Space Ship Quest (A Pre-Dreadnought Cultivation Story)
- Thread starter I.F. Ister
- Start date
- Original Sci-Fi
- Location
- United States
[X] C
It was already noted that the ship has a shit forge for parts. We need to keep on top of maintenance for when things inevitably go to shit and we can't get parts anymore.
It was already noted that the ship has a shit forge for parts. We need to keep on top of maintenance for when things inevitably go to shit and we can't get parts anymore.
Our main character is seriously overstimating the competence and good intentions of his superiors.
Its kind of sad how naive and optimistic that is.
I would not be surprised if the callous high ranking commanders simply didn't care that everyone on board had enough supplies. They probably stocked up enough parts only for the officers and their trusted lapdogs, everyone else is expendable in their eyes or needs to earn their parts by begin a bootlicker or a snitch.
After all, the best way to control a population is by having a monopoly on an important resource. And giving access to that resource only to those loyal to YOU. Everyone else will be too weakened by the lack of that resource to potentialy overthrow you.
Great, the guy in charge of security is a sadistic tyrant who will take any excuse to painfuly kill members of the crew. Better stay as far away from him as possible.
[X] C - Attempt to secure a supply of spare parts, so that I can replace and repair any damage systems may accrue.
I am really torn between getting to know our crewmates better (social influence and contacts are important in this kind of environment, and Gideon stopping volonteering us for hard work would be nice) and stockpiling spare parts.
But in the end, i think having a steady supply of spare parts is more important for our survival. We can always connect with our companions later, repairing eventual damage will be harder.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
For the record, the forges themselves have good equipment and are manned by skilled workers. There's just not enough of them to supply everyone with parts
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Per various stuff IF said this is not quite correct. Stuff for repairs on the lower cultivation crew is common and easy enough that the forges will not be a major problem for us personally...it's people at higher cultivation levels that are gonna have some issues and shortages due to the lack of resources. So if this were intentional (and it's probably just poor ship design 'don't attribute to malice what is adequately explained by stupidity' seems to apply) it'd just be keeping down the other officers not the crew as a whole.
I mean, the guy was on lookout. Him falling asleep could literally cause the deaths of everyone on the ship. Is killing him excessive? Maybe. Is it the sign of a sadistic tyrant? Not on its own. This guy's screwup was big enough that capital punishment is not completely unreasonable for a military vessel in time of war in this era.
Now, the security head could be a sadistic tyrant looking for excuses, that's possible. But this one incident isn't actually compelling evidence of that given the standards of the era and the nature of the crime this guy was punished for.
- Location
- United States
IF commented earlier and said the forge has good machines and well trained staff, it's just that the forge is much smaller then it should be. So the forge can make parts of any quality required, but they will have issues with quantity.
When the forge has issues keeps parts stocked what will they cut first, the parts for the officers in charge or the parts for conscripts?
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Per what IF said, you only need the forges for high quality parts, people in First Heat don't need access to them at all, only those in higher Realms. So, like, Gideon who is mid Engine Expansion but only a bit above us in rank? He's in trouble. Us and the other people in the first realm are more or less okay.
Like, this is literally stated explicitly:
Note the specification that high quality parts are the ones with issues.
And note that despite his worries about the situation and knowledge of it, Jack is not worried for himself because the parts he needs are not especially high quality.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
I'll call the vote in an hour
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
Sorry, folks, but a sudden burst of anxiety has rendered me unable to write today. The vote will stay open until tomorrow
I mean, the punishment for the standards of the era would be either flogging or a quick execution.
The fact the officer choose to do both is why i mean he is a sadist.
- Location
- France
[X] A - Spend time getting to know my team in greater depth, so that I can better coordinate with them when stupidity occurs.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
When I said 'lashed', I meant it as in he was tied to the rigging and then shot, so as to avoid damaging the ship if a steamshot went wide.
Ho, i misunderstood it. Maybe you should have used "tied up" "chained" or "bound". Lashed is kind of easy to misunderstand in the context.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
I've got the update done, but accidentally forgot to close the vote.
...So I'll just do that now
...So I'll just do that now
Entry 3 - The Four-Fingers
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
April 16th, 1892, seven weeks before my birthday.
The mood among the men is quite chipper as we go about our day and I am no different—just one more grin in the crowd. I write these words from the Summiteer's observation deck, my legs dangling off the side as I watch the stars pass us by underneath, above, and beyond the bounds of the shipsoul's protection. The reason for these good spirits is a simple, yet entirely welcome surprise: we arrived early to the Four-Fingers!
The Four-Fingers Nebula is a mostly orange-blue cloud of proto-star-stuff suspended in the empty void of the astral sea. Vaguely resembling a splayed-out hand missing the index, the inspiration behind its name is as obvious as a piece of shoddy welding. The nebula's gulf—a three-thousand nautical mile long stretch of space starting at the tip of the thumb, continues all along the interior of the hand, before ending just off the middle finger's nail—is a vital navigation point for the war material the Concordat needs to keep fighting its idiotic war against the Empire. Why they thought it was a good idea to challenge the Empire before they'd even finished licking their wounds from the Skinner's Run debacle is beyond me, but the Callaxians have never been the smartest bunch of war-mongers.
I suspect that a portion of our early arrival was at least in part due to the cleaning efforts of the team and I. Star-slime has the unfortunate result of making ships 'stick' to the astral sea. Rarely does it build up to anything truly impactful, but perhaps staying on top of it provided enough additional speed to cut travel time by a day?
Regardless, as is naval tradition upon arriving anywhere earlier than anticipated, the Captain announced a free day for all non-vital crew. The poor sods playing Stokermen down in the boilers won't have the day off, but such is life at sea. If the boilers run cold, the shipsoul falls to torpor, and we all die of exposure to the astral waves.
Sure, the life boats might save a few, but I wouldn't trust that the pressure found within wouldn't kill us just as dead as the sea. You're essentially riding inside a boiler, completely unharnessed by gravity, and expecting it not to kill you—ludacris! ludicrous!
Speaking of ludicrous things, when I sat down to write in this journal earlier today, I'd found that the user-pressurized pen I'd been using had run out of ink! I normally use pencils, as I can very easily fix the spelling mistakes I so carelessly make, but the Scarlet Navy apparently has something of a phobia of such intelligent devices as I can't find any no matter where I look! I even consulted the ship's Purser—Reginald J. Morganski, a wrinkle-browed older man lacking any semblance of humor—but received nothing more than a refilled ink cartridge as an answer! I assume that the luxury of pencils are reserved for the senior officers, much like the good alcohol—not that I partake in imbibing such things, so I suppose it's all hearsay on that matter.
Still, it allowed me to resume journaling, so I suppose it wasn't all bad. It also provided me an opportunity to offload a small portion of pressure I'd been building up in my pipes. With all the stress of life underway, I hadn't yet had the chance to loosen the valves. It's not anywhere close to the point of no return, but I've never much liked how pressurized tubes feel in the soul. I know, I know, pressure is good for one's cultivation effectivity, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy it.
Regardless, as discussed in the previous entry, I planned to spend more time with my crewmates to both better understand and better coordinate with them when the proverbial excrement strikes the atmospheric agitator. As the day-off was the perfect opportunity for such activities, I approached Gallows on the matter. He was, perhaps worryingly so, absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of a 'team building exercise'—which is what he described it as, anyways.
Following our chat, Gideon had spent the rest of the morning working fervently to acquire the necessary materials for the 'exercise'. He'd even gone through the trouble of tracking down the other half of our watch team—on the Summiteer, watch teams were made up of two work teams, so eight men total—and managed to somehow rope them into the mess.
Here's how it went down;
A little while following a hearty lunch—which the mess had slipped some officers' seasonings into as a reward for the crew's hard work—we all found ourselves in an empty Activity Deck 3, which Gideon had pulled some strings to reserve it for our use. Normally, the activity decks—of which there are three—are always filled with off-duty sailors working out, sparring, or other physical activities, but today was different.
