship is the Titanium Rose?

OoC: The character traits are going to be tallied as one set -- try to come up with an interesting combination that other people will enjoy. The ship vote is going to be counted separately from the character traits.

Name:
[ ] Breana Zhou
[ ] Jin-ae Kyo
[ ] Amani North
[ ] Ciara O'Shae
[ ] Jade Hunter
[ ] Azrabeth Destiny
[ ] Write-in

Personality:
[ ] Aggressive
[ ] Bubbly
[ ] Cold
[ ] Straight-laced

Background:
[ ] The daughter of a penniless knight
[ ] The illegitimate child of a minor aristocrat
[ ] The daughter of common soldiers
[ ] The daughter of common orbital farmers

What Class of ship is the HMIS Titanium Rose?
[ ] Flower Class light carrier
- Well armoured
- Lightly armed
- Low-moderate speed
- 6 mecha capacity
- Not intended for independent action
A small, relatively cheap mecha carrier, usually used in conjunction with an escort of 2-3 corvettes to eliminate minor pirate threats or put down small scale colonial unrest. Its slow speed and modest armaments are far from ideal without an escort.
[ ] Metallic Class frigate
- Well armoured
- Well armed
- Moderate speed
- 3 mecha capacity
- Notoriously finicky drive core
Metallic class frigates are the last generation workhorse of the Imperial fleet, well equipped for their size, ideal either as an escort for larger ships or for light independent duty. Design flaws in the drive array require constant maintenance.
[ ] Ranger Class heavy reconnaissance craft
- Lightly armoured
- Moderately armed
- ****ing fast
- 3 mecha capacity
- Armour gaps
The Ranger class is designed for long distance scouting in hostile territory. It's got enough firepower and defences to survive limited engagements, without sacrificing too much speed. At the same time, sacrifices did have to be made in the name of that goal -- its armour is very good for its class and role, but is thin or absent in certain less critical areas.

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

Protagonist:

Amani North, graceful, daughter of a penniless knight: 16
Amani North, straight-laced, daughter of common soldiers: 10
Amani North, graceful, daughter of common soldiers: 1
Breana Zhou, bubbly, illegitimate child of a minor aristocrat: 1
Jinae Kyo, aggressive, illegitimate child of a minor aristocrat: 1
Jinae Kyo, graceful, daughter of a penniless knight: 1

Ship:

Ranger Class heavy reconnaissance craft: 26
Metallic class frigate: 5

This vote was close, until then all at once it wasn't.

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)

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

[x] Long range scans
[x] Languages, codes and ciphers
Number of voters: 22

[x] Active defences
[x] Mechanics (ship and mecha hardware)
Number of voters: 2

[x] Long range scans
[x] Exposition dumping (politics and history)
Number of voters: 2

[x] Primary weapon systems
[x] Pilot training (non-combat)
Number of voters: 2

[x] Active defences
[x] Exposition dumping (politics and history)
Number of voters: 1

[x] Long range scans
[x] Mechanics (ship and mecha hardware)
Number of voters: 1

I really did not expect everyone to zero in on one option like this so fast, but here we are

You drift over to your work station, positioned on the starboard side of the chevron, near the tip, directly after the comm station. An adjustable chair is bolted to the deck, facing a three dimensional, holographic display mounted into a bulkhead running down the centre of the bridge. You slip on your interface gloves -- thin and white, with lightweight haptics built into them for ease of use with your workstation -- and detach the headset snapped onto the side of your chair.

"North." The terse greeting comes from a short, clean-cut looking man sitting at the comm terminal. He glances up to look at you, and you instantly snap a salute, which he returns somewhat less crisply.

"Good morning, Sub Lieutenant Mazlo," you say, respectfully. Mazlo, the ship's chief communications officer, is your direct superior, and his irritable, fidgety presence is always a little stressful, compared to one of the comms techs who fill in while he's off shift. In response, he only nods. Which is just as well, for your part.


As you settle yourself down into the seat and strap yourself in, the work station detects the telltales in your uniform and matches them to your biometrics -- it automatically inputs your login credentials, and adjusts itself to your height and work preferences. Your "screen" contains a keyboard as well as a simulated writing pad, but a significant amount of the interface consists of you physically reaching out and manipulating what's displayed there, aided by the slight tactile feedback provided by your gloves. What you're greeted with, initially, is a miniature version of the larger display at the centre of the room -- the ship a tiny, blue model, with a representation of the space around it that could be scaled up or down as the user saw fit.

The irregular shape of Phoebe can already be detected, along with the long-range beacon of the station informing anyone who approached of its status as a closed naval installation, requiring clearance to approach. Beside you, you are aware of Mazlo attempting to establish direct communication with Phoebe control, so far without success. Unusual, but not unheard of, and his muttered curses on the subject of "ring particle interference" seems plausible enough. While hardly as dense or as visually spectacular as the more famous inner rings, the Phoebe Ring is clearly visible on your scans as a massive disc of dust particles, extending outward along the tilted plane of the moon's orbit, with the moon circling around in the middle of it. It is particularly troublesome in terms of scans, owing to the still-spreading debris field from that Battle of Narvi at the outset of the Imperial Civil War.

The approach to the moon makes your job on such a shift only marginally more interesting than normal -- it consists mainly of monitoring the scan feeds as they come in, keeping watch for anything particularly noteworthy. The computer will of course populate the spatial model on its own, but it is not entirely to be relied upon in all cases, requiring human supervision to examine any anomalies or to second guess its assumptions -- the AI had a database of millions of scenarios to draw from, but when it came down to it, a human was still better at anything requiring abstract thinking. Still, with a steady course and nothing in the vicinity but the dust of the surrounding ring and the slowly approaching moon, there's little for you to do aside from continuously confirming that things are fine.

In this spirit, over an hour into your shift, working on your second coffee pouch of the morning, you find yourself staring a bit longer than is warranted at the feed of a garbled bit of noise picked up by the scanners. Such things are hardly uncommon in the normal course of things, dotted as saturn is with so many disparate colonies, and can come from nearly anything. The instruments your ship uses are delicate and extremely sensitive. It's better to end up detecting the garbled remains of a short-range public radio broadcast from Agricultural Station 2B than it is to filter them and end up missing something crucial, like enemy movement on the edge of sensor range. At this distance from Saturn, it's much more likely caused by some non-functional but still-emitting piece of battle debris Something stops you, however, from making the flicking motion that will dismiss the feed entirely, however, and it takes you a moment to decide exactly what it is that seems so subtly off.

At first, it looks perfectly unremarkable. Perfectly random. The three dimensionally rendered peaks and valleys of the signal snake in all directions, and neither the audio or textual representation of the seeming junk data produce anything more sensible. Then, all at once, it hits you: The signal seems a little too random. There's no ghost of the original message, no fleeting trace of an intelligible message for your eyes to catch onto. And that, when you really think about it, is profoundly strange. The more you stare at it, the more you're convinced that the message wasn't accidentally corrupted sheer distance or time -- it was deliberately scrambled. You glance over to Mazlo, who is still fruitlessly attempting to establish an advanced communications link with Phoebe.

"Sir?" you prompt. Your polite tone is clearly audible against the background hum of work stations, the quiet hiss of air filtering, and the steady, distant thrum of the ship's drives. He looks up, beady eyes squinted in annoyance.

"What is it, North?" he asks, just barely turning his head enough to acknowledge you. He's not being outright rude, but it's obvious that he's far from pleased at your interruption.

You swallow your doubts, pinch out a copy of the feed, and drag it over to the icon for his work station, quickly tapping out the confirmation. "Sir, we've been getting this signal on and off for the past hour," you begin. "The mecha squad picked it up, and beamed it back to us."

"We've been getting junk noise for the past hour?" Mazlo asks, not sounding particularly receptive.

"I don't think it's actually junk noise, sir," you say, speaking carefully. "The pattern is too random to be natural. It looks fine at a casual glance, but when you look more closely, it breaks down. Like it's been scrambled. See? Here, and here."

"Is there a particular reason, ensign," he asks, sounding less and less patient, "that you're looking closely enough at scan noise to think you're starting to see patterns? I believe you're meant to be monitoring the feeds for things of actual significance." With that, his eyes turn completely away from you, and you have the undeniable sense that you have just been dismissed.

Shoulders hunched in on yourself, you turn back to the workstation, and consider dismissing the feed entirely. Maybe Mazlo has a point -- you're bored, and inventing work for yourself where there isn't any. But no -- no, there's definitely something there. You steal a glance back over at Mazlo, ascertaining that he's once again too engrossed in his own work to take much notice of what you're doing. It's not as though you can't do both; there's not so much data of interest coming across the scanner feeds that you can't find the time to examine the signal more closely.

You've always been good at finding hidden or obtuse patterns, ever since you were young. An obsessive love of imaginary languages and word puzzles, which amused your father and drove your elder sister crazy, eventually became an affinity for serious language study, and later still a talent for code breaking. You don't have the connections, at the moment, for a post in naval intelligence to be a realistic career option, but that doesn't mean that such skills never come in handy in your current trajectory. You run the signal through one analysis program, isolate a promising portion, and run that through several more. It's tedious, and takes long minutes of delicate work, but the more you do, the more certain you are: There's a message not so much buried or obscured by the noise, as there is one interwoven into it. What you've sussed out so far is still far from intelligible, however. It's a series of random words and nonsense phrases, primarily in text, but at this point, it's at least obvious to you for what it is -- an encoded message disguised as scan noise.

You steal a glance over at Mazlo once again, and if anything, his temper has only worsened. There's no indication that he's made any progress in his task, and you suspect that the captain will be somewhat annoyed with him if she wakes up to find things still at the same point as when she went to bed. You doubt he'll welcome another interruption to draw his attention back to the feed he did not quite order you to stop looking at, but strongly hinted that you should disregard. Still, though, it is plain to you that this is a communication of some sort, even if very strange and currently encoded. You have additional software on your terminal that you think you can use to get a clearer picture of it, but it will require more of your attention than what you're doing.

What do you do about it?

[ ] Attempt to report your findings to Mazlo once again.
[ ] Quietly attempt to break the code yourself before you report it.
[ ] Save a copy of the data and focus on ordinary work for the rest of your shift.

OoC: There was no wrong or trap answer to the previous update's choices, and there would have been opportunities for the other talents to be useful in the story, but it is kind of amazing, honestly, that you all more or less zeroed in on the one combination of specialisation and talent that I specifically took note of and thought "that would probably be immediately useful in the next update".

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

[x] Quietly attempt to break the code yourself before you report it.
Number of voters: 28

[x] Attempt to report your findings to Mazlo once again.
Number of voters: 3

I don't think that I really needed to tell you what won here.

Rather than risk a reprimand and your concerns being dismissed again, it might be better to simply do more of the work yourself -- it's clear to you that this level of subterfuge is unlikely to be coming from some paranoid smuggler with a rudimentary encryption suite. The more you look at the junk data, the less certain you are that any of it is actually junk; a shockingly large amount of information is buried in this garble, and it will take more time than you have to sort it out, to say nothing of cracking the analogue code that the information is disguised by underneath. But you're certain that if you keep at it, you can at least get enough work done that it will be impossible to dismiss as something not meriting further scrutiny.

You focus your attention on what you think is a single complete block of data you've pulled out of the mess, hoping you have a large enough sample size to work with. To your unhappy surprise, it's easier than you expect: It becomes apparent, before too long, that the code you're looking at is derived from an obsolete, pre-Civil War Imperial Navy protocol that your software suite still has on file. It was abandoned by both sides for the simple fact that both sides had full knowledge of it. Apart from this clear lineage, however, you're having a lot of trouble getting any specifics, meaning that this is unlikely to be anything originating with your own side. You've identified what seem to be a series of numbers, however, and when plotted on a table, beside some of the accompanying data, it almost looks like…

You gasp audibly. It's not incredibly loud, necessarily, but it's loud enough, when First Officer Grayson happens to be drifting past on his way back to the command chair. He had been hovering over Anja's seat, conferring with her as she relayed a status report from the mecha squad, presumably still in the midst of their recon sweep. Now, he's staring at you, a look of curiosity on his face.

"Something wrong, North?" he asks. Then he frowns, putting a massive hand on the back of your chair in order to lean over your shoulder and get a look at your display. "What's this your working on?" he asks.

"It's something we picked up up about two hours ago, sir," you say, trying not to glance nervously over at Mazlo.

"We just… picked this up?" Grayson says, brow creasing with concern. "From no clear source?"

"No, sir," you confirm. "The mecha squad relayed it in one of their sweeps, and it wasn't any clearer once we picked it up on ship-scanners a short while later. It looked like it was more than just scan noise, so--"

"Ensign, I believe I told you to disregard that signal," Mazlo snaps, face colouring. He shoots you a deeply disapproving look, before shifting his attention up to Grayson, looking as though he's about to apologise for your time-wasting, but when he sees the First Officer's expression, he stops, mouth still open.

"You told her to disregard this?" he says, quiet, and uncharacteristically unsmiling. He jabs a sausage-sized finger at your display. "This?"

"Sir?" Mazlo asks, plainly taken aback.

"Sub Lieutenant, what does this look like to you?" Grayson grips the base of your display, and reorients it so that it faces toward Mazlo.

Mazlo's eyes screw up in confusion as he notices that he is clearly not just looking at random noise or garbled civilian communications, then go wide as he makes out what you've uncovered: What, by all appearances is a list of ship names accompanied by a list of encoded coordinates. "... oh." It's all he can seem to manage, the word coming out small and defeated as he seems to deflate. At Grayson's continued, expectant silence, he seems to realise he's expected to answer. "They… look like they could be fleet movements, sir," he says, with extreme reluctance.

"Yes," Grayson agrees, releasing your display. It slowly eases back into its original position, dictated by your height and preferences. "It looks a great deal like fleet movements. Encoded with a protocol that decidedly is not ours, encrypted to read as scan-lag in case of interception, and originating from who knows where."

The entire bridge is deathly silent, and Mazlo's ordinarily tan features are paling visibly. Grayson visibly takes a moment to take a calming breath, looking very much like a man who does not enjoy being angry, but is having to struggle against it nonetheless. "North," he says, finally, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do we have any idea where this came from?"

You hesitate momentarily, glancing back over your readouts, although you know what your best answer will still be. "Not exactly, sir," you admit, before adding: "... but it's a long-range transmission, and the recipient -- the intended recipient -- is probably nearby. "

--

"Ma'am, at approximately 0632, ensign Song's unit relayed scan data including a strange signal. I believe that it appeared to be so degraded that the ship's filters flagged it as scan-noise at first." Captain Andre nods her understanding. A mecha's scanners and computing power is never going to match a ship's. And Song pilots an unmodified ISM32 Banner -- a famous, general purpose mecha with an illustrious service history, still in active use by both incarnations of the Solar Empire, but well over ten years' old by this point. It's a strange sort of irony to think that the mecha's weaker scan processing had been the point of failure for the otherwise engenius hiding method. That, and a lucky observation by you. "I noticed that the scan-noise seemed to be slightly too random to be natural," you continue, "and so I examined it more closely."

"It was at this point, then, that you reported the anomaly to Sub Lieutenant Mazlo?" Andre interjects. You fight the urge to wince. Behind you, Mazlo stiffens slightly.

"Yes, ma'am," you confirm, and you can feel his level gaze boring into the back of your head. It was never specifically your intent to make your superior look incompetent in the eyes of the captain and first officer. Arguably, how things happened weren't even your fault -- Mazlo had recognised what you'd found, in the end, once he'd seen the preliminary results spelled out so clearly for him. There is a version of these events where you got this far, or perhaps a little farther, quietly brought the signal's true nature to Mazlo's attention, and he was able to pass the information on to your mutual superiors. Good will for him, and a pat on the head for you. Now, inadvertently, you have earned the ire of the man you directly report to.

"And, despite his firm suggestion that you turn your attention elsewhere, you persisted." Captain Andre is middle aged -- somewhere in her 60s. All gaunt face and bony limbs, she gives the impression of constant weariness even when she hasn't been woken up after less than four hours' sleep. She's fully dressed now, sitting strapped in behind her desk. Another feature of the ship that seems largely for the optics of the whole thing. You have to admit, however -- hanging where you are, in the middle of Andre's office with her sitting on the other side of it, already in full uniform, complete with officer's cap, the optics are working.

