[b]HMP [i]Anson[/i], Mountbatten Sector, Albion[/b]
[i]Imperial Standard Date: 23rd December 3160[/i]

“[i]Anson[/i] control to incoming vessel, please identify yourself immediately. Repeat, identify yourself, incoming vessel.” The tinny voice crackled through the speakers on the bridge of the HMS [i]Bodkin[/i]. A searchlight, dazzling in the darkness of space, swept across the deck, projected from some far watchtower. All around, gunboats circled, patrolling the skies with steadfast vigilance.

Luther Carrington tapped a button on his console and spoke. “[i]Anson[/i] control, do you read me? This is Captain Sir Carrington of the [i]Bodkin[/i], requesting permission to put in and drop anchor.”

“Reading you loud and clear, Sir. You have the go-ahead to moor at pier 6-B. Repeat, 6 Bravo. God save the King.”

“God save the King!” Returning to the helm, Carrington took hold of the controls and slowly guided his warship in. Pier 6-B was at the far end of the prison docks, and the crew stood at the portholes to take in the impressive, if bleak, view. The [i]Anson[/i] was a strange beast, a prison built in two halves. Originally, it was just the old dreadnought that listed to one side slightly, its innards gutted and its starboard broadside cannons removed to make space for hundreds of cramped, freezing cells for the very worst of Albion’s miscreants. Those of them who weren’t quite vile enough to face the gallows or a firing squad, at least. On the port side, the guns remained, bristling outwards in a formidable display of firepower, ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice on attackers from outside, or any would-be escapees from within – not that there had been one of them for over twenty years. Since its establishment, the prison had had cause to grow, a considerable effort which involved hitching the lifeless hulk to a multitude of tugboats, and bringing it to rest about a hundred metres from the nearest asteroid. HMP [i]Anson[/i] had quickly tripled in size since then, new cell blocks being painstakingly carved by the bloodied hands of hundreds of convicts, directly out of the solid rock. Watchtowers and gun emplacements jutted upwards from the surface, and a pair of cable cars linked the two halves, themselves watched with spotlights and cannons at all times. Its thrusters powering down, the [i]Bodkin[/i] came to a gentle halt at its assigned mooring, docking tube protruding out from the pier to lock to that of the ship. A flash of green light signalled that an airtight seal had been formed, and Carrington prepared to disembark.

The atrium of the prison, repurposed from what once housed the engines of the [i]Anson[/i] in its sailing days, was a cold, grey, cavernous space, dimly lit by fluorescent strips and with no thought given to decoration. It was fitting, then, that the governor, who shuffled impatiently as Luther emerged from the airlock, was similarly cold and grey, with grey hair, a grey overcoat, and two grey-clad guards who stood stock-still behind him. He took a step forward and stiffly extended a hand. Carrington shook it firmly, giving a polite smile in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. “Luther Carrington, at your service. I do not believe we’ve met…”

“Larkin.” The man replied bluntly. “Governor Larkin. And we have not.”

The Captain nodded. “Then it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Governor Larkin. If you wouldn’t mind, I have an enquiry to make; a lead I’m following up.”

“Then enquire and be done with it. I don’t have all day, Captain.”

“Very well,” Luther grumbled. Clearly, living in such a grim place had thoroughly stripped this Larkin fellow of any sense of hospitality or good manners he may once have had. “I am looking for a Commodore Verity Whitlock, captain of the HMS [i]Illustrious[/i]. She and her squadron have not been heard from in some time, and this is apparently her last known location. You wouldn’t happen to have seen her, or know where she was heading, would you?”

The Governor grunted. “Whitlock… Whitlock… the redhead with a smug little grin glued to her face? Saw her, yes. Didn’t much care for her.”

Carrington barely managed to stop himself from letting out an exasperated sigh. “Smug grins and the absence of care aside, Governor, did she mention anything about where she might be going?”

“Don’t think so, Captain.” Larkin paused and scratched his chin. "No, I don't think I can remember that at all."

The sigh broke out. "Wait here." The privateer disappeared back into his ship for a minute, leaving the Governor with a thoroughly bemused look on his face. Still, he waited, eyes alternating between glancing at the airlock and checking his pocket watch. The door slid open again and Carrington re-emerged, with a large leather wallet and a bottle filