[b]Fort Elizabeth, Bakerloo Line, Albion[/b]
[i]Imperial Standard Date: 22nd December 3160[/i]

The thud of heavy boots echoed rhythmically along the long corridor, three pairs marching in unison past oak-panelled walls and remarkably convincing imitation leaded windows. Outside, sharp neo-gothic spires and ornamented arches rose elegantly upwards, a shining beacon of the grandeur and splendour that was Albion; a nation’s spirit given form in stone and steel. Gangways jutted out from each tower and passageway, ships constantly coming and going, their business here kept short and sweet – the forts of the Line were places few wanted to reside for long, and most civilians who ventured here had far safer and more comfortable homes to return to elsewhere. Luther Carrington cared not. His own business here would take as long as required. It was of the very highest importance. Flanked by a pair of marines from the [i]Bodkin[/i], clad in black armour with pith helmets perched atop their heads and rifles slung across their backs, he strode on, determined and distinctly displeased. His advance drew concerned looks from passers-by, but still they stepped hurriedly out of his path and continued, timidly, with their own affairs. The corridor opened out into a grand lobby, with spiral stairways ascending towards a great glass dome that afforded a spectacular view of the vast expanse beyond. Carrington and his men took the stairs two at a time, at a jog, without pause to admire such distractions. Their steady march began again, and this time, the end was in sight.

The upper level, a circular mezzanine from which several more wide hallways fanned out up short staircases, was smaller than the first, yet lost none of its opulence. The floors resembled marble almost perfectly – although obviously, nobody would use real marble in a deep-space fortification – and Corinthian half-columns were set at regular intervals along the walls, interspersed by tall shelves filled with leather-bound books and records; the paper backup to the station’s electronic data network. Here, tall arched doorways were set back into the walls of each corridor, and inside each one, government and military officials were hard at work. Not hard enough, Luther reflected, as he pounded with a gloved fist on the very largest door. A voice from inside bade him enter.

“Alistair Garrick,” he growled, pacing through the doorway and towards the desk beyond, behind which sat a short, stocky man clad in ill-fitting Navy uniform, with a moustache that was embarrassingly sparse. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but we both know that would be a lie. Would you care to take a guess as to why I am here?” The officer remained silent, eyes betraying a creeping hint of unease. “No? Shall I enlighten you?”

“Has there been trouble with our supply convoys again, Captain?” Garrick ventured, uncertain. “An accounting discrepancy, maybe? I can assure you, we are working very hard to ensure this station is running in sterling order in spite of Commander Atwood's... unfortunate departure.”

Carrington snorted derisively. “Nothing so petty, Garrick. You know damn well I don’t give a shit about your accounts. Yesterday I had to shoot down not one but three Zhi warships that had made it past the line. Three. Past the sector this fort is supposed to monitor and patrol. Explain yourself.”

“Perhaps there was… a fault with our scanners? A glitch? Honestly, Captain, I don’t know how this could have happened!” The officer was speaking too quickly now, abandoning his futile attempt to retain his composure. “I’ll get it seen to right away!”

The privateer took a step closer, looming over the desk. “Don’t bullshit me, you snivelling little coward. Your scanners are working fine.” He gestured out of the window that overlooked the station’s main docking facilities. “Why are there no warships here, Garrick? Where is this station’s garrison fleet?”

“It must be out on patrol this very second, I can assure you!” Alistair responded unconvincingly. “It’ll be back in a matter of hours, I’m certain!”

“I will ask you one more time, before I take this issue directly to High Command. Where. Is. Your. Garrison. Fleet?!” Luther slammed his fist on the desk, hard, to punctuate his words. 

The officer looked on the verge of tears. He sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I… I don’t rightly know, Captain. We’ve had no radio contact for four days now, and no sign of them on the scanners.”

“Who was in command?” The Captain snarled. “How many have you lost?”

“It… it was Commodore Whitlock and her 615th Squadron, Sir. The [i]Illustrious[/i], three frigates, two destroyers, and a fighter wing.”

"Where were they last spotted?"

"Near the [i]Anson[/i], Sir, the prison hulk... I think."

“And you have ships looking for them as we speak? Have the [i]Anson[/i] staff been notified?”

Garrick hesitated. “N-no, Sir.”

Fury blazed in Carrington’s eyes, his knuckles grinding into the wood of the desk to avoid lashing out at the man before him, who stumbled backwards out of his seat and raised his hands instinctively in front of him. The two marines who had accompanied their Captain took a step forward, hands edging towards their weapons. Glancing back, Luther waved them down before they could go any further. Slowly, he rounded the table, Garrick backing away from him as he advanced. “Who is your second in command?” He asked in a hushed tone that barely concealed the rage that bubbled beneath his voice. The officer said nothing, bewildered. Luther repeated his question, every word dripping with venom.

“H-Harold Linsey, Sir.”

The privateer nodded. “I suggest that you find Mr. Linsey, and that you notify him that he is acting commander of this station from this moment forth. Is that clear?”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“You heard me. The enemy managed to cross the Bakerloo line without resistance from your sector. Preventing that exact occurrence was your first and foremost duty. The fact that you have so utterly failed to carry out that duty suggests that you are an incompetent buffoon not fit to command a fucking scrap barge!” Carrington screamed, as the short man before him cowered. “You are a disgrace to your uniform, and a disgrace to the King! Now find Harold Linsey, and tell him that he is in command!” Garrick opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He shuffled back, stumbling on the carpet and landing flat on the floor. The Captain towered over him. “And once that is done, if you have any shred of dignity left in you, you will take your pistol and do the greatest service to His Divine Majesty’s Navy that you possibly could.” At that, he wheeled about and marched out, disgust written across his face.

The brisk walk back to the long pier where the [i]Bodkin[/i] lay at anchor was uneventful. Nobody said a word. Nobody needed to. The grim expressions of Luther and his marines was enough to dissuade any attempt at conversation. Arriving at their moored vessel, the trio stepped inside the airlock as it slid open with a hiss, the Captain removing his glove to place his fingerprint against the identification scanner. It bleeped, flashed green for a moment, and the doors slowly began to close. A distant, muffled gunshot sounded, a split second before the airlock was sealed from the station beyond. Carrington shook his head solmenly, and climbed on board his ship. There was work to do.