"Yes, ma'am," you admit. You try to ignore the certainty you feel that Mazlo is currently imagining having you thrown out of an airlock. "It… seemed genuinely promising, and I thought that if I had a chance to look at it more closely, Sub Lieutenant Mazlo would agree that it might be important."

"And," she says, with the barest trace of amusement, "He didn't explicitly order you to stop, and you thought you could get away with it." You feel your face heating, but she holds up a pale, bony hand to head off the response that you didn't know how to begin anyway. "But, you looked into it further, and you found…"

"A data transmission, ma'am," you say, grateful for the reprieve. "Encrypted to look like meaningless scan-noise. And then encoded from there, with a protocol based on Imperial Navy 22, but heavily modified in a way the manual doesn't recognise. I did what I could, to see what might be in it, and what I have determined is that, while I have not managed to pull specific digits out, the data appears to be a series of ship names as well as coordinates."

"Fleet movements, intended for someone nearby to receive," Andre says, and you nod. She sighs, and rubs a hand over her eyes, fatigue seeming to land heavily on her shoulders all at once, in spite of the weightless environment onboard the ship. "Is Perbeck coming back in or not?" she asks, suddenly addressing Grayson.

He shakes his head. "Lady Perbeck says that she intends to extend the squad's current sweep, in light of this news."

"I'll call her after this," Andre says, her voice close to a growl of frustration. The command structure of the Rose has the slight, awkward complication that, despite being afforded the courtesy title of captain, Andre's actual rank is only commander. While this was normal for a ship the size of the Titanium Rose, it was the same rank as Lady Perbeck's. And despite Andre having some years' seniority over the countess, she is the rare senior naval officer without title, knighthood, or powerful family, placing her decisively beneath Perbeck both in social strata as well as useful connections. Combined, these factors make pulling rank somewhat uncomfortable, even if naval tradition dictates a level of deference to the captain of the ship. You don't know the details of how precisely a lowborn officer made it this high without either being obtaining at least a knighthood or marrying up, but a lot happened during the war.

Andre's steel-grey eyes -- almost exactly the same shade as her hair -- go back to you. "Your… initiative may not be entirely regulation, North," she says, "but I won't lie and say I don't prefer this to flying into things as blind as we were. Well done, and don't do it again."

You fight the urge to fidget under her gaze. You're not entirely certain how to take that last comment. Fortunately, there's only one response required of you. "Yes, ma'am," you say.

"North, you're dismissed, return to your station. Grayson, go back to the bridge for now, and inform Perbeck that I'll confer with her there shortly."

"Yes, ma'am," you say once again, this time in unison with Grayson, your own high, clear voice almost lost in his baritone rumble.

"Sub Lieutenant…" her gaze flicks over to Mazlo, and to his credit, he doesn't flinch. "I'd like a private word with you, before you go back to establishing the connection to Phoebe that I expected you would have waiting for me hours ago."

You don't hesitate to snap off your smartest salute, and follow Grayson back out into the shaft.

--

The Battle of Navi debris field
The Phoebe ring
Outer Saturn System

The Imperial Civil War was fought in all corners of human-occupied space. Following the death of the previous emperor, the twelve Archdukes and Archduchesses of the Imperial Electorate had been faced with a dilemma -- while they could appoint anyone belonging to the twisting, byzantine branches of the Family Imperial, in actual practise, the selection needed to be someone with enough influence that all of the major players in the empire could at least respect their rule. This time, there was no easy choice. The emperor's preferred successor had been his son, a volatile firebrand with a strong martial bent, who openly talked about punishing 'deviant members of imperial society'. The Electors, hoping to avoid putting such a temperment on the throne, instead chose his half-sister -- a solid, staid, altogether unremarkable woman of middling talent and little charisma. A compromise empress.

The spurned prince had immediately declared the decision invalid, the Electors illegitimate, and named himself to be the rightful emperor on the back of the Cult of the Divine Emperor that had been quietly growing in power for decades. Entire fleets and colonies were wiped out in the coming years, and swathes of Earth and Mars are to this day scorched stretches of glassed earth. At that time, all of the various imperial governors, families and military outfits were forced to choose a side.

Saturn got off largely unscathed, with only three major actions before the loyalist governor firmly asserted control of the remote system. Half the major moons of jupiter are ringed with the remains of shattered war machines and habitats alike, and Ceres in the asteroid belt is a cold grave for two hundred thousand souls. There are only certain, specific places in the Saturn system were the grim wreckage of the war remain. The debris field from the Battle of Navi -- in truth, a poorly planned, chaotic battle fought some distance away from the tiny moon of the same name -- lays strewn across the Phoebe ring, disrupting the naturally occuring dust ring with its passage, creating comms interference and the physical hazard of the debris field itself slowly but steadily moving inward, moving fast enough for the densest portion of the debris field to overtake Phoebe roughly once every two years. An annoyance, and an unhappy reminder, for most who encounter it.

For the officers arrayed around the conference room of the Holy Solar Empire ship HDMS Amaranth, it has proven to be an opportunity to come close to their intended target while remaining substantially hidden. The facility's long range capabilities, while impressive, do not infer the same sort of special powers of detection on their short range scanners or technicians, so long as the covert task force doesn't do anything to betray their presence early.

Sir Ivanov, Captain of the Amaranth and commander of the assembled task force, leans over the table the holographic representation of Phoebe, ignoring the moon itself to highlight the trailing orbital habitat. Pushing 100 standard years, he shows no sign of retiring anytime soon. "We know from intercepted transmissions, that they leave only a skeleton crew on the actual moon, and their entire senior command structure is housed on the station." He smiles grimly -- the heretics' communications were laughably easy to intercept and decrypt. It was as if they've learned nothing in their ten year reprieve. "We hit it hard and fast, before they can bring a proper defence to bear. It's not fortress grade. We have enough firepower to overwhelm their defences. What little they have."

Tang, commander of the first of the Amaranth's escort ships, frowns, pointing down to the defence equipment "Lightly defended or not, sir, those anti-space guns they have moon-side can tear through Green's mech squad if they get half a chance." Ignoring the deeply uncharitable look Commander Green is now shooting her, she continues, "I would respectfully suggest, sir, that we make sure to time the attack as soon as the communications complex has gone out of range. This rock doesn't even have a ten hour rotational period, and that's less time than I'm comfortable with, even if things go as simply as planned."

Ivanov looks from her to Khan, her counterpart from the Amaranth's second escort, seeing agreement on the younger woman's face. "Agreed," he says, after a moment. Fortunately, as Tang has just pointed out, due to the habitat stations' orbit being technically around Saturn rather than Phoebe itself, it is impossible to put it in geosynchronous orbit with the communications and observational facility itself.

"That will give the facility on the moon half a chance to send a distress signal to the rest of their fleet," Green pointed out. He hovers a distance away from them all, scarred and weathered as he is solidly built, the sleeves of his brilliantly white Holy Navy of Correction uniform rolled up past his elbows, muscular arms crossed over his chest.

"We're here to put out their eyes and ears in the outer system," Tang says, her thin lips pressing together with dislike. "Our orders are to carry out a surprise attack, not specifically to avoid all detection after the fact." Ivanov often thinks it's fortunate that the Amaranth, a Flower-class light carrier, houses the entirety of the task forces mecha forces, limiting Tang's exposure to the gruff mecha commander.

"If we can do it without immediately putting their entire fleet on high alert," Green counters, "then that's what we should do. And there's the other complication. The lieutenant just came back with a report."

Ivanov turns to look at the most junior officer present, a serious young woman, her complexion and hair a smart contrast to the sleek white lines of the pilot suit she still wears. Green's lieutenant is some sort of rising star pilot, who has been leading the scouting passes that they've been carrying out around the installation, and so far, doing them well in that new prototype model of hers. Ivanov had raised an eyebrow when Green took a message partway into this meeting, and again when the girl had arrived, but Green is steady enough, even if he does like his theatrics. "Report, Lieutenant," he allows.

"Sir!" she says, clapping one arm across her chest, fist clenched, in the new style salute favoured by the emperor. "We have detected enemy mecha moving ahead of a scouting ship, heading in the direction of Phoebe."

"And you can be sure you weren't seen?" Ivanov asks, frowning. A patrol ship at this particular time was not part of the plan, even if a scouting vessel is unlikely to truly change the balance of power. Even one carrying some token force of mecha.

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant confirms, with enough youthful earnestness that he feels suddenly twice his actual age. "I had us cut comms traffic while we were in range, to prevent accidental discovery. They seem to be doing reconnaissance sweeps around the ship. Two Banners and an unfamiliar unit, and we couldn't get close enough for a clear scan, but the ship is either a Ranger or a Herald class."

"A ranger would certainly cause more trouble," Khan say, thoughtfully. The lighter, more traditional Herald class, despite having a similar scan signature and confirmation, is poorly equipped for combat against even a solitary warship, for all that it's faster than sin.

"I have my own suggestion in light of this, sir," Green says, moving over to the planning table. "It's a long trip out to Phoebe from the inner system, and they're probably on patrol -- months onboard that ship, eating nothing but zero-g slop and seeing nothing but the same four walls the entire time." He grins at this, and rueful smiles are exchanged around the room from everyone but Tang, who is still glowering at him. It had been an exceptionally long voyage from Jupiter. "If we wait for them to dock with the orbital station, they'll be helpless. Half the crew will be off getting drunk or finding what entertainment they can, and I'd be surprised if the mecha crew weren't right there with them. They'll never be able to respond in time. How close are they to the station?"

"Six hours out, at their current speed, Commander," Green's lieutenant says, obediently.

He nods, adjusting the hologram to show the passage of time. Phoebe and the habitat spin at numerous times their normal speed as he does so.

"In six hours, those AS guns will have the area around the habitat in range again!" Tang protests.

"Yes," Green agrees, "but I'll take a few fixed guns we know about ahead of time over a ship loose in the equation. After they're docked, we can't afford to wait for the planet to rotate all the way around again -- we'd go outside our time window. So we'd need to hit the lunar installation first. Hard. Take out the guns and the comms. The station will be easy meat then, with that speedy little ship still strapped to it. We'll have to deal with the mechas in the station, but I'll take those odds."

Ivanov looks between Green, with his blunt confidence, and the silently fuming Tang. Khan is quiet, as usual, and her attention is entirely on Ivanov himself, clearly awaiting his decision. "Green has a point," he allows, finally. Tang stiffens, but maintains her composure. "The last thing we want is an unpredictable variable. We've received our confirmation from Forward Command that their ships are in place, and they're relying on us to disable this station." The message, beamed in from long range, heavily encrypted and disguised as mere scan-noise, has only been fully decoded in the last hour, but it confirms what Ivanov had hoped to hear. "The commander of that scouting ship will have to order shore leave once they dock. They'll practically have a mutiny on their hands otherwise."

--

Aboard the HIMS Titanium Rose

News that the captain has declined to allow shoreleave is met with a fairly apocalyptic air onboard the Rose. A pall of bitter disappointment hangs over the mess hall, tinged with fear and confusion over the ship having been placed on alert almost immediately afterward. You're back in the bridge after this, your regular duties altered in order to staff every station fully in anticipation of things going south on the approach. While every crew member has not been given all the relevant information, enough rumours have circulated around that people are getting an idea.

A space first class, who plainly thinks you're too far away to hear her, is leaning on the edge of a table nearby, muttering to her companions about "silly green ensigns out on their first voyage, jumping at shadows and ruining things for the rest of us." You elect to pretend not to hear it with as much virtuous stoicism as you can muste, rather than offering a reprimand -- harmless griping isn't your primary concern at the moment, after all. And a large part of you genuinely hopes she's correct.

"Well, North, you've really stuck us in it now, huh?" Anja says, beside you, without rancor. "No shore leave and we might be blown up by an enemy mystery fleet at any moment." She quickly downs the contents of her meal pouch ominously labelled POULTRY DINNER with speed born more out of experience than of enthusiasm. It's the worst one, and no one wants it in their mouth longer than absolutely necessary.

"It's not as though the second part couldn't have happened without me finding it," you say, keeping your voice low.

"Well, sure," Anja agrees, after swallowing, with a face. "But at least I could have been in the middle of a slightly decent meal by then. Ignorance is bliss, North."

"Are you going to drink that coffee, Anja?"

Both of you look up, startled, at the bedraggled man in a pilot's suit who's just drifted over to your table. You instantly salute, and so does Anja… albeit less sharply than she would have with any other superior officer. "Well, I was," she admits, "but I know a man in need when I see one. Here."

Sub Lieutenant Ito returns your salute, nearly missing the tossed coffee pouch on his first grab, but hangs onto it rather than drinking it. which he wastes no time in pulling open -- it's fortunately already heated. "One is not enough for right now," he mutters. His own pilot's suit is somewhat less ornate than Perbeck's -- Ito comes from a respected military family, but he's hardly a countess. He's broad shouldered, of middling height, and of clear East Asian ancestry, ordinarily possessing a sort of jocular intensity that now you only catch flashes of, as he shoots Anja a grateful grin. "I swear, she's going to be the death of me," he says, after finishing the coffee with frightening speed. "And Song. But, Song will literally let it kill her before she lowers herself to complain."

"... Lady Perbeck?" Anja ventures, looking torn between amusement and genuine concern.

"Yes, Lady Perbeck," Ito agrees. "She's running us all ragged. Including herself. " He indicates the coffee pouch. "She's giving us a short while to eat and wash and take care of the other necessities, mostly because the chief convinced her that she needs to give the units a good tune up if we're going to be pushing this constantly. I could have married that woman then and there, honestly. I'm going to try and convince the Commander to at least have a coffee and a meal replacement bar. She won't leave the mecha deck, says this all gives her a bad feeling. We've got the emergency stim patches, but you go crazy just surviving on those."

"Hey, I was willing to give up this coffee when it was for you," Anja complains. "Not so you can look like a diligent second-in-command."

"Maybe I don't like your tone, Ensign," Ito says, mustering up some mock severity.

"My mistake," Anja says, nodding repentantly. "Please, go get fucked, sir."

"Anja!" He hisses, looking around, plainly concerned for her being overhead. "What someone hears that ?" He looks at you briefly, noting your poorly disguised shock at the exchange, as if wondering whether you might snitch them out.

"It's not too likely anyway," Anja says, philosophically. "Shore leave's been cancelled, remember?"

He stares at her blankly for a moment, mouth slightly open. Then his lip twitches, and seemingly less than a second later, he's doubled over, laughing so hard that he's actually drifting away from the table. Anja quickly joins in, leaving you to uncomfortably sip your JUICE, CITRUS primly, while all around others stared and wondered what on earth could have been so funny. They don't stare too long, however. The laughter has a slightly hysterical edge to it -- people find relief where they can.

"Well," you say, only a little stiffly, after they're finished. "Good luck on your next sortie, sir."

Ito shares a look with Anja, possibly amusement at your expense. "I appreciate that, North..." he says, grabbing back onto the table before he can float back out of range. He flashes you a grin, looking a little more like himself after the laughter. He's sporadically, strikingly handsome, usually only when he smiles like that. "... But I prefer to make my own luck."

With that, he flips himself around, and pushes himself off with a backward wave at the two of you.

You both watch him go until Anja abruptly makes a disgusted sound, crumpling up the packaging in her hand. "I hate it when he tries to act cool," she says.

--

"We have a transmission queue already established," the bored, thin-faced commodore says on the display screen. "And we will certainly add your scan data to the list, but I don't see that it is of as pressing a concern as all that, commander." He has been pointedly referring to captain Andre by her serving rank for the entirety of the conversation, seemingly annoyed even by her request to speak to him immediately.

"Lord Cadorna," Captain Andre says, carefully. "The reason for us being sent out on this patrol was to safeguard against possible enemy encroachment. We have obtained what may well be evidence of such. It is imperative that high command receive this data, or at very least the intelligence of its existence."

"Yes, Commander," Cadorna says, derisiveness even more open now. "I'm sure you consider your orders to be of paramount importance. We have our own tasks to see to here, however." It seems doubtful that the sort of passive observation that Phoebe is undertaking -- inter-planetary observations of Jupiter and the Holy Empire controlled asteroid belt -- would be of the same urgency for high command to receive as the possible existence of an unknown fleet somewhere within transmission range of far Saturn Orbit.