The first thing I saw as I followed Gideon in was the shine of polished brass. The second thing I saw was a pair of void-black auto-optics that cut right to my soul—the cold property of Watch Leader Hathwell, the woman in charge of both the other half of the watch team and the watch team in general.
Rose-Anne Hathwell is a grizzled sort through and through. This'll be her eighth voyage and she's reportedly killed half a dozen men in single combat during boarding actions. Given the brasswork polished to a mirror-like finish replacing the lower half of her face and the notched boarding axe dangling from her belt, that's a claim I believe entirely.
To be honest, Hathwell scares me more than I'd like to admit and it's not the fact she's near twice as strong as me that does it—she's at the peak of First Heat—it's her eyes.
She's got the kind of eyes that you'd see in the oldest of street kids, the ones that survived where others didn't. When I was younger, I used to believe that you'd be trapped in eyes like that if you looked too long. I don't remember if that was something someone told me or if I just came up with it on my own, but I can't help but feel unease whenever I catch her gaze.
Fortunately, I don't have to spend much time thinking of her eyes as Gideon quicklyhopes hops atop a nearby crate and calls everyone's attention with a sharp clap of the hands. The smack of skin on skin sets our ears to rattling as the sound echoes off the mostly-empty planks of the activity deck.
Gideon—dressed in his set of officer's exercise fatigues, which is rather at odds with everyone else's semi-casual get-up—has a big smile on his face as he addresses the collected watch team. "Good afternoon, everyone, I hope you had a pleasant luncheon!" His hands stay glued to his hips as we muster a somewhat lacking 'yes sir' in response, "I'm sure you're wondering why I've gathered you here today and I'm pleased to announce that it's going to be fun!"
"Gallows," Hathwell's voice is a dry monotone as she folds her arms together, "stop talking and get to the point."
Gideon's smile doesn't waver an inch as he takes her words in step, "Good spot, dear Rose-Anne!" Nodding gracefully, he fills his chest with air as his tooth-filled smile somehow grows even wider, "I thought to myself long and hard on how we could better strengthen our camaraderie, ourespirit esprit de corps, and recalled how a small and factionalized single-system polity like the Solar Federation can tussle with the likes the Crimson Empire and come out on top."
A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck as I called upon my knowledge of astropolitics and came to a rather startling realization. The Federation is less a single, organized polity and more a group of loosely-allied mega-corporations all vying for dominance over the Sol System and the various galactic trading networks. Individually, not a one could stand up to a light breeze let alone the predations of the galactic superpowers. However, as the old Crimson Emperor learned in a way-most-final, the moment an outsider dares try, they merge their individual economic and industrial strength into a single, empire-shattering behemoth of a union, utterly destroy whatever forced them to put aside their differences, and go right back to squabbling amongst themselves once the deed is done. Supposedly, the Federation is built upon an ancient Terran treaty called 'NATO'—whatever that stands for, anyways.
Regardless, Gideon surely can't mean what I think he means... right?
Gideon picks that moment to break the uneasy silence that had fallen across the gathered group of First Heat cultivators. "All of you, together, are going to be fighting me!"
You could've heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. We did, in fact, hear the apple Jimmy brought fall from his hands.
"B-boss," Jimmy stutters as his eyes bulge from atop his reedy neck, "you can't be serious!"
"Lies are for those not named Gallows!" Gideon responds with a phrase that sounded like he'd heard it a thousand times before—likely because he had.
...I just heard last call for dinner. I'll have to fill you in with how that went down in the next entry. Suffice to say, though, it went a little something like;
[ ] A - 'We got our asses kicked, handily' (+ Resistance to Morale Shock)
[ ] B - 'We managed to fight it out to a draw' (+ Improvisation Ability)
[ ] C - 'Somehow, against the odds, we won' (+ Combat Skills)
0~0~0
AN: Sorry for not posting yesterday, but here's one now!
No moratorium
The mood among the men is quite chipper as we go about our day and I am no different—just one more grin in the crowd. I write these words from the Summiteer's observation deck, my legs dangling off the side as I watch the stars pass us by underneath, above, and beyond the bounds of the shipsoul's protection. The reason for these good spirits is a simple, yet entirely welcome surprise: we arrived early to the Four-Fingers!