You sit at your bridge station, awkwardly staring at your display as the conversation plays out. The exchange has been excruciating from the beginning; Lord Cadorna almost immediately took pains to subtly inquire after Andre's family consequence, or lack thereof, his demeanor becoming more condescending by degree as the conversation went on. Never mind that this poky station and desolate moon is perhaps the least prestigious post a commodore could be given, doubly so for one who is also a lord. It still puts him far above the position of a lowly serving officer promoted for nothing more significant than valour in the face of the enemy.

Seeing Andre appear unconvinced, Cadorna sighs. "The debris field from the Battle of Navi is passing very close at the moment, Commander," he says. "It creates all number of interference and false positive on scan. If I had my station leap to full alert at the first sign of trouble every time, we'd certainly be in poor shape."

"... as you say, sir," Andre says, with a smile so insincere it's actually painful to look at. "In the meantime, however, to be on the safe side, our mecha squad will be running regular reconnaissance sweeps into the debris field."

The commodore's own smile is equally false. "If it helps your peace of mind, commander," he says. You consider whether this exchange would be going better were Lady Perbeck present -- quite possibly, although it would have been humiliating in the extreme for the captain to ask such a thing of her.

Out of the corner of your eye, in the CiC, you can see Anja frowning at her screen, and leaning over to confer quietly with Grayson, who touches his own headset, and glances apprehensively up at Captain Andre. "Ma'am," he begins, with some clear trepidation in interrupting the conversation, strained and unproductive as it's proving to be, "Ensign Song has detected a moving target within sensor range of the moon."

Andre turns in her seat, frowning at him, while on the other side of the call, the commodore didn't even pretend to be annoyed. "And she's sure it's not just hot debris?" A certain percentage of spaceship debris destroyed in battle could continue emitting some sort of signature long, long after the ship had been blown to pieces. This made the debris fields much easier to track, but also made it difficult to differentiate quickly on a conventional scan between such an object moving quickly through space and something like an enemy machine.

"She's… quite certain," Grayson says.

"Give me her channel," Andre says, turning back to the front of the room. The large screen showing the commodore's face is resized to half its original width, and beside it, a mecha visual readout screen appears, divided into four quadrants. In one, Ensign Song's intense, excited face can be seen from front-on. In another, a visual feedout from her mecha's single, high powered optical lense shows the immediate surroundings being piped into her helmet's VR display. The third and fourth show statistical readouts, and a copy of her scan screen, respectively. On the screen, Song can be seen flying through a field of twisted metal and polymer. In the distance, the black, pitted surface of Phoebe can bee seen, the lights from the communications towers and observatory on its surface blinding against its flat black surface, and the rotating disc of the orbital station is clearly visible revolving around its spindle, a bit like a children's toy left spinning in space. Beyond that, Saturn stays fixed in space, small and distant with its seemingly pristine rings. The target she's tracking through the debris is highlighted on the scan as a flashing red point moving through a three dimensional cloud of similar points.

She's talking into her helmet's microphone, excitement thick in her voice. "... ut I've found something, Commander!" she says.

Lady Perbeck's unhappy reply comes through for the entire bridge to hear. "You're ahead of formation. Pull back and wait for us to catch up."

"They'll get away!" Song says, sounding horrified. "I'm nearly there, I just have to--" she gasps, suddenly, as she flies between two moving pieces of spaceship hull, and catches sight of something fast moving and humanoid shaped darting out of view. "Contact, Commander!" she says, excitement mounting. "There's someone out here!" A moment later, another shape darts into sight, and Song begins to take fire.

"What is happening, Andre?" the commodore finally snaps. He can see Andre's reactions, and those of the shocked bridge crew behind her, but not what's being see.

"Mazlo, establish a stronger link with the station and steam the commodore what Song is seeing," she says, her voice strangely steady.

"Yes, ma'am!" Mazlo says beside you, still plainly stinging from the private reprimand he received earlier.

Andre presses a button on her workstation, even as the commodore's expression turns from a scowl to gaping, wide-eyed horror. "All hands, this is the captain speaking," she says, and you know that her voice is being piped into every compartment of the ship. "We have confirmation of unknown enemies in the area and are now entering into level 1 battle readiness." You can imagine the controlled chaos her words cause, as the entire ship drops everything to take up their battlestations, most of them wondering desperately what could be going on.

Perbeck's voice comes back on, as Song evades, trying to return fire with her ISM32 Banner's anti-mecha rifle, the rounds missing the slight, darting figure of her target by a wide margin. "Song, report!" she snaps. "Report!"

"I have engaged one enemy machine, Commander. They're fast!" All at once, something slams hard into the back of Song's Banner, sending her view spinning crazily. A second red, flashing dot has appeared on her scans. "Two! Two!" she shouts.

"Ito, you're closer, move in to support her!" Perbeck orders.

"Lady Perbeck, we are aware of the situation and taking appropriate action," Captain Andre tells her, even as Ito acknowledges Perbeck's command.

"Understood," came Perbeck's harried response.

"I want scans showing me all active combatants in the area," Andre says, eyes not leaving her workstation. "And I want to get confirmation on the model of those things she's fighting."

"I'm working on it, captain!" you tell her, honestly. The debris is making narrowing things down very difficult, with stray shots from Song's erratic skirmish sending debris scattering in all directions and fouling things further.

"Point-defence systems are fully live, captain," a voice says, from somewhere at the back of the room.

"Weapons systems online," chimes in another.

"Commander Andre, I did not give you permission to power up weapons in my space!" the commodore says, torn between directionless fury and obvious confused fear.

"Respectfully, sir," Andre says, "I do not require such permission prior to formally entering the docking sequence. I suggest you take your own measures."

Lord Cadorna stares at her for a moment, deciding how he should take this. Action and common sense wins out. He turns away from the display, and begins barking out his own orders, and the call cuts off. Beside you, Mazlo is already in contact with his counterpoint on the station, presumably undertaking the task of coordinating with your allies against this threat.

On the screen, Song is fighting for her life. Whatever is firing at her, in terms of speed and maneuverability, it's in an entirely different class than Song's Banner, try as she might, and she is taking numerous minor hits from a caliber weapons. "ISM47 Vespula, ma'am!" a voice calls out. "A scouting model the enemy developed during the end of the war!" An image flashes onto one of the large screens -- a mecha with long legs, a sleek confirmation, and three ocular cameras set at different angles in its head.

"Well, who else could it be?" Andre sighs, if not taking the confirmation that this is a Holy Empire incursion in stride, at least readily accepting it.

"I'm almost within range to assist," Sub Lieutenant Ito's voice adds. You wonder whether he might already be too late -- Song's very clearly in over her head. Even as you watch, she takes a direct hit to one of her limbs. You feel a little guilty for the thought a moment later, when, in one of their darting passes, Song manages to boost forward at precisely the right angle, extend her Banner's offhand monofilament blade, and score a deep cut into the fragile frame of one of the enemy Vespulas. It spins away wildly, venting atmosphere and meca fuel into hard vacuum.

"One enemy down!" Song shouts, sounding equal parts terrified and exhilarated.

"Good," Perbeck says. "Now pull back toward the ship!"

Rather than respond, Song screams: Something fast, faster even than the Vespulas, has just gone active on her scans, and darted in close, dodging both her fire and then her attempted blows at melee range in order to drive something that looks very much like a five metre long spike through her mecha's chest. Through the cockpit. The last image any of you have of Ensign Suyin Song's face is intense fear, followed by a horrible slackening, before the feed finally cuts out.

You try to focus on your work. On your display, there are still numerous hits on scan which you can't confirm one way or another, made worse as the station begins launching mechas of its own from a hangar. Ancient ISM07 Lancers -- good machines in their day, but substantially outclassed by nearly anything that's come after them. Something large lights up in the debris field, taking all your attention.

"At least one enemy ship!" You say, but already, there's a heavy impact and a flash of light from the observation platform on Phoebe's surface, its shields flaring in a way you're not entirely certain they can duplicate; a direct hit from a warship grade railgun.

"North, where are we on those scans?" Andre asks sharply, sparing a moment to look in your direction, in between issuing complex repositioning orders to the helmsman. She's clearly hardly pleased about the pilot's horrible death moments before, but she didn't survive the Civil War by letting every individual death bog her down. Your scans are still only two thirds complete, and that remaining third is the hard part. Going through the standard procedures will eat up precious seconds you might not have, but the scans it produces will be high fidelity and reliable. There are ways you know off the top of your head you can shave the time down, but they all have their drawbacks.

[ ] Do it by the book
It will take as long as it takes, but you'll be able to trust the display data.

[ ] Skip redundant testing
You can shave off a significant amount of time by skipping over certain checks and processes. Fast, but with a higher chance of false positives on the scan.

[ ] Patch together the ship's completed scans with the mecha squad's
The mechas have weaker, shorter range scans than the Rose, but you can chain the two sets of data together to produce something workable now. Very fast, but with poorer fidelity predictive tracking for things like velocity and flight paths over distances.

[ ] Network with Phoebe
The scans that Phoebe possesses -- the station as well as the lunar platform -- are far more powerful than anything your ship has in terms of raw data processing. With the connection Mazlo has already established, you could theoretically take that and use it to create a fast, very high fidelity map of the battle space. However, integrating disparate hardware and software from different eras is always risky, and there's a chance that something will go wrong or cause delays. A high risk, high reward gamble.

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

[x] Do it by the book
Number of voters: 29


[x] Network with Phoebe
Number of voters: 10


[x] Patch together the ship's completed scans with the mecha squad's
Number of voters: 1

"Confirmed kill, Commander Green," the lieutenant says, retracting her mecha's energised spike from the cockpit of the lifeless enemy machine. "We're fine here. Smith is uninjured, but his Vespula is shot. I'm sending him back to the ship." There's a pause, and she can't help but add: "Why were they flying sweeps out this far? And so soon after the last one? Did they know we were coming?"

"Well, whoever's in charge might just be a paranoid bastard," Green's calm voice says in her ear. "What is it that they say about plans and contact with the enemy, kid? We're salvaging what we can and moving into position. You should--

The rest of the Commanders words are lost in the din of of her scanner's alarms -- an object moving through the debris field, at high speed -- another Banner, this one not even bothering with its rifle, flying directly at the Lieutenant's machine, cutter extended. She engages her mecha's thrusters and easily evades, flying backwards to let the Banner's considerable bulk sail past into space. The Vespulas, like what the other two scouts operate, are extremely fast. The Lieutenant deployed in such machines in skirmishes with Jovian insurgents and knows them well. The ISMX17 Provespa, what she pilots now, makes the older scouting mechas feel as awkward and toothless as the ancient training machine she learned to fly in back in pilot's academy.

"We have another one, sir, we're engaging!" This pilot demonstrates considerably more skill than the previous one, expertly maneauvering his thrusters to break and then turn in as little space as was possible. The signature coming off his machine, visible on her scans says Banner, like the last one, but seeing it up close, she can instantly tell that this one has been heavily modified. Layers of additional armour and reinforcement give the already boxy, humanoid shape a hulking appearance -- she has no doubt that failure to dodge the first attack would have resulted in her machine, prototype or not, being cut in half.

"Good luck, kid," Green says in her ear once again.

She quickly signals for her remaining squad member to circle up and attack the customised enemy from above, while she comes at them from the side, too fast to visually track, energised spike pulled back to kill him like she killed his comrade. This time, it doesn't work that way.

The enemy pilot moves fractionally in space, just enough to seize the remaining Vespula and hurl him directly into the Lieutenant's path. She's forced to pull up and abandon her attack, pulling up and circling back around for another pass. To her surprise, she receives an unfamiliar comms request, and accepts without thinking.

"I'm not a spoiled little rookie out on my first engagement," says the flat but nakedly angry voice of the enemy pilot -- a man -- in her ears. "I'm not going down so easily."

Gritting her teeth, the Lieutenant retorts: "All heretics will fall before the might of the true Emperor" and flies at him again. This time, he just barely blocks.

--

"Hir-- Sub Lieutenant Ito's engaging the enemy who killed Ensign Song," Anja reports, trying to keep the worry in her voice from becoming too obvious.

"I don't like having he and Perbeck fighting out there with no reliable intelligence." She looks at you again. "Scans, North?"

"The debris field is making things difficult, ma'am!" you report, apologetically. "It will be a moment!" Your fingers glide across your interface as fast as you can go, running the standard battery of tests and double checks to make sure that no bad intelligence gets passed on. Without accurate scans, navigation is crippled, weapons can't produce reliable firing solutions, active defences don't know what's simply a piece of scrap and what's a nuclear tipped warhead. You can tell that the confusion is already being felt by the entirety of the bridge.

On the screen showing Ito's point of view, the enemy is briefly visible -- a sleek, black and tan model sporting a similar tri-ocular design to the Vespulas, but with strange, experimental looking thrusters and a truly terrifying spike weapon encased in one arm. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Ito trading blows both with the remaining enemy scout, and with the unknown mecha, relying on his skill and his customised Banner's increased strength to make up for their capacity to fly circles around him. You don't blame Anja for being worried, he's one slip up from an untimely death.

The scan map is scattershot -- too many moving dots flagged as potential enemies to rely on or commit to any specific action. The captain doesn't look your way again, but as the seconds go by, you feel the tension mounting. "I have it, captain!" you announce, even as the finalised battle environment goes live on everyone else's displays. The collective sigh of relief is extremely short lived.

"Keel thrusters hard burn! Rotate us 30 degrees Starboard! Get us away from the station!" Andre's sharp voice snaps, and the helmsman hurries to comply. You get the familiar but alarming sensation in the pit of your stomach of the ship abruptly changing course. It's a little too late -- a faint, shuddering impact, like something heavy being dropped in the distance, can be felt even here in the depths of the hull.

"Small missile group!" a harried defence technician calls. "We shot most of them down, but we had to take a couple on the shields! We're down 30%! Drawing from power reserves now!" That process will, of course, be slow, possibly too slow to matter. Shields are invaluable, but energy intensive and limited, and it is much better for them to be saved for fast moving projectiles or even beam weapons that can't meaningfully be destroyed by point defence. It is not an immediately lethal hit, but it may well prove to be lethal in the long run, especially with how many enemies are suddenly around the ship:

While you were working on the scans, the enemy that had been hiding in the debris field has moved into hasty position. In addition to the two mechas Ito is still fighting out in the debris, there are six others headed in the direction of Phoebe from different directions, half of them standard 32 Banners, the other half the rarer 32b Banner Heavy Type. It was one of the latter that hit you a moment ago, its pilot taking a potshot as they race past on their way to their real target. On the positive side, you can see that Phoebe station's own 6 mecha are moving into position to block the enemy Banners, but on the negative, even more worrisome are the two, much larger signatures that indicated two objects of warship size.

"Singh class corvettes, badly placed!" And it's true, you see at once -- One is in attack position, its weapons targeting the ground facility on Phoebe and fully in range of the anti-space guns positioned on the moon. The other, though, while close enough to make use of its main weapons, is too far away to properly guard the first.

"We caught them before they were ready," Grayson says. "What good that will do. Do they have a full carrier out there somewhere?"

"The signal's faint, but it looks like it's only a Flower Class, sir" you offer.

"The interplanetary cradle attachment for a Flower Class is bulky enough they threw in a third hangar," Captain Andre says, explaining the enemy's numbers if they truly had come from Jupiter. "It just makes it handle like a nightmare. Li, what is Perbeck doing?"

"She says she was waiting for us to give her proper scan-uplink, ma'am," Anja says, after a second of listening. "Something about getting into position for a shot?"

"Give her to me," Andre says, warily.

The ship goes through another dramatic twist, the helmsman, authorised to evade at will in combat barring orders to hold position, is attempting to extricate the Rose from the worst of the fighting around the station. Whether you are going to stay or fight, your current position means you're drawing fire from the enemy mechas, as well as limiting the arc of fire of the anti-space guns on Phoebe itself. The ship's point defence blows a few missiles flying wide of the station.

"Yes, captain?" Lady Perbeck's voice cuts in across the main comm.

"The station isn't going to last," Andre says. And she's right -- one of the Lancers has already gone down, and the shields around the Lunar facility are visibly ragged and wavering from the bombardment the two corvettes are unleashing. The station isn't much better. "We're leaving at the soonest possible opportunity. Phoebe will hopefully transmit a warning to highcomm, but our orders are not to die defending a doomed station."

"If we try to flee now, we'll be exposing ourselves to fire from the nearest corvette," Perbeck points out. "Right now you're mostly shielded from it by the station's defensive shroud. That's not going to last long, though, and the main guns on that class are oversized. We'd do better to deal with it while it's focusing on the lunar facility."

Captain Andre perses her lips for a moment or two, examining the map. "They're taking fire from the AS guns already -- Singhs are tough little bastards, though. I don't want to get into a prolonged exchange."

"I can assist," Perbeck says, confidently. "I'm not piloting this thing for nothing."

"You're certain?" Andre does not ask it doubtfully, so much as warningly. This plan going wrong may make the Rose suddenly become a major target.

"As long as the scan data you're feeding me is good, I can make the shot," Perbeck agrees.

You feel a sudden, irrational twist of anxiety in your stomach. You're confident at your job, of course, and remaining cool and poised under pressure is one of your most admirable attributes as an officer. But this is your first real life and death engagement, and the first time so much has ridden on your scan map being plotted properly.

"Fine, then. But make sure you and Ito are back here when it's time to leave. Mazlo, are you keeping Phoebe briefed on what we're doing?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, pausing in his hushed conversation with station control to address her. "They're a little occupied, though."

--

"Five years. Five years at this post!" The station's shield integrity alarm is blaring throughout the room, accompanied by flashing red lights. In contrast to the controlled intensity of the Rose's bridge, the CiC of Phoebe Station gives the impression of an ant's nest that someone has just pitched a rock into. Aids rush in and out of the room, officers scramble to multiple stations. Now that the station's outdated scan interpretation software has finally analysed the considerable amount of local data, and the enemy's numbers and position can be seen, that sense has only mounted.

"Five years, and nothing. How am I supposed to remain vigilant for that long when there's nothing? Why would the usurper scum even come here, of all places?" Lord Cadorna's voice is filled with more rage than fear as he frantically hammers out a message, fingers dancing over his workstation at a rate not at all slowed by his continued monologue, or by his occasional digressions into barked orders. "It's not to be born! What is the status on the evacuation?"

"Civilian shuttles are primed to go, sir, but we can't guarantee their safety if they launch into this!" the voice of his assistant calls, from over his shoulder at her own workstation. The command centre of the station is simply that of a warship, scaled up -- the same imperial delta, but with multiple tiers and far, far more screens.

"Can we damn well guarantee their safety here?" he snaps. The stations' civilian population -- primarily service workers with the families of a few officers on longer rotation -- is small, but his first responsibility nonetheless. This watchpost was never truly expected to come under direct attack, barring the worst case scenario of a large scale incursion overtaking the higher value facilities in the sub-system beforehand, at which point it would be all over anyway. They have shields of course, and a few token guns, but he can already tell that they'll be lucky to black the enemy's eye before going down. "Have non-essential crew evacuate as well," he adds.

There's a brief silence around the room, a brief stillness. Almost everyone present is considered essential to the moment to moment running of the station, at least as the person currently manning their particular station. His assistant breaks the silence, voice brittle. "It's… been a pleasure, sir," she says.

"Don't lie," Cadorna says, bluntly. "It's unbecoming." A ragged, hysterical laugh goes around the room, and everyone moves back into motion, even as the aids and a few of the officers present begin to file out their designated emergency exits. Everyone is panicking, he assumes, on the inside, but he takes a small amount of pride in their being able to hold it together visibly, at least.

The station rumbles again, as more heavy mecha ordinance makes it to the shields. A hardened military station would have multiple shield frequencies set up redundantly. It would have heavy armaments, three times the number of mecha available. This isn't a hardened military station, however. It's one good shot from a ship calibre weapon from a hull rupture. "And that upjumped daughter of an ore miner or whatever she is, flying in here and telling me how to run my own command with that flat look of hers. Damn it all if she wasn't right."

"The lunar facility's shields are near failure, sir, but they're broadcasting the signal to highcomm now!" his assistant's voice has a strong note of relief now. That much, at least, they haven't failed in.

"Send the data that Commander Andre sent us," Cadorna says.

"Sir?"

"Let highcomm make sense of it," he growls. "Assuming we don't all get blown up before it's fully transferred. Why hasn't she slunk off yet in that glorified scouting ship?" he demands.

"The Titanium Rose still has pilots deployed!" a frightened voice calls out, from nearby. The control officer in communication with the reconnaissance ship. "And they are attempting to provide limited support before retreating!"

"Fat lot of good that's going to do anyone," Cadorna says. Then, pausing for a slight moment, he adds: "request transport for at least one of the lifeboat shuttles. That ship has a marginally higher chance of getting out of this intact than they do on their own." The shuttles can, of course, make their way to safety, under ideal conditions. Ideal conditions do not include being shot down by enemy mecha.

"Yes, sir!"

Cadorna presses something on his workstation, and opens up a new feed. "Captain," he says. "You're still in one piece?"

"No!" a harried voice snaps. "I'm not. But I'm flying. And down two men. Is this important?" The captain of the station's mecha squad and security forces -- technically understaffed and underequipped for what someone of his rank should be commanding -- is displaying none of his usual calm courtesy. For once, Cadorna feels no urge to yell at someone for an insufficiently respectful tone.

"We're evacuating all civilians and strictly non-essential personnel," Cadorna says. "And we're trying to transmit important data to highcomm. You need to provide interference for as long as you can."

The captain gives out a long, piercing laugh that makes Cadorna wince. "Are you going to be on the first shuttle, then?" he asks.

It shouldn't sting, but somehow, here at the undistinguished end of a lacklustre career, it does. "No, captain," Cadorna says stiffly. "I will be here, as will a skeleton crew to oversee the evacuation, man defences, and provide you with CiC support for as long as we can."

"Down with the ship, then?" The captain laughs again, and Cadorna's skin crawls.

"Down with the ship," he agrees, grimly.

--

The ISM16 Huntress is not a common sight on the battlefield. It performed exceptionally well during the testing phases, and was rapidly approved for a limited production run, but there, it hit several snags. The pilot who conducted the prototype tests was selected for extraordinary reaction time, aim and spatial awareness in order to compensate for the challenges inherent in such an ambitious design, and this has turned out to be its own sort of problem.

A mecha sporting as its main weapon a railgun nearly the full length of its body, a piece of a calibre not conventionally issued to anything short of a small warship, and perhaps for good reason. Managing such a weapon in space requires highly sensitive and powerful thrusters, enabling a sufficiently skilled pilot extreme maneuverability, but leaving most pilots to careen helplessly through space for long seconds after every shot, in addition to the necessary sacrifices in armour and durability that had to be accepted for an already costly model. And even assuming one has a pilot who is physically capable of operating the mecha to its true potential, there is the harder question of whether or not such a person should. All mecha sized weaponry is dangerous, and can cause tragic collateral damage, but there is a world of difference between a standard anti-mecha rifle and a fully realised rail cannon. A single careless shot is capable of destroying allied mecha or even ships or, worst of all, puncturing civilian habitats. And in space, of course, should the shot in question ever miss, the projectile -- tiny, but with the stored kinetic energy of a large bomb -- it will simply keep going until it does hit something. It has been determined that a pilot must pass a rigorous battery of aptitude and personality tests before even being issued such a machine on even a trial basis, and the Huntress has never seen true mass production as a result.

For Lady Perbeck, operating the Huntress is as simple as breathing. She expertly weaves around the enemy mecha, warding it off with a brief burst of fire from its light, secondary weapon, before powering up the thrusters to zip away. The Banner in question is not, currently, her target.

"Ito, are you able to come back toward the ship?" she asks, speaking into her radio even as her eyes stay focused on the scan map with laser like intensity. "We're going to have to run."

"I'll try, ma'am." He's clearly not happy about the idea, but not to the degree that he'll do something stupid. "I'm bringing Song back with me." Or, maybe, he will.

"Ensign Song is dead, Ito," she points out, unnecessarily.

"Yes, ma'am," he confirms, not sounding at all like someone fighting for his life against two more agile mecha.

"And if you did retrieve her body, we'd give her a spacer burial anyway, as per regulations," Perbeck points out further. Her vantage point is close, flagged on the map as the optimal location for what she's about to attempt. The Singh Class corvette, longer and sleeker than the familiar shape of the Rose, is attempting to limit its exposure to the still-functional anti-space guns, which are opting to hammer the enemy ship over the enemy mecha, mixed in as they are with the station's own forces. The second Singh is still in the process of moving into position, from an entirely different angle.

"Yes, ma'am," he agrees again, not sounding at all like her comments have reduced his desire to rescue what was left of a comrade who had, after all, disliked him intensely.

Perbeck sighs. "Just don't get blown up yourself. I'm already writing to one family once we're out of this."

"Lady Perbeck, we are nearly in position, do you confirm?" Ensign Li, the chipper Titan mecha control officer, sounds uncharacteristically grim. Combat can do that.

"I'm in position now," Perbeck says, adjusting thrust so that she's at a relative stop to the corvette she's targeting. Its primary weapons fire in rhythm, even as its shields flare again and again from the AS guns, with the foreground the violent melee of mechas clashing. She's impressed by the fight that the Phoebe garrison is putting up, but they're clearly outclassed. The Lancers look spindly and weak against the bulkier Banners, and their thruster technology is primitive enough that that doesn't even translate into faster maneuvering.

The Huntress's main weapon, folded up against its back, snaps down into place, joints locking and interior environment sealing with a hiss that's lost in the vacuum of space. She brings up the scan data, fed to her by the connection with the Titanium Rose. Another issue with the Huntress's main weapon -- even with its scan technology significantly improved over what most mecha, even much newer ones, contain, it's still not quite beefy enough to fire a gun this powerful in such a chaotic environment. The computer quickly calibrates the shot, with Perbeck giving the results an instinctive nudge or two. They need to take into account the trajectory not only of the target, but of the station and of every one of the mechas darting around. Even if she hits an enemy, that could mean a loss in velocity that ruins everything.

"We're in position, ma'am," Li's voice says. Sure enough, the Rose is rolling out of the shadow of Phoebe Station, its main weapons primed to fire. The corvette's shields flare even more, suddenly very close to the verge of collapse. From her cockpit, Perbeck can feel the shudder of the huntress's own main weapon priming, even as the corvette orientates itself to return fire on the Rose. A few rifle rounds whip past the general proximity of the Huntress -- one of the enemy mecha pilots appears to have taken note of her and what she's doing, but their accuracy at this distance leaves much to be desired. Ignoring the incoming fire, Perbeck finalises the trajectory, and pulls the trigger.

--

"Evade, evade, evade!" Andre shouts, and with good reason -- when the corvette's main weapons are brought to bear against you, the shot punches through the Rose's shields, compromised as they were by the earlier hit. If the shot had been taken directly, instead of glancingly, the damage would have been catastrophic. As it is, the bridge is filled with the shriek of alarms and the blare of emergency lights, and you can physically feel a jolting rumble pass through the ship, much closer than the previous ones.

"Damage to the upper spinal quadrant! Section sealed, ma'am!"

"Working on getting shields partially restored, ma'am!"

"Casualties?" she demands.

"No word yet!"

"Grayson, Find out what we've lost and take care of things. I do not want to survive this only to die in a ship fire," Andre doesn't even look at her first officer, or acknowledge his affirmative, but for good reason. Even as the Corvette turns to try and track the Rose's faster movement, Perbeck takes her shot. The corvette's shields, barely holding from the AS guns and the hit they've just taken from The Rose, give out completely under the impact, and the projectile from Perbeck's shot strikes the ship in its thinnest section, visibly breaching the hull and sending a spray of miscellaneous debris jetting out into space. You find yourself hoping, somehow, that if any of it is human, that they're already dead, enemy or not. The corvette's problems aren't over yet. Phoebe's AS guns continue to fire away for nearly a minute longer, before the lunar facility's shields finally fail, and a bombing run from one of the Banner Heavies silences them forever. The corvette's own shields don't come back online. It doesn't blow apart, but it's a very near thing.

"Lady Perbeck and Sub Lieutenant Ito are both on their way back!" Anja says, sounding almost giddy with relief.

"We have a lifeboat shuttle requesting permission to dock with us, ma'am," Mazlo adds. Sure enough, Phoebe Station, clearly as doomed as the lunar facility, is ejecting a small swarm of shuttles, most going into hard burn to put as much distance between them and the battle as possible. Already, some are taking fire, intentional or not.

"If they can get here in time, let them on," Andre says. "But we are leaving as soon as Ito and Perbeck are back here. The enemy mechas aren't going to take that lying down."

"Three friendly mechas approaching!" you announce. Then, correct yourself "Two, sorry: Sub Lieutenant Ito is towing Ensign Song's behind him. They're being pursued!" Behind the two of them, the enemy, including the two remaining enemy mecha's Ito has been holding off all this time, are hot on their heels, trading weapons fire with your two surviving pilots. They finally, mercifully make it just as the remaining corvette fires a shot into Phoebe station that blasts a large chunk out of its habitat ring. Another, much larger burst of atmosphere and debris, and the entire ring splits open like a tin can.

"We're leaving. Full acceleration, away from here!" Andre orders. The acceleration from the engines is so sudden and dramatic that you know it's unsafe, but far better than the alternative. Even with the lead you have on the other corvette, you know that this is not going to be an effortless escape. Still, though, with the last of the Phoebe garrison still valiantly running interference, you somehow make it out of the danger zone.

At what cost, though?

--

OoC: This was our first batte, and honestly, it went significantly better than I anticipated. When selecting Amani's skillset, you chose precisely the one that was going to be immediately useful and give you some warning of the enemy ambush, allowing the ship to take minimal damages while heavily damaging one of the enemy ships, allowing Phoebe Station time to at least attempt evacuation, and possibly allowing them to transmit the data in full to high command. Things would have played out quite differently with different approach to gaining accurate scan data, but that was always a situation with trade offs rather than a clear best solution.

Your choice now, and one you'll be presented with after every ship battle, is to decide as players how things shook up in the aftermath here, in terms of the immediate consequences of the battle, before things return more directly to Amani's perspective and you decide what she does next.

Choose two. Votes will be counted as a set.

[ ] The damages to the Titanium Rose did not result in loss of crew life
[ ] The battle did not result in significant expenditure of the Titanium Rose's finite resources
[ ] Most of the civilians and crew fleeing from Phoebe station made it out unscathed
[ ] Phoebe's communications facility managed to transmit all of the data you found to high command before it was destroyed

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

[x] Phoebe's communications facility managed to transmit all of the data you found to high command before it was destroyed
[x] Most of the civilians and crew fleeing from Phoebe station made it out unscathed
Number of voters: 28

[x] The battle did not result in significant expenditure of the Titanium Rose's finite resources
[x] Most of the civilians and crew fleeing from Phoebe station made it out unscathed
Number of voters: 9

[x] Phoebe's communications facility managed to transmit all of the data you found to high command before it was destroyed
[x] The battle did not result in significant expenditure of the Titanium Rose's finite resources
Number of voters: 5

[x] The damages to the Titanium Rose did not result in loss of crew life
[x] Phoebe's communications facility managed to transmit all of the data you found to high command before it was destroyed
Number of voters: 2

[x] The battle did not result in significant expenditure of the Titanium Rose's finite resources
[x] Most of the civilians and crew fleeing from Phoebe station made it out unscathed
Number of voters: 1

"How much have we lost?"

"About one third total capacity, ma'am." The LS engineer's voice on the other end of the internal comm line makes Captain Andre's shoulders visibly slump, and she seems to allow herself to deflate for a short moment, closing her eyes and massaging her temple with one hand. You remember, abruptly, that she has had all of four hours sleep in the past 24 hours. "Ma'am?" She opens her eyes again at the tech's prompting, glancing around the bridge at all of you, her assembled staff all looking at her with some variation on dismay or outright horror.

She draws herself back up, putting a trace of weary steel back into her narrow shoulders, and asks: "How does this affect things?"

"It isn't good, ma'am. I'm looking at the tank now, and the readout was correct. We picked up a lot of extra lungs from those shuttles. We're looking at our effective travel range cut in half. And that's with minimal activity."

Costly or not, Lady Perbeck's improvised plan had the effect of buying a lot of time for the evacuating shuttles to put distance between themselves and the battlefield, and not one, but two managed to dock with the Rose before it had accelerated too much for them to catch up. You saw more than one of the lifeboat shuttles take damage or rupture from battle debris or stray fire, but, once the Rose was out of range and the other enemies were neutralised, the enemy had been far more concerned with attempting to assist the heavily damaged corvette you'd left behind than in trying to chase down unarmed escape shuttles. Their target had always been the listening post on Phoebe, not the people stationed there. It does mean, however, that the ship is stretching its reduced oxygen reserves dangerously thin.