The Four-Fingers Nebula is a mostly orange-blue cloud of proto-star-stuff suspended in the empty void of the astral sea. Vaguely resembling a splayed-out hand missing the index, the inspiration behind its name is as obvious as a piece of shoddy welding. The nebula's gulf—a three-thousand nautical mile long stretch of space starting at the tip of the thumb, continues all along the interior of the hand, before ending just off the middle finger's nail—is a vital navigation point for the war material the Concordat needs to keep fighting its idiotic war against the Empire. Why they thought it was a good idea to challenge the Empire before they'd even finished licking their wounds from the Skinner's Run debacle is beyond me, but the Callaxians have never been the smartest bunch of war-mongers.
I suspect that a portion of our early arrival was at least in part due to the cleaning efforts of the team and I. Star-slime has the unfortunate result of making ships 'stick' to the astral sea. Rarely does it build up to anything truly impactful, but perhaps staying on top of it provided enough additional speed to cut travel time by a day?
Regardless, as is naval tradition upon arriving anywhere earlier than anticipated, the Captain announced a free day for all non-vital crew. The poor sods playing Stokermen down in the boilers won't have the day off, but such is life at sea. If the boilers run cold, the shipsoul falls to torpor, and we all die of exposure to the astral waves.
Sure, the life boats might save a few, but I wouldn't trust that the pressure found within wouldn't kill us just as dead as the sea. You're essentially riding inside a boiler, completely unharnessed by gravity, and expecting it not to kill you—
Speaking of ludicrous things, when I sat down to write in this journal earlier today, I'd found that the user-pressurized pen I'd been using had run out of ink! I normally use pencils, as I can very easily fix the spelling mistakes I so carelessly make, but the Scarlet Navy apparently has something of a phobia of such intelligent devices as I can't find any no matter where I look! I even consulted the ship's Purser—Reginald J. Morganski, a wrinkle-browed older man lacking any semblance of humor—but received nothing more than a refilled ink cartridge as an answer! I assume that the luxury of pencils are reserved for the senior officers, much like the good alcohol—not that I partake in imbibing such things, so I suppose it's all hearsay on that matter.
Still, it allowed me to resume journaling, so I suppose it wasn't all bad. It also provided me an opportunity to offload a small portion of pressure I'd been building up in my pipes. With all the stress of life underway, I hadn't yet had the chance to loosen the valves. It's not anywhere close to the point of no return, but I've never much liked how pressurized tubes feel in the soul. I know, I know, pressure is good for one's cultivation effectivity, but that doesn't mean I have to enjoy it.
Regardless, as discussed in the previous entry, I planned to spend more time with my crewmates to both better understand and better coordinate with them when the proverbial excrement strikes the atmospheric agitator. As the day-off was the perfect opportunity for such activities, I approached Gallows on the matter. He was, perhaps worryingly so, absolutely ecstatic at the prospect of a 'team building exercise'—which is what he described it as, anyways.
Following our chat, Gideon had spent the rest of the morning working fervently to acquire the necessary materials for the 'exercise'. He'd even gone through the trouble of tracking down the other half of our watch team—on the Summiteer, watch teams were made up of two work teams, so eight men total—and managed to somehow rope them into the mess.
Here's how it went down;
A little while following a hearty lunch—which the mess had slipped some officers' seasonings into as a reward for the crew's hard work—we all found ourselves in an empty Activity Deck 3, which Gideon had pulled some strings to reserve it for our use. Normally, the activity decks—of which there are three—are always filled with off-duty sailors working out, sparring, or other physical activities, but today was different.
The first thing I saw as I followed Gideon in was the shine of polished brass. The second thing I saw was a pair of void-black auto-optics that cut right to my soul—the cold property of Watch Leader Hathwell, the woman in charge of both the other half of the watch team and the watch team in general.