"Minimal activity, when we're flying with a hole in my ship covered up by a bandaid," Andre says, clearly annoyed. Although the way she glares into the middle distance, it's clear she's not mad at the tech in question. "That's not possible."

"We're doing what we can, ma'am," the life support tech says again, sounding a touch defensive.

"I don't expect otherwise," Andre says. "Keep me informed of any new developments."

"Yes, ma'am!"

She cuts the connection, and turns her attention to First Officer Grayson, who has just glided back into the bridge. "Do we have an accurate casualty count yet?" she asks.

"We lost five," Grayson says. "Spacers Chang, Less and Tanner were caught in the depressurised department and suffocated before the breach could be sealed. A fluke shot entered the mecha bay as well, when the crew was attempted to get Perbeck and Ito back inside. Mechanical specialists Garcia and West were killed, but damages weren't critical."

"And Song makes six," Andre says. There's a weighty silence in the bridge as she mulls this over. Eventually, she breaks it, and asks: "What's our situation with the lifeboats we took on?"

"One was full of civilians," Grayson says. "Service workers, and the families of some officers. We have plenty of space for them, if nothing else." The Rose had, after all, been a little short-handed even before people started dying. "The other was a military escape pod. All hands survived on both, with only minor injuries. Whiplash and the like."

"I don't suppose anyone on the second pod is qualified to fill in for our missing crew?" Andrew asks, with clear reluctance. It's responsible, necessary even, but it feels a little callous, so soon after their deaths were reported.

"All of them were with Phoebe Station security," Grayson says, shaking his head. "Station-side security. Marines."

"... understood, Grayson," the captain responds. "I'll speak with their commander when the time allows." Her eyes flick over to you, where you're still sitting at your workstation, monitoring your incoming scan data for any sign of enemy pursuit or other abnormalities. You've picked up nothing of particular interest since the shuttles, and the large communication's burst from Phoebe right before the observation post was bombed into decompressed rubble. Large enough that Mazlo, carefully not looking at you or mentioning you in any way, had surmised that they had likely sent a copy of the strange signal to high command. That, at least, was good news.

So far, you've seen nothing. There has been no indication, so far, that your performance with the scans in the battle has been deemed unacceptable. You performed your duties adequately, your actions textbook -- nothing that could result in a reprimand, certainly, if not exactly setting yourself up for a commendation. You're aware of this, and you expect your report, which you will write and pass on to Mazlo, will reveal no glaring mistakes on your part. You do find yourself wondering if, perhaps, another course of action may have resulted in a better outcome for the ship. If there was some more novel approach that you could have taken. You're confident enough in your own abilities to think that you would have been able to make any of them work, but ultimately, the risks involved were too great to take on your own prerogative. You respond to Andre's gaise by turning to face her, posture straight and alert.

"How long has it been since we've had sign of enemy activity on scan?" Andre asks. You would, of course, have reported any such activity, but it is the kind of thing that it doesn't hurt to verify in a position like the one you find yourselves in.

"Five hours, ma'am," you say. The weight of that time -- the tense minutes that had crept by in seeming perpetuity. You're exhausted and hungry, and you can tell that the men and women around you feel the same fatigue.

She considers this. "Grayson, bring us down to level 2 battle readiness," she says. "And, if nothing else happens in the next few hours, level 3."

"Yes, ma'am," Grayson agrees, and the red lights along the walls that give the bridge a much more urgent glow soften to a less glaringly alarming yellow. He glances around the room, seeing the same fatigue in you and all the others that you do, if perhaps a little more acutely, given the responsibilities of command. "I can begin organising a relief shift as well."

"Very good," Andre says. "We can't exactly fly a ship if everyone's dropping dead from exhaustion." She's turned away from him, studying a readout on the large screen, and so doesn't see the slightly pained expression that the First Officer shoots her. You, and presumably Grayson, do not get the impression that the captain includes herself in that statement. "We're going to need to renew our air supply before we do anything else. That's going to be a costly detour."

"I'll have a list of options within our range at your station shortly, ma'am," the ship's navigator says, in her frustratingly quiet voice.

Andre nods fractionally. "See that you do."

--

"Well, we're not dead," Anja says. "There's that." The two of you are finally drifting your way through the main shaft. Her tone is slightly ironic, but it also reflects the general vibe you feel throughout the ship. Relief at coming away as unscathed as most of you did, but nonetheless rattled by the violence and the loss of life. The illusion of safety you all share here in the Saturn system being abruptly, harshly gone.

"Some of us are," you reply, perhaps a little more primly than you intend.

"And if that shot had been angled a few degrees differently, we'd all be dead," Anja says, with a mildly derisive note in her voice. "Count your blessings, North. It's sad we lost anyone, but we're allowed to be happy that we didn't blow up or decompress."

"It… still feels a little ghoulish," you say, stiffly. "I wasn't trying to chastise you. Why are we going up this way?"

Anja catches one of the handholds in the shaft long enough to turn herself around to face you, gliding backwards, and presumably relying on you to help prevent any mid-air collisions. "I wanted to go past the mecha bay," she admits.

"To check on Sub Lieutenant Ito?" you ask, voice softening.

"To murder him for fighting off two enemies on his own over retrieving a body," Anja corrects. She's trying to sound angry, but there's a faint quavering note in her voice as well. you don't know all the details of their past together, but they certainly behave like real family. You know enough about losing a sibling yourself that you can relate, and so don't make an objection to the detour. However much you might want to go straight to a much needed shower.

The shafts are busy with overworked spacers and technicians, their salutes to you and Anja so perfunctory that they don't even stop to deliver them. Under the circumstances, you let most of it slide, although normally you're want to gently correct such slips. They're doing it because they have urgent work to do, not out of laziness or disrespect, after all. Still, one spacer is so lax about it that you make a point of catching his eye meaningfully as you pass, until he hastily gives a better one. Anja seems to privately find this unaccountably funny.

Even if you hadn't been making your roundabout trip to go past the mecha deck -- located near the very top, rear section of the ship -- your well memorised commute would need to be adjusted. Part of the ship is still closed off from the battle damage, and so in the end, Anja's detour isn't costing you too much extra time. The mecha deck consists chiefly of a three mecha hangar, with accompanying facilities to keep the machines at combat readiness, and adjoining space to house the mecha squad's pilots and support personnel, greatly reducing the amount of time it takes a pilot to go from their bed to their cockpit in an emergency. Although it's certainly not strange for officers from elsewhere on the ship to pass through the deck, you feel conspicuous today. If the mood is confused and slightly crazed in the rest of the ship, this entire deck has a distinctly funeral air to it. Evidently, the mecha crews are taking their own losses particularly hard.

Activity, predictably, is concentrated around the hangar. By necessity, it's an unusually large space for zero gravity. A boxlike chamber, longer than it is wide, with the three giant mecha bays spaced out along its length, each sporting a series of huge, armoured hatches that serve as mecha sized airlocks. From your vantage point in the shaft beside the hangar, you can see maintenance workers expertly navigating the empty void in the centre of the room, criss-crossing it in all directions, somehow without major incident or collision. The maintenance workers are swarming around the three gigantic metal figures resting in the mecha bays:

The familiar, boxy shape of Ito's Banner sits in the middle, its singular, main ocular camera dull and lifeless, with several specialists busy doing something to its main thrusters. Banners are always broad-shouldered and thick-torsoed, built as they are with pilot survivability in mind. Ito's unit, with its modified limbs and layers of additional plate, takes this to an even further extreme. To the left, in Bay 01, Perbeck's Huntress seems almost like the Banner's slight, unassuming younger brother. More streamlined and narrow, with minimal armour, even if its thrusters are clearly more sophisticated, and its own ocular camera is larger and more powerful. The illusion of relative harmlessness is thoroughly ruined by the black, sinister length of the Huntress's linear rail cannon.

In Bay 03, to the right of Ito's Banner, rests Song's. The ruined, crushed cockpit has been pried open, and the machine rests limply in its cradle. You consciously try not to look too closely, but it's impossible not to notice the dark stains within the mangled interior of the cockpit. Song's remains, at least, have already been removed.

"Hiro!"

Anja spots Ito standing near the hatch to the hangar, talking with an older, grave-faced woman. He starts at hearing his first name, but relaxes upon seeing Anja. He turns toward her, grinning with open relief. "Good to see you in one piece too," he says.

"I'm fine," she replies, bringing herself to a stop in the hatch, and crossing her arms to give him a disapproving look. "I'm not the one who flew off on my own straight into the enemy, before we even had any proper scan data."

He only spends a moment or two looking taken aback by this. "I was following orders," he says, not looking somewhat repentant.

"You were ordered to assist Song, not avenge her," Anja counters, floating close enough to glare directly in his face.

"It worked out," he says, posture going a little stiff. "For us, anyway."

You glance around the general area, at the people surrounding them. There's a slight awkwardness on display, and you wonder, dimly, if his insistence on bringing back Song's body and damaged machina may have been a contributing factor to the accident that resulted in two of the fellows' lives being lost. The mechanical chief -- the older woman who Ito had been talking to, and who he had earlier professed an unlikely desire to marry, looks on with an unreadably impassive expression.

"Li, is there a reason you're accosting my pilot?" came a familiar, coldly aristocratic voice.

Anja glances between Ito and Lady Pebeck, who has just floated within earshot, expedience with an officer who clearly has less patience than the likes of First Officer Grayson clearly warring with a more emotional impulse. The latter wins out. "I'm accosting him because he's an idiot," she says. Before hastily adding, a split second later, "... ma'am."

Perbeck narrows her eyes at Anja for a moment, as if displeased by her lack of decorum, but then looks back at her unsmiling, and at the plainly mortified Ito, before saying, "Granted." Ito splutters slightly in stifled shock, if not mild outrage. She continues: "However, you are creating a disturbance in my hangar. Accost him later if you must. And more quietly."

"... yes, ma'am," Anja agrees, shoulders slumping a little. She pushes herself backwards into the shaft, snapping an apologetic salute as she does so.

Perbeck's eyes land on you, and you find the stare a bit nerve racking, before she nods, and says, "Good work on giving us some warning, North."

You try not to register too much surprise, instead, returning the nod, and offering a salute of your own. "Thank you, ma'am." You're about to leave with Anja, when a surprisingly timid voice catches your attention.

"Ma'am?" a slight young man, wearing a mecha crew jumpsuit with a specialist patch, drifts into view, catching himself against the wall above the hatch you're all standing near, oriented perpendicular to you all. "Ma'am, I'm… trying my best, but…"

Perbeck lets out an explosive sigh, which makes the specialist flinch visibly. She looks more annoyed by that reaction than anything. "You can't fix the problem, can you?"

He shakes his head. "I know that Garcia said she'd figured it out, and she told me what she was going to do… but all I can do is reset the system. The scan settings keep going wrong at startup -- I'm not… as good with the software as she was." A flash of grief crosses his features -- regret that clearly goes beyond simply missing the lost specialist's expertise.

Perbeck pinches the bridge of her nose. "So, I suppose I'll just have to continue manually recalibrating every time I need to launch. Lovely."

"I apologise, ma'am!" the young man said, near panic.

"Yes, I know you do," she says, without expressing anything like the anger that the specialist seems to expect. "I'm sure you have other duties you could be attentending to outside of my scan troubles."

"Yes, ma'am!" the specialist says.

"Why do I ever let those idiots from headquarters do these firmware updates?" Perbeck mutters, glaring up at her huntress with some displeasure.

You hesitate. The ISM16 Huntress is one of the older active serving models -- its basic performance was always high enough, and its role specific enough, that so far the few in use haven't been entirely phased out, unlike the Lancer, which has been largely consigned to rear guard duty for good reason, as the skirmish around Phoebe clearly demonstrated. But that age is something that is still likely going to show itself in terms of onboard software, specifically with something like scans, where the mecha's systems need to be able to integrate with modern warship software suites. You're not surprised that this is creating problems, and if it really is entirely software…

"There's… a possibility I could help, ma'am," you say. Scans are a mature technology, regardless of the small leaps in progress that get made now and again, and the primary difference between ship scans and mecha scans is scale. You're not intimately familiar with every onboard system of the Huntress, certainly, but you're confident you could at least make it display a scan readout.

Perbeck looks at you again, surprised, then thoughtful. "... supervised, perhaps," she allows, which is a given. She shrugs. "We're short-handed in that area now, and I'll hardly turn down the help, if you can actually do something. When you can be spared from your regular duties, of course.."

You nod, grateful that the suggestion wasn't met with offence or derision, at the very least. Such issues are typically time consuming, but you've dealt with similar software integration issues before. "I'll try to find the time, ma'am,' you promise.

--

"I can't believe you just volunteered yourself for more work," Anja says, hanging her jacket up in the locker next to yours. "After all this!" There was a lineup for the women's officer showers when you arrived, but it's moving quickly. Showers in space are not long, and the ship has enough units to do several people at once. The shower room is sparse, in austere white tile, clothes lockers on one end, shower units on the other, a row of mirrors in between.

"It's important to the ship's combat readiness," you tell her, unflustered. "And, I'll have to find time to do it, first." Your own jacket is already stowed away perfectly, without so much as a crease. You're undoing your shirt, when Anja suddenly points toward you, indicating the small, black box that's hanging there.

"What is that, anyway? You always have it," she comments.

You pause, suddenly uncertain. It isn't quite a secret, necessarily. But it's very personal, and not information you've simply been volunteering on your own. It's a long, conspicuous moment before you decide what to say.

"It's… a short range tracker and comm link," you admit.

Anja frowns, confused. "Like… what you put on kids' school bags?"

"Yes, exactly that." You're relieved at how quickly she hit on it, although you have resumed your shower preparations -- it wouldn't do to hold up the line. "My mother gave this to me when I was young. And the other half to my older sister."

"You… have a sister?" Anja looks surprised. "You've never mentioned her before."

"I did," you allow, cautiously.

Understanding comes across Anja's face, and she looks abruptly apologetic. "So you just… kept wearing it?" she asks, cautiously.

"She went away to school, before the civil war," you say, not quite looking at Anja. "I made her take the other half with her to school, even though I was old enough that mother didn't make her mind me nearly as often anymore." You steal a glance back at her, even as you slide the black box back over your head, and lock it in the small item's box within the locker, to keep it from drifting into the walls. "I know it's silly."

Anja shakes her head. "I wasn't going to call it silly," she says.

The shower is extremely welcome, a short time later. It's not nearly as nice as an in-gravity one -- the unit is a completely enclosed cylindre, floating globules of water being suctioned away almost as soon as they have a chance to gather on your skin. But while it lasts, the water is warm, and you can forget about everything for a long while.

--

The HDMS Amaranth, mecha deck

"You can come out of there anytime, you know, kid."

Commander Green's gently amused tone abruptly snaps the lieutenant back to wakefulness. She attempts to straighten to snap out a salute, but only ends up looking silly, entwined as she is in her cockpit's restraints. "Sir!" she says, hurriedly disentangling herself, and pushing up out of the cockpit. "I was only resting my eyes!"

"You have a bunk for that," he notes, and a passing mechanical specialist plainly tries his best not to laugh. Green, out of his pilot's suit and back into his uniform once again, floats his way up to the Provespa's cockpit, catching the edge of it, so that he can look down at his pilot with light exasperation. "Why are you even still here?" he asks.

"I was… going through some calibrations and performance checks," the lieutenant admits, complexion too dark to flush.

"... and you fell asleep," Green finishes, before actually laughing out loud. Behind him, hangar two of the Amaranth is busy with activity, mainly centred around the urgent repairs needed for the heavily damaged Vespula. The scouting squad had gotten off lightly, comparatively. When he finishes laughing, much to the lieutenant's quiet indignation, he adds, more seriously, "The enemy's gone for now, we've done what we can for Tang and that glorified derelict of hers. Wash up, eat something, and get some sleep, kid."

"Is that an order, sir?" the lieutenant asks, finally pushing herself up from the cockpit.

"Yes, Lieutenant North, in fact it is." His jocular mannerism doesn't drop, but long experience has taught the Lieutenant when it's concealing commander Green being deadly serious.

She sighs. "Yes, sir," she says, saluting smartly in spite of her annoyance.

"Oh, don't look like that," Green says, a broad grin coming over his chiseled features. "You're no use to me dead in space from exhaustion. We're on route again tomorrow -- Captain's orders. And with any luck, you'll have that nice reunion with that traitor mother of yours you've been looking forward to for so long."

She does smile at that, although it would not precisely be described as a happy smile. "Yes sir," she agrees. Some things are worth the wait.

--

There is a substantial period of time after the first battle where the ship is simply in transit, conducting what repairs can be managed on the move. You're very busy, as is everyone else, but you're not working all the time. Your downtime is a resource to use wisely when you can -- remember that doing extra tasks can have additional benefits down the road and impress superiors, but that if you don't take at least a few moments to relax or socialise, you'll burn yourself out, and miss out on opportunities to grow closer to your shipmates.

You have three units of downtime to spend for the next update. You may choose as many options as you can afford.

[ ] Spend time with Anja (one downtime)
[ ] Get to know Ito (one downtime)
[ ] Volunteer to help the refugees settle in to their temporary housing (one downtime)
[ ] Complete the initial analysis on the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (one downtime)
[ ] Help to completely eliminate the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (two downtime)

 

[Gazetteer]

Spoiler: Results

[X] Spend time with Anja (one downtime)
Help to completely eliminate the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (two downtime)
Number of voters: 24

Volunteer to help the refugees settle in to their temporary housing (one downtime)
Help to completely eliminate the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (two downtime)
Number of voters: 12

Spend time with Anja (one downtime)
Volunteer to help the refugees settle in to their temporary housing (one downtime)
Complete the initial analysis on the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (one downtime)
Number of voters: 4

Complete the initial analysis on the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (one downtime)
Get to know Ito (one downtime)
Volunteer to help the refugees settle in to their temporary housing (one downtime)
Number of voters: 3

Help to completely eliminate the annoyance with Perbeck's scans (two downtime)
Number of voters: 1

A spacer's funeral is not altogether glamourous. In the old days, bodies might simply be dumped out of the airlock, left to drift out among the stars. Space is big, after all. Unfortunately, the space around the planets that humans live on and in the orbit of is, relatively speaking, small. Bodies pile up over time, among the other space junk, and the practise swiftly loses its romanticism when you start finding decompressed corpses tangled up with the remains of old satellites and waste containers.

The six body bags are laid out in a row on in the main cargo bay, held fast to the deck by adhesive on the underside of the bags. The cargo bay is the only space on the ship large enough to comfortably house the entire crew assembled, and also, more practically, close to the cold storage lockers that Song, the two specialists and the three spacers have been stored. It's still a much longer space than it is across, however, much like the mecha deck, and the relative vastness of the chamber compared to the tight confines of the rest of the ship diminishes greatly while you're floating shoulder to shoulder with other junior officers, wedged in between them and the racks of labelled storage boxes. Regulations strictly stipulate a line or a circle a respectful distance from the bodies, forbidding the use of the more immediately practical "closter". The entire crew needs to stay on the same horizontal plane, rather than using the space above the bodies. The end result looks terribly impressive, so long as no one loses their grip on their handhold and drifts into anyone else, but is quite uncomfortable.

"... honour these brave soldiers who have given everything in defence of the empire," Captain Andre is intoning, reciting the words completely from memory with sad familiarity. "We will now have a moment of silence to remember the fallen." What little human noise was in the chamber fades away to an uncomfortable, heavy quiet, broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical sounds of the ship. It's a common myth that space is quiet -- in reality, true silence means that something that is supposed to be keeping you alive has failed.

When the moment ends, the mournful version of the Imperial anthem plays over the speakers, and Grayson drifts over to activate the body bags, one by one, large hands carefully manipulating the control panel at the foot of each. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible shudder from each, and the entire bag seems to shrink and contract, the shrouded form inside gradually disappearing until all that's left of each is a small, black rectangle, each displaying a name, a rank, a number and a date of death. A combination of close range molecular disruption technology, and a more powerful version of the same smart fabric used in your uniform. In truth, all that's left is the fabric. The body inside is entirely gone.

You can see Ito's face on the face side of the circle. There's no sense of levity or brashness about him now, only a solemn, blank expression you've never seen on his face before. He would have known three of the deceased, but his eyes are fixed pointedly on one of them: the black rectangle reading "Soo-ah Song." You don't know him well enough to take too good of a guess at what he's feeling. He and Ensign Song didn't get along -- she resented his seniority, his unit's unorthodox alterations, disliked him in a way that it was impossible not to notice, even at a distance.

One supposes, though, that that doesn't necessarily make a difference in the end, when you're ordered to go help someone, but you're ultimately too slow.

--

"And this is our best bet, you think?"

"Yes, ma'am," the navigator says, adjusting her glasses nervously. Rather than sitting at her own workstation, she's hovering in the air beside the captain's, interface-gloved hand indicating something on the captain's private display. "Quartermaster Daren has experience with the people there, and says that they're not quite criminals. Mostly just common Saturnians living out here and servicing long range ships."

"Not quite criminals," Captain Andre says, a little dryly. She quirks a faint, bitter smile, the closest you've ever seen to mirth from her. "Fleeing to a Shadow Ring space station so that we don't all choke and die," she says. "Not precisely the navy's finest moment." The bridge is back down to a more typical staffing situation, with only a handful of staff serving on any given shift, barring another enemy sighting. But things haven't quite returned to their former monotony, either. The tension in the air was only partially alleviated by the funeral, and the universal anxiety now, that you will all arrive at your next destination only to find that the enemy has launched a full scale invasion while you were enroute, is hard to shake.

"The nearest naval destination is farther away, ma'am," the navigator says, looking concerned. "And the other options aren't exactly…"

"... the other options are proper hives of smugglers and worse, I'm sure," Andre says, dismissively. "Fine. Quetzle station it is. Chart a course and make the adjustments sooner rather than later."

"Yes, ma'am," the navigator agrees, looking deeply relieved.

This exchange occurs at the tail end of your shift, a day after the funeral. As usual, Anja is off at the same time, and you find yourself trailing along beside her as you head down the shaft. She catches you watching her, and cocks her head to the side. "Something on your mind, North?"

You're taken a little off guard -- you hadn't quite meant to stare. "... yes," you admit, after a moment's thought. You allow your frown to show on your face, now that she's already noticed your discomfort. "What the captain said, she mentioned that our destination is part of the… Shadow Ring. I've heard that name before, but… isn't that some sort of group of criminal stations?" you ask. "Pirates, I thought."

Anja laughs, high and bright. "You've been here for ten years," she says, grinning, "but you can still be such an Imperial."

"We're all part of the empire," you say, slightly disapproving. Or at least, slightly annoyed at being made fun of.

"Sure, sure," Anja says, waving a hand. "But there's the empire, and then there's the empire. There's a difference between the inner planets and here, or Jupiter, or the belt miners. Before the war, we were kind of a backwater." Albeit a self sufficient backwater, nearly as rich in minerals as Jupiter.

"People here aren't blowing up their own habitats to make a point," you point out.

"They're not," Anja agrees. "Jovians are crazy, even before the war. We just have… a different way of doing things out here, is all." A way of doing things that includes what many in high society term 'deplorable manners and no sense of decorum', but that was admittedly a lesser problem than the one offered by Jovian separatists. "Anyway," Anja says, "the 'Shadow Ring' isn't an organisation. It's a… well, it's less a ring, and more of a scattered disc." The characterisation seems to amuse her, and she grins at you again, before explaining: "It's just what you call all of the random habitats and civilian stations out this far. They go all around Saturn. Hence 'ring'. Sure, some of them are illegal, or full of smugglers. Or pirates. But some of them are just…" she frowns, trying to get a particular description, even she she catches the handle to a vertical. You grab the one beside it, to keep yourself from sailing past her -- you didn't expect the stop.

She notices your surprise, and nods at the vertical. "Come on," she says, "I don't think either of us have any duties right now. I've had the urge to beat someone at dice for ages, and Hiro's no fun."

It seems agreeable enough to you, and you find yourself following her down the vertical in short order. "Some of them are just…?" you prompt, once the two of you are in a different shaft -- the same level as the mess hall.

"What?" Anja blinks at you. "Oh! Right. Most of them are just hicks who like to live out here because there's less control over their lives. Not crooks, just… people who like their privacy more than they like having a decent place to live. A lot of them only went out there in the last decade, after all of you showed up at every major colony. There wasn't a lot of space, before there was time to expand."

"I remember," you acknowledge, thinking back to a time where you'd shared an apartment only a little larger than your quarters on The Rose with your mother, on a military station orbiting Titan. "I guess it isn't something to worry about too much, then."

Anja leads you to the small but largely deserted leisure room. A beverage pouch vending machine is mounted in the wall perpendicular to the two hatches leading into the chamber, showing signs of heavy use. The rest of the room is largely taken up by a series of multi-use tables, each with magnetic pads as well as rails to secure various objects to them. Clustered around each table are four chairs that, here and now mostly useful for the straps that prevent you from floating away every time you lean across the table.

The tablets are standard issue, and the software loaded onto them is -- theoretically -- tightly regulated. Superior officers are rarely overly concerned with the presence of a contraband pet simulators or the odd discrete bit of pornography, however, so long as they aren't flaunted too brazenly and don't disrupt workflow. What Anja is setting up, however, is on the approved list of applications, capable of running a number of different games, for use in leisure time only. It helps to have crew members who aren't ready to murder one another from boredom.

"Chronos' Dice?" you ask, looking at the list in question.

Anja smirks. "Is there another kind of dice game I'm not aware of?"

"In most of the solar system, yes."

"Well, North, there you go being Imperial again."

Chronos' Dice is a game which, as far as you can tell, could not actually be played with physical dice, gravity well or no. It's a simple press your luck game, but it also has a card-hand style hidden dice pool system, and enough varieties of special dice with complex effects that trying to keep track of it all without computer assistance seems dubious at best. With computer assistance, however, it's relatively simple to pick up, if quite difficult to master. As you're reminded here, when Anja, true to her prediction, wins several rounds quite handily.

"It's too bad we're not actually allowed to bet anything," Anja says, wistfully, earning a short laugh from a table nearby.

"Too bad for you, maybe," you say. "My paycheck isn't actually any bigger than yours." Despite your losses, you are having fun. It's good to do something engaging, but where the only risk of failure is a bit of gentle ribbing from Anja.

"Oh, you'd improve if there were actual money on the line," she says, airily. "Karel did. Sort of. I mean, he wins sometimes."

"The boyfriend that your mother dislikes?" you guess. She's never precisely brought him up by name before, although you've heard periodic mentions.

"Yeah, that's the one," Anja agrees.

"You've never actually explained what's so terrible about him." You're genuinely curious, and part of you feels that you're close enough that it isn't a rude question. You told her about what happened with your sister, after all. Or, admittedly, some of what happened.

"Oh, you know," Anja says, shrugging, before she takes her first turn. Multi-coloured dice tumble across the board on your screen. "She says he's lazy, good for nothing, not serious enough about work or about bettering himself, that he takes too many party drugs…"

"What's he really like?" You stare at your own pool of dice uncertainly.

Anja smiles a little wickedly. "Lazy, good for nothing, not serious enough about work or bettering himself, takes too many party drugs…"

You pause, waiting to see if she's joking, but she at no point seems inclined to take the words back. "He sounds, um…" you struggle to find a good, diplomatic phrase to cover what you've just heard. "... colourful," you offer, with a gentle smile.

Anja laughs. "Sure, let's go with that," she says. "He's a good listener. And it's just nice to have something waiting back home when you're not out on voyage, right?"

"Well, it's my first time," you admit.

"I can always try and set you up with one of his friends when we get back to Titan," she offers, with a mischievous sort of glint in her eye.

"What?" you jerk back slightly, taken off guard, and you drift up noticeably against the straps of your seat. You recover, shaking your head demurely. "Me? No, I'm fine, thank you." You make your move, perhaps not paying as much attention as you'd like.

"Do you have some kind of arrangement?" Anja gusses. She scrutinises the board with an easy, analytical eye, and swipes out several moves in a fraction of the time you took. "Your family's high enough up to care about advantageous matches and that sort of thing, right?"

"Oh, my family? I… suppose, but I'm not exactly a great prize," you admit. "We don't have much in the way of money. Just mother's knighthood."

"It's decided then," Anja says, with a nod.

"What's decided then?" You realise with quiet dismay that somehow, already, you're losing. You wonder if she's trying to throw you off on purpose.

"Setting you up on a date," she says. "With… Gavin, I think."

"... that's really not necessary," you say, trying not to sound alarmed, even as you quietly try to salvage the shambles you've made of your side of the board.

"Oh, you'll like him," she says. "He hasn't been charged with anything criminal in at least three years."

"That's really not necessary!" you insist, your voice rising fractionally upward.

"Oh, it's no trouble," she says, giving you an evil smile. "Also, good game."

To your shock, you realise that you have, indeed, lost yet again.

--

You've seen Lady Perbeck pilot this mecha. You can't begin to comprehend most of the controls, and fortunately, you don't have to, but from the software alone -- a legacy operating system hastily patched to remain compatible with modern systems -- you're not quite sure how it's possible for anyone to operate it.

It therefore takes you much longer than anticipated to get into the backend of the scan system, guided by the same young technician who'd spoken to Perbeck earlier. Working in tandem, you're almost a replacement for the lost Specialist Garcia. Albeit a slower and less efficient one.

"The compatibility control thinks it's an ISM07 Lancer," you announce.

Specialist Griggs, hanging onto the edge of the cockpit, gives a start at this. He had been squinting over your shoulder at the display readout, trying to understand just what you'd been doing with the 'guts' of the scanning suite. "What?" he says. "No, no." He catches himself, face colouring, before he amends: "Sorry, ma'am! I mean, if the compatibility control thought it was a Lancer the directional thruster array would end up ripping the whole mecha limb from limb the moment she takes off, if the automatic safety didn't shut it down right away."

"Mm," you agree, frowning at the display. You're seated in the Huntress's cockpit, with the hatch firmly locked open, and the machine set to diagnostic mode, enabling the traditional workstation interface you're used to. Or, the grandmother of the display you're used to. You suppose it's less of a bother with a display helmet and haptic-enabled pilot suit. "That is what's happening with the scanner suite, though. Whenever the compatibility control does its startup scan, it sets the scanner settings to Lancer." You drag a finger along the line in question, highlighting it for Griggs to read.

"... How?" He demands. Less of you, and more of the universe in general. Or, possibly, of the dormant Huntress. It's single, darkened eye holds no answers.

"It's hard to be sure yet," you admit. "We'll have to keep running tests before we can figure out how to actually fix it."

Griggs groans, running a hand down his freckled face. "We've been at this for hours," he says. "I was hoping that we'd have it done by the time Lady Perbeck wakes up."

"Well," you say, smiling encouragingly, "at least, we'll be able to tell her we've made progress, even if it isn't fixed yet. I'm sure she'll see you've been working very hard."

His face colours again, possibly for different reasons. You sometimes have that affect, intentional or not. "... yes, ma'am," he agrees, belatedly.

"You should let me have a look at that." At the unfamiliar voice, you jerk back in surprise, and Griggs actually loses his hold on the cockpit entirely, floating backwards away from the Huntress with a startled cry. Like most of the mecha crew, he refuses to wear his tether line except for combat scenarios, or as an added safety precaution when the hatches are being cycled -- the two scenarios where it's required by regulations. This usually doesn't cause too many issues. Usually. Now, admittedly, he looks particularly comical as he floats through the air, arms pinwheeling indignantly.

You're more focused on the small, tan face peering at you from the other side of the cockpit. A girl, perhaps all of 13, is looking over the interface curiously. As she pulls herself further into view, her civilian jumpsuit makes itself obvious, if her age hadn't already given that much away. "... what are you doing here?" you ask, baffled.

"The mechas are here," she informs you. "And I'm bored. I'm Faiza, by the way."

You struggle to process this for a long, awkward moment. "You're one of the refugees from the civilian lifeboat," you decide. Then, trying to look stern, you say, "You're not supposed to be here." The civilians have been given space to sleep, but they hardly have the run of the ship, let alone being permitted to just wander into a military mecha hangar with work in progress.