Rose-Anne Hathwell is a grizzled sort through and through. This'll be her eighth voyage and she's reportedly killed half a dozen men in single combat during boarding actions. Given the brasswork polished to a mirror-like finish replacing the lower half of her face and the notched boarding axe dangling from her belt, that's a claim I believe entirely.
To be honest, Hathwell scares me more than I'd like to admit and it's not the fact she's near twice as strong as me that does it—she's at the peak of First Heat—it's her eyes.
She's got the kind of eyes that you'd see in the oldest of street kids, the ones that survived where others didn't. When I was younger, I used to believe that you'd be trapped in eyes like that if you looked too long. I don't remember if that was something someone told me or if I just came up with it on my own, but I can't help but feel unease whenever I catch her gaze.
Fortunately, I don't have to spend much time thinking of her eyes as Gideon quickly
Gideon—dressed in his set of officer's exercise fatigues, which is rather at odds with everyone else's semi-casual get-up—has a big smile on his face as he addresses the collected watch team. "Good afternoon, everyone, I hope you had a pleasant luncheon!" His hands stay glued to his hips as we muster a somewhat lacking 'yes sir' in response, "I'm sure you're wondering why I've gathered you here today and I'm pleased to announce that it's going to be fun!"
"Gallows," Hathwell's voice is a dry monotone as she folds her arms together, "stop talking and get to the point."
Gideon's smile doesn't waver an inch as he takes her words in step, "Good spot, dear Rose-Anne!" Nodding gracefully, he fills his chest with air as his tooth-filled smile somehow grows even wider, "I thought to myself long and hard on how we could better strengthen our camaraderie, our
A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck as I called upon my knowledge of astropolitics and came to a rather startling realization. The Federation is less a single, organized polity and more a group of loosely-allied mega-corporations all vying for dominance over the Sol System and the various galactic trading networks. Individually, not a one could stand up to a light breeze let alone the predations of the galactic superpowers. However, as the old Crimson Emperor learned in a way-most-final, the moment an outsider dares try, they merge their individual economic and industrial strength into a single, empire-shattering behemoth of a union, utterly destroy whatever forced them to put aside their differences, and go right back to squabbling amongst themselves once the deed is done. Supposedly, the Federation is built upon an ancient Terran treaty called 'NATO'—whatever that stands for, anyways.
Regardless, Gideon surely can't mean what I think he means... right?
Gideon picks that moment to break the uneasy silence that had fallen across the gathered group of First Heat cultivators. "All of you, together, are going to be fighting me!"
You could've heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. We did, in fact, hear the apple Jimmy brought fall from his hands.
"B-boss," Jimmy stutters as his eyes bulge from atop his reedy neck, "you can't be serious!"
"Lies are for those not named Gallows!" Gideon responds with a phrase that sounded like he'd heard it a thousand times before—likely because he had.
...I just heard last call for dinner. I'll have to fill you in with how that went down in the next entry. Suffice to say, though, it went a little something like;
[ ] A - 'We got our asses kicked, handily' (+ Resistance to Morale Shock)
[ ] B - 'We managed to fight it out to a draw' (+ Improvisation Ability)
[ ] C - 'Somehow, against the odds, we won' (+ Combat Skills)
0~0~0
AN: Sorry for not posting yesterday, but here's one now!
No moratorium
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] B - 'We managed to fight it out to a draw' (+ Improvisation Ability)
This sounds like the most likely to save our bacon in an otherwise bad situation.
Actual improved morale would be better, but A is not that, it's only resistance to losing it, which is not bad, but not as good as arranging things so you don't lose it in the first place, IMO.
This sounds like the most likely to save our bacon in an otherwise bad situation.
Actual improved morale would be better, but A is not that, it's only resistance to losing it, which is not bad, but not as good as arranging things so you don't lose it in the first place, IMO.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] A - 'We got our asses kicked, handily' (+ Resistance to Morale Shock)
Best he learns how to roll with the punches early.
Best he learns how to roll with the punches early.
- Location
- Space between realms
- Pronouns
- He
[X] A - 'We got our asses kicked, handily' (+ Resistance to Morale Shock)