"Well," Faiza says, with strange conviction, "I'm here now, and this is a real Huntress!" With that, she slaps a hand down on the edge of the cockpit, face lighting up with glee. "I've always wanted to work on one of these! You're looking at scan diagnostics. Did something go wrong with the compatibility updates? That was always happening back on the Station, with the Lancers." There's a flicker of something across her face as she says this last part -- Phoebe Station was her home, and, if she is expressing such familiarity with the mechas the garrison used, there's a dubious possibility that she has some sort of connection with the pilots who gave their lives.

"I can't let you touch anything," you say. "You really shouldn't be here," you repeat.

"Who is that, Ensign?" Griggs calls over to you, sounding more than a little angry. The other workers around the mecha bay have started to turn to see what you're doing.

"It's one of the refugees," you call back, before turning to look at Faiza again.

"It's fine, I'm really good with mechas," Faiza says, smiling winsomely again. "Better than dad, even. I bet I could solve the problem really fast!"

You look at her skeptically. The truth is, you don't know this girl, at all, and have absolutely no way of verifying if she's being at all truthful, let alone if she's actually as talented as she believes she is. You haven't been involved with the refugees at all, beyond a glimpse or two, and it seems quite absurd that you would risk a serious reprimand by letting an unknown civilian teenager fiddle around with a rare and expensive piece of military hardware capable of punching a hole straight through the ship. "Absolutely not," you tell her, flatly.

Her face falls immediately. "Fine," she says, letting out an explosive sigh. "Can I at least watch?"

"The only thing you're going to be watching are the four walls of your cabin," a gruff voice says, sounding none-too-pleased. The mechanical chief has just floated over and seized the back of Faiza's jumpsuit, her lined face managing a sort of intensity that, in this moment, you envy. "Kick me, girl," the chief continues, seeing the motion of Faiza's legs, "And it'll be the brig instead. Do I look like I'm joking?"

Faiza stops struggling, going limp, and adopts a defeated, pouty look. "I could have fixed it," she insists.

"Well," The chief growls. "We'll never know, now will we?" She gives you a quick, acknowledging salute, which you return, right before she pulls the still sulking civilian girl away from the Huntress, in the direction of the nearest hatch back to the rest of the ship.

Whether or not making use of the strange girl's purported talents would have helped or hindered you, It takes you multiple leisure shifts over the course of the week to finally get things right. By the end, both you and Specialist Griggs are frazzled and tired, but there's a deeper satisfaction in knowing that you managed to solve the problem. Or, just about.

"I'm told you've nearly fixed it."

You look up with a bit of a start at the voice, and find yourself faced with Lady Perbeck herself. "Hello, ma'am!" you say, surprised, Nonetheless, you hastily salute. She returns it with the hand that's not currently holding onto the cockpit. Rather than looking over your shoulder, she's in front of and above you, very nearly upside down from your perspective, reading the display from that perspective with the ease of long practice. "We're very nearly finished," you confirm. "Specialist Griggs has gone to get 'celebratory coffee.'"

"I know, I gave him permission," she says. "I don't recognise this interface -- what exactly are you doing?" She's not reprimanding you, and seems to be making an effort to sound merely curious, but her eyes are narrowed with a sort of possessive intensity that reminds you very pointedly of just whose prize mecha it is you're modifying the internal settings of.

"This is the scanner profile creation interface," you explain. "It's not something that's even normally accessible, ma'am. Griggs had to look up the override code to even access it."

She frowns now. "Why would you ever have to do that?"

"Well, ma'am," you admit, "I'm not entirely certain, but the last patch to your scanning suite seems to have had the data for the 07 Lancer's scanning suite inputted accidentally as its base specifications."

She blinks, shocked. Then it's a little like watching storm clouds roll in on a calm day. "They accidentally did what?

"They set the basic specifications to that of the Lancer, ma'am," you say, evenly. You suspect that the anger is not actually directed at you, and that the best you can do is to answer her questions calmly and in a timely manner to avoid being splashed by it. "So the compatibility sweep was flagging your settings as incompatible and unsafe with your hardware, and so…"

"... The safety override kept deleting them," Perbeck growls. She looks very much like, if a programmer from Titan were standing in front of her, she would be sorely tempted to shoot them. Fortunately, even if there were such a programmer present, she doesn't actually wear her sidearm around the ship with her ordinary uniform. "So you had to rebuild the listed specifications from scratch?"

"That's about it, ma'am," you admit. You've continued to work as you responded, carefully copying figures and setting from the dense, archaic manual into the interface Perbeck had initially remarked upon.

Perbeck closes her eyes, and takes in a deep, soothing breath. "No wonder Garcia kept putting this off," she mutters.

Eager to assuage her annoyance, you try to hurry your work along without making any serious mistakes. "Almost… there!" You can't keep a note of triumph out of your voice as you fill out the last field, and finally save for the last time. "That's my part done, ma'am. Now all that's left is for Specialist Griggs to check my work."

As you begin to undo the straps, Lady Perbeck reaches out a hand, offering you a way up. Once you've freed yourself, with only a short moment's hesitation, you accept. She pulls you up and out of the cockpit, and you swiftly flip yourself around, catching the edge of the cockpit just long enough to leave you more or less in the same orientation as the mecha commander. You're both quite experienced enough with zero gravity not to take too much notice of a conversation between two people on different planes, but it does make it a little less awkward. Facing you now, she gives you a disgruntled sort of smile. "Thanks are in order, Ensign. This is going to make my life significantly easier."

"I'm happy to do my part to help you defend the ship, ma'am," you tell her, with a gracious bow of your head. On her uniform's jacket, the heraldry of her knight order and her house take up significant amount of real estate, a stark difference from the plain, blue expanse of your own.

Perbeck shakes her head, golden hair spreading out like a halo. "I'd think of this as being rather more in the realm of a personal favour, North. Working on my unit is not your job, especially not during your off time."

This much is more or less inarguable, so reluctantly, you nod. "Please let me know if anything is amiss, though, ma'am," you tell her, although privately your heart plummets at even the thought of having to redo the work you and Griggs have spent so long undertaking.

Perbeck looks slightly amused at this. "I'm sure you'd rather I didn't," she says. "I remember people who go out of their way to do me favours, though. Now, however, I'd suggest that you go use whatever time you have left in this leisure shift to get some sleep. You probably need it."

This much is difficult to deny. "Will you tell Specialist Griggs that I've finished, ma'am?" you ask.

"I think I can manage that much," she replies.

Wth that, you leave her - it's only two hours until you're required to be on the bridge once again, and, indeed, you can think of very few ways that would be better to spend it than asleep.

--

On one hand, heading for this Quetzle Station has ensured that ordinary ship activity can continue instead of rationing the air supply, and very likely saved your lives. On the other, it's hardly on the way back to Titan or in the direction of any other major military installment, and even once the ship has had its oxygen supply restored, this diversion will have taken up valuable travel time as well as permanently altering the viable routes available to the Rose going forward.

From your place on the bridge, you spot the station on scans long before you see it. A large blip amid the defused dust of the Phoebe Ring, growing as you head toward it. This time, at least, Mazlo manages to make the comms connection quickly.

"Attention Quetzle Station: this is Commander Lillian Andre, captain of the HIMS Titanium Rose."

"This is Quetzle Station Harbour Control. We read you, HIMS Titanium Rose. What do you want, then?"

Andre is taken aback by the voice on the other end of the line, for an instant losing her air of weary determination almost entirely. She recovers before responding, however. "We require an emergency berth and supplies," she says.

The voice -- it's difficult to put an age or a gender to it -- speaks again, words slurred together in a Saturnian colonial accent so broad that it makes Anja sound like an Imperial Capital schoolgirl: "And I doubt you're actually asking, or buying," they say, simply. "You-- What?" There's an awkward pause as a brief, muffled exchange occurs in the speaker's vicinity, as though they've just put their hand over their microphone to confer with someone out of earshot.

Abruptly, a different voices comes onto the air, this one low and feminine. No less heavily accented, but certainly politer: "Apologies, captain. We will of course be providing any and all necessary aid as outlined in the Military Requisitions Act." An act which did, notably, have fairly stringent limitations on what exactly could be requisitioned under it. Bringing this up signals compliance, but can also be read as a reminder that their obligations did have limits.

"Who am I speaking to now?" Andre asks. From the way she's holding her shoulders, it's obvious that she is fully capable of reading between the lines.

"Mara Birch, Quetzle Station Harbourmaster, Captain," the woman replies.

"Ms. Birch," Andre begins, slow enough that you can tell she's trying to supress annoyance, "you will of course be reimbursed for any necessary requisitions we are forced to make, as outlined both in the Military Requisitions Act and the Wartime Measures Act."

This second proclamation leads to a weighty, prolonged silence on the other end of the line. Invoking the Wartime Measures Act allows much broader use and seizure of civilian resouces -- to be repaid at a later date where possible -- it also, however, necessary declares that the Rose has just come from or is heading to active combat with an enemy considered to be the enemy of the Imperial throne or its representatives. "... is there something we should know, captain?" the harbourmaster asks, slowly.

"Any relevant information can be exchanged in person, I think, Ms. Birch."

"... understood, captain." She does not sound altogether pleased, but there's little she can do. "We will have Docking Bay E cleared for you by the time you get here. If you'll transmit your current velocity and heading, I can provide you with a safe approach vector."

--

The station, when it comes into view, is a slightly different variation on the spindle and disc design. While Phoebe Station had a single, narrow spindle with one large ring to provide enough inertia to simulate gravity, Quetzle Station has a long, fat, modular spindle lined with row after row of smaller disks, each of a slightly different size and make. It's the sort of civilian station where, when they need to add additional space, they find the most affordable solution on the market, second hand if necessary. It has a population of 2246, zero gravity in the spindle and variable-low g differing from ring to ring, and a complete lack of an interior docking bay large enough to accomodate the Rose. Bay E turns out to consist of a large connector on the far end of the spindle, with a set of military-surplus docking clamps to secure the ship to the station.

"Identification on those mechas?" Grayson asks, from the CiC.

"They're coming up as HS Workmen, Heineken Robotics, sir," you say, looking at your readout. One of the monitors at the head of the bridge fills up with a closeup view of one of the machines in question. Several of them drift a short distance out from the space station, civilian models, looking awkward and almost skeletal to you, without the armoured plating present on even the lightest military model.

"Those are tools they're holding, I hope," Captain Andre murmurs.

"It should be a short-range cutting laser," Grayson says, dubiously. "But it doesn't look like the specifications I have here. I'd… like to run these past Perbeck's people, with your permission, ma'am?"

"Granted," Andre says.

A moment's consultation on Anja's part later, and, surprisingly, Ito's voice comes over the general bridge comm. "This is Sub-Lieutenant Ito -- I recognise what's been done to those cutters. Permission to speak, Captain?"

"Once again, granted." Andre does not seem particularly pleased to learn that anything has been done to them worth remarking on.

"It's a common modification, ma'am. They've swapped out the standard emitter for a high powered, aftermarket defence model, and upgraded the power supply at the back. It's not a military weapon, exactly, but at the right range they can cut through armour. It's illegal."

Andre frowns, thoughtfully. "Well," she says, "We're here to refuel, not to arrest civilians for arming themselves against pirates."

"... illegally, ma'am," Grayson says, voice a little tight.

"File a report when we return, Lieutenant," Andre says, her own tone ever so slightly sharp. "Here and now, my concern is making sure we have enough air to breath, and seeing about getting the hole in my ship patched with something even a little bit permanent.


"Understood," Grayson says, if not happily.

--

That the docking process was uneventful was hardly surprising. What was surprising, was being ordered to make up one of the shore party.

"They're speaking Imperial to us now, but when I initially hailed them, they answered in Saturnian Creole," Mazlo explains.

Of the several languages you're fluent in, Saturnian Creole -- the eclectic blend of Imperial and several older languages commonly spoken in various corners of the Saturn System -- is one of the ones listed on your personnel file. And so it is that you as well as Anja, a native speaker, find yourselves floating through the exterior hatch, behind First Officer Grayson and Lady Pebeck. Behind you, a pair of life support technicians, and the unfamiliar forms of two of the Phoebe marines -- grim and rather jumpy from the recent destruction of their last post, and none-too-pleased to have been told only to bring sidearms, and no visible body armour.

It's unlikely that you'll actually need the Creole to communicate, but having translators on hand, it was decided, will dramatically reduce the likelihood of information being passed over your heads unbeknownst to the shore party.

The connector shaft isn't quite rundown, but it's clearly old -- synthetic surfaces yellowed with age, handholds worn from long use. Part of the lighting strip along the side is flickering, engaging in a long, slow death toward going out entirely. In the distance, there is the characteristic, harsh whirr of an air exchange in need of a replacement fan.

On the end of the shaft, through two sets of emergency hatches -- at least one of which you're not certain you'd like to bet your life on -- the shaft opens up into a strange sort of crossroads -- curving passageways branch out at four points, to your right and left, but also "above" and below you. This isn't an Imperial Naval ship, designed to be functional within a gravity well -- whatever else, the spindle seems to have been designed specifically to take advantage of the weightless environment. Through large glass windows, you can see the interior of the spindle; a complex of compartments, largely taken up by the zero gravity hydroponics farms that produce the air you're all breathing as well as the food that keeps the station alive. You can see people working there, but the passageway you're in seems oddly deserted.

Three people are there to greet your group. Two are older -- a heavyset woman, and wispy-haired man. The third is a younger man, long hair floating behind him in a braid. All three are wearing the kind of practical, if unexciting jumpsuits you'd expect for civilians working and living in space.

"Ivan Choi, Stationmaster," the balding man says. That's unusual, in this age -- male pattern baldness has been a treatable condition for centuries. You find yourself hoping that you haven't found yourself in some sort of strange, human-baseline commune, as unlikely as that sounds. He looks between Grayson and Perbeck, clearly uncertain as to who is in charge, precisely. Given that Grayson was the one of the two of them who was actually intended to go, and that Lady Perbeck invited herself along to Captain Andre's mild displeasure, you feel like there's a slight doubt of that among the two officers as well. She is the one who responds.

"Lady Perbeck, Mecha Commander," she says, simply. "This is First Officer Grayson of the HIMS Titanium Rose.

"Not a lot of call for a pilot in here," the young man cuts in, looking at Perbeck somewhat critically. She ignores this, and Choi picks up where things left off, with an unhappy look shot at his junior.

"Welcome to our station, Commander," he says, before reaching out and clasping her warmly by both shoulders. The effect of this overly familiar greeting -- by aristocratic standards, at least -- seems to leave her stiff and speechless. Choi releases Perbeck, apparently oblivious to the lack of propriety. "This is Mara Birch," he says, identifying the woman beside him, "our Harbourmaster. I believe you've been communicating with her already. And this is…" he hesitates, looking suddenly fairly uncertain that he should have brought the third stationer along at all. "... this is Heinrich Lee. He's… well, he handles a lot of procurement and inventory issues."

"Among other things," Lee says, with a languid shrug. You can see Grayson's shoulders tense at this last remark -- he's evidently still unhappy with the station's open flaunting of imperial law. Lee pays no mind to Grayson, however, and instead, his eyes flick over to the sidearms worn by Perbeck, and the two marines. His easy smile shrivels up and dies, a little. "We don't ordinarily allow personal firearms anywhere on the station," he says, voice clearly disapproving.

"... but, obviously, we make exceptions for lawful officers of the crown," Birch cuts in, giving Lee a hard look.

"Are they at least station-safe?" Lee demands.

"Low penetration frangibles are standard issue for all armed naval personnel and marines," Perbeck replies, giving him a slightly withering look. "I'm not enough of a fool to fire solid rounds inside a habitat."

"... I'm sure there will be no cause to find out," Choi says, speaking up again. "We're just all a little on edge, what with, well… you're invoking the Wartime Measures Act."

"And your ship looking like it ran headlong into rail cannon fire," Lee adds.

"It is not immediately important how our ship sustained its current damages," Grayson says. His ordinarily easygoing manner has been steadily chiseled away with every moment you've spent in Lee's presence, and his voice now is uncharacteristically flat, almost harsh.

Birch's neutral expression fades into a frown. Choi's mannerisms grow a little less open, and a little more suspicious. "I see," he says. There's a pregnant pause, during which no one seems to know whose turn it is to speak next.

"I have an office in Alpha-Ring," Birch says, pointing in a vaguely upward direction, after a moment. "If you like, we can discuss the specifics of what you… require of us there."

Making the transition from zero gravity to gravity -- even low gravity -- is always slightly disorientating, no matter how many times you go through it. Following the stationers upward, into the passageway directly overhead, you are led to a connector shaft, one of four bridging the gap between the spindle and Alpha Ring. It's a familiar setup -- opening the sliding hatch, positioning yourself feet first toward the ring, even if the handhold you're gripping is smoothed and cracked with age, and the platform you're pressing your feet against feels ever so slightly rickety. Glancing over to Anja, she shoots you a quick smile, and a 'what can you do?' sort of shrug, one-armed by necessity as slowly, rumblinglingly, the lift begins to descend.

Over the course of several minutes, a slight tugging sensation in the pit of your stomach begins to build, until you feel your feet press down onto the platform without any help from you. You finally let go of the handhold, relishing the simple feeling of being able to stand in place on your own two feet without the aid of handles or straps. It also leaves you dizzy, suddenly acutely aware of your clothes, your hair, the way your body hangs on your bones. The sudden narrowing of your world from three dimensional movement to being truly limited to a single, flat plane -- oddly claustrophobic. It's only a fraction of Earth's gravity, but it's still a dramatic difference to what you've become accustomed to over the course of your voyage.

"Hold on there, miss," Lee says, suddenly reaching out his free hand to close yours back on the handle. "You might want to hang onto that just a little longer."

You only have time to consider informing him that you're an ensign, not a miss, or to consider how his hand lingered just slightly longer than was necessary over your own, before you find out what he meant. Whenever you've been in a similar lift before, coming to a stop is a gentle, gradual thing. Sometimes, you can't even feel a minor jolt. The jolt you feel now, as you finally touch down on the inner surface of Alpha Ring, is anything but minor. If you hadn't been holding on tight, you would have stumbled, possibly fallen. Which, you note, one of the life support technicians does, only saved from tumbling over by the steady hand of the marine corporal. Falls at this gravity rarely result in physical injury, but wounds of the ego are another matter. Lee catches your eye, and smirks a little. You notice he didn't make any particular effort to warn anyone else about the bumpy landing.

Alpha Ring, as opposed to the broad avenues of larger stations, is a relatively cramped corridor, sloping gently upward in either direction, lined with hatched to either side. You acclimatise to the gravity well enough that you're at least graceful when you step off of the lift. Grayson, with his considerably greater bulk, lurches past you with his first step, very nearly slamming into the far wall. He catches himself, and lets out a short laugh at his own expense, the first sign of his usual good humour you've seen since entering the station. There isn't quite a smell in the air here, but there's the suggestion of closeness. That perhaps, while still perfectly functional, the CO2 scrubbers could do with changing.

Your group proceeds in a line, Perbeck at the front, marines at the back, led onward by the nervously chattering Choi and the silent, sullen Birch. You pass people coming the other way with some frequency. Most watch your group, with your uniforms and weapons, with obvious but silent suspicion. One, though, speaks to Lee, in a conversational tone, words the odd hodgepodge that constitutes Saturnian Creole: ⟨"It's done, Heinrich."⟩ He glances meaningfully at your group. ⟨"I'll take them out again when the Impies are gone."⟩

In response, Lee only nods shallowly. His eyes scan over your group, noting Anja's raised eyebrows, and your scrutinising glance, and almost imperceptibly winces, before letting himself drift to the back of the group, until he's walking alongside you and Anja. When he speaks, it's in a low tone, and in the same language the strange man had used. ⟨"Most girls in uniform can't be bothered to pick up Saturnian,"⟩ he comments.

Anja grins at him. When she replies, the sharper tones of her accent seem obvious compared to the broader stationers. ⟨"I wasn't born wearing a uniform, Mr. Procurement."⟩

⟨"That's not what I hear about Titans, these days,"⟩ he adds, but seems marginally more relaxed. Certainly, he would rather the exchange not have been overheard at all, but he clearly now considers Anja a known quantity. His dark eyes slide over to you. ⟨"And you?"⟩ he asks.

⟨"North was born in a uniform,"⟩ Anja quips. There's an odd quality to the acoustics in the corridor -- sound kept at a low, conversational tone scarcely travels.

⟨"I picked it up on Titan,"⟩ you say, simply. ⟨"I'm good with languages."⟩

⟨"I can hear that,"⟩ Lee agrees. ⟨"You look like a girl who tries to be good at most things she does."⟩

You can't be entirely sure exactly where this is going, but you do recognise that tone, and the way he's looking at you. Not leering, but interested. You consider simply shutting him down, here and now, but then again… a little harmless flirting certainly can't hurt your chances of picking up something useful. ⟨"It is a trait that's encouraged in the Navy, Mr. Lee,⟩ you say, with the trace of a smile.

Lee glances up at Perbeck and Grayson, who are paying attention to his fellow stationers, then back down at the LS specialist walking behind you, whose expression speaks of nothing but incomprehension for your conversation with Lee. ⟨"While we're being friendly,"⟩ he says, slowly, ⟨"Maybe one of you two is inclined to be a little more… reasonable than your boss up there."⟩

⟨"Our boss's boss,"⟩ Anja corrects. ⟨"More or less, anyway. What are you suggesting, exactly?"⟩

⟨"Well, you know, we're fairly isolated out here,"⟩ Lee says. ⟨"Us, we prefer it that way -- lets us live like space is still a frontier, not just settled lines on a map. But it means that we're… on our own, often times, in a crisis."⟩

⟨"Yes?"⟩ you ask, tilting your head a little curiously.

⟨"An imperial warship -- even a small one -- shows up out of nowhere with battle scars, and invokes the WMA,"⟩ he says, blunt all of a sudden. ⟨"And now your boss's boss won't give us a scrap of information. We need to know what's out here if we're going to keep ourselves safe, yes? We need to know if there's suddenly a pirate gang that serious out here, or if the zealots have finally decided to stop fucking around in Jupiter and deal with you lot here."⟩ Seeing your expression, he clarifies, ⟨"I'm not about to get you into trouble or call him out, but if we actually know what we're dealing with, things are a lot better for us, and I think trade's going to go a lot smoother for all parties, if you know what I mean. We just want to know if we're going to be caught up in a war zone or not."⟩

Anja catches your eye, but doesn't immediately respond. You realise that she's waiting to follow your lead. What do you do?

[ ] Clam up, follow Grayson's lead even if the Saturnians don't like it

[ ] Lie and tell him it was a pirate ambush and your commanders are embarrassed

[ ] Offer veiled hints without openly admitting the truth

[ ] Admit about the possible invasion

[ ] Write in

 

[Gazetteer]

OoC This update is very short, but because of that, you get it early!

My general goal for update speed is once a week, with the soft deadline being Wednesday. I'm usually a day or two slower than that, but the vote is definitely conclusive now, so...

Spoiler: Results

Clam up, follow Grayson's lead even if the Saturnians don't like it
Number of voters: 34

Offer veiled hints without openly admitting the truth
Number of voters: 15 (4 of these are also for "But also dunk on him a little bit though")

Write in: Play along with the flirting, imply that since we'll be here for at least a few days we might see our way towards giving him some info if he gives us some in return. Use that to buy enough time to ask the Captain whether she wants us to quietly leak anything via this backchannel. If she does, exchange information. If she doesn't, make it clear next time we see him that we were spotted chatting and our superiors read us the riot act about infosec. If he just wants to keep it casual, though, we'd still enjoy some company while in port.
Number of voters: 1

You let your smile drop, until you're giving Lee the kind of politely neutral expression that isn't outwardly harsh, but also neither conveys nor invites warmth of any kind. You've found that it's often more effective than an open glare, at least for you. "Mr. Lee," you say, suddenly speaking crisp, perfect Imperial. "I am not at liberty to discuss details of the Titanium Rose's recent history or status with civilians."

His own smile wavers, and he makes one, final try. 〈"Aw, come now, miss…"〉

"I would prefer 'Ensign North', Mr. Lee," you say, the gentle correction coming across almost like an aristocratic rebuke.

Lee's smile fades away entirely, and he looks at you with a mixture of frustration and disappointment, before he hides it behind a sort of studious blankness. "Well, then, Ensign North," he says, slipping back into his own, broadly accented Imperial, "If that's the way you want to play things, I won't trouble you further."

With that, he moves back up to the front of the line, executing an impressively calibrated, low gravity bound to send him saling up to the front of the line while just barely avoiding hitting his head on the ceiling.

"Well, North," Anja says, "that's one less good looking man in your life."

You give her a slightly dubious glance. "... I'm beginning to worry you may have a type, Anja," you say, quietly, causing her to stifle a burst of laughter.

"Oh, no, don't make me laugh," she whispers, expression pained. "I'll probably puke on you." You remember, then, her comment about always experiencing hours of unpleasant vertigo after entering 'walking around' gravity. She's doing an admirable job of hiding it.

The two of you fall into more dutiful silence, as your short trip down the passageway is cut short by arriving at your destination. The door is labelled "Harbour Administration & Long Distance Com s". One of the letters in "comms" is missing, leaving only a fading, discoloured patch where it should be on the wall above the hatch. Birch, undeterred by this labelling failure, shoulders her way neatly past Choi and Lee to punch her code into the door, causing it to slide open with a slight, high-pitched squeal.

The office inside has the same well used, slightly claustrophobic quality that the entire space station has had so far. One large compartment, split off into multiple rooms by modular bulkheads, the faux wood panelling slightly incongruous against the yellowing off-white of the room's main walls, and the scuffed blue tile of the floor and ceiling.

A beautiful, slender young man, his spacer's jumpsuit unzipped a little too low over the chest, sits behind a desk, giving a nervous smile to the room at large. You note one of the marines giving Birch a look of newfound respect, plainly impressed by her administrative assistant. There are several doors in the bulkheads around the reception area -- one has Birch's name and title on it, the other the universal symbol for a gender neutral restroom. The third simply reads "long-range comms".

"Lyle, bring out enough chairs for our guests,," she says to him. "And make us some coffee, with the biscuits I've been saving. Break out the good stores. We are in the presence of a lady." She does not actually say it in any way that confers direct disrespect for Lady Perbeck, but the slight dryness of the delivery makes the mecha commander's eyebrow quirk up ever so slightly.

"Yes, right away, Ms. Birch!" he says, shooting up in his seat, even as Birch leads the group past his desk, through the manual sliding door in the bulkhead behind him, and into her office proper. Similar decour to the reception area, but with a large screen unconvincingly stylised as a window dominating the back wall, offering a fixed view of the main docking bay. There are family photos, one or two potted plants, and not-quite-enough hard, uncomfortable chairs grouped in front of her small, synthetic-wood desk.

The quantity of seating, if unfortunately not the quality, is swiftly remedied by the bustling form of Lyle, dimpled smile still conveying the same air of nervous excitement as before before he's gone again, presumably to fetch the coffee you're anticipating with a mixture of anticipation and honest dread. Anything, surely, is better than ship-stable, zero gravity safe COFFEE 2 CREAM naval rations. Then again, the first rule of extra-planetary living is that the food can always get worse.

Right away, you see Lee confer with Choi and Birch in a low, exasperated voice. He spares you only a brief backward glance, but from his bearing, and the way the demeanor of the other two becomes even less open and eager to please than it had before, you can take a wild guess that Lee had informed them of his intent to try and extract some information from the other members of the party on the way here. It's possible that he or someone else can get something out of the technicians, or the marines, but you doubt it -- after both you and Grayson made the official position quite clear in front of them on two separate occasions, it would have seemed exceptionally unwise.

You have reason to suspect, in the ensuing discussion, that the decision to withhold so much information for the sake of operational security may have had unintended consequences. No one is talking about denying you anything you are requesting -- they can't do so, legally. Neither, though, are they being as helpful as you suspect they could be. Of course they'll give you oxygen enough to continue your journey, but it will take several days to make the transfer -- they're a small, poor settlement, after all, hardly equipped to service war ships. Which is just as well, because the only station residents with the proper licenses to perform the patch work on the ship's hull are away on a salvage mission, and won't return for some days. You would be utterly shocked if such a license were something that the stationers give two figs about on any other day.

The coffee, at least, is good. Shockingly good, served with real soy creamer. At your rapturous expression, you catch Anja looking at you, her hands notably empty of coffee mug and biscuits both, despite the dented platter laid out on the small, plain table nearby. Evidently, her dizziness is significant enough that she doesn't want to chance it. You give a sheepish, apologetic sort of smile, while she half glares, but make no attempt to avoid the drink in question.

You and Anja's presence, it turns out, is quite necessary. While your three hosts studiously avoid using anything but standard Imperial from this point onward, at several moments throughout the negotiations, they call up various people from around the station to acquire after personnel or supplies. The answers to these queries are frequently partially or entirely in Saturnian, and almost as frequently contain asides or comments that neither Choi, Birch nor Lee seem particularly pleased to see you and Anja dutifully transcribing onto your tablets, for later review by your superiors.

Grayson's patience and good humour, low to begin with today, is visibly wearing thin, and Perbeck has become increasingly silent and unimpressed. The LS specialists eventually start a protracted argument over the comm in Birch's desk as to how long, precisely, it should take for a station this size to be able to restock the Rose.

Progress is slow.

--

You have just come from the office's closet sized, but mercifully clean restroom, and stepped back out into the reception area. Lyle is nowhere to be seen, leaving the room empty aside from you. You're about to head back into the main office room, to resume your duties, when something odd catches your attention.

The room's other door, the one labelled comms, is ajar, and sounds are spilling out. You're not normally prone to eavesdropping, particularly not when you're a guest on a moderately unfriendly station, but something about the voices coming from within nags at you, and you find yourself drifting closer.

"MY HONEY WAS STOLEN BY A STARLING, LEFT OUT ON THE WINDOW, NOW I'M ALL IN A TANGLE. MY HONEY WAS STOLEN BY A STARLING, LEFT OUT ON THE WINDOW, NOW I'M ALL IN A TANGLE. MY HONEY WAS STOLEN BY A STARLING, LEFT OUT ON THE WINDOW, NOW--"

〈"And it just keeps going?"〉 a voice demands, incredulous, speaking in Saturnian, over the continued background noise of the grainy nonsense transmission.

〈"Yeah, weird, right? And there shouldn't even be anything within range of the hulk we're salvaging. It was enough for me to hook up this fucking booster unit, anyway."〉

〈"Fuck it, now I'm curious. Send over the whole thing?"〉

You can see the small comms room through the open door -- a figure hunches beside a bank of monitors and equipment, workstation surrounded by the shells of former snack containers, talking on an open channel. Behind him sits the bulk of the coffee maker, where you suspect your drinks originated. This is not why you're stopped up short, eyes wide.

〈"Yeah, half a moment, control. It's pretty big, and we're not exactly running an imperial comms ship out here."〉

Honey, Starling, Tangle -- hearing those words in conjuncture, in a message like this, is enough to make your heart start hammering in your chest. Those code words are drilled into the head of every scan and communications officer in the fleet, if not the precise meaning. It's enough for most technicians and junior officers to understand that they mean "this is a very important message, escalate this to your superior immediately." You, though, with your more than a passing interest in codes in general, have a little more context: What you just heard was a series of code words designating a top secret distress signal., originating from a source with the clearance to operate at such a level, and the authority to essentially signal any and all Imperial vessels within range to drop absolutely everything to come to the broadcaster's aid. And while the signal is apparently not close enough for the station itself to pick it up, there is apparently a salvage ship in boosted comms range who can.

It is, inarguably, Your sworn duty to ensure that your superiors get the full contents of this message. The reason why it is "weirdly big" is, of course, that it hides an encrypted message that can be decoded by the Rose or by any other current military computer of sufficient power and clearance. It is not desirable, however, to accidentally clue the civilian stationers into the exact nature or even the general value of the message in question. Particularly with the current mood on the station, and the ever so slightly illicit vibe, you can very easily see them either somehow attempting to crack the code themselves, or to simply hide away a copy of the message for themselves, selling it off to the highest bidder on the grey market. You are suddenly faced with a somewhat delicate situation.

What do you do?

[ ] Ask Lee to quietly give you a copy as a favour

[ ] Try to discreetly message Mazlo on the Rose to see if he can intercept it

[ ] Just tell Grayson, although there's probably no way to do this without tipping off the stationers

[ ] Tell Perbeck, although there's probably no way to do this without tipping off the stationers

[ ] Write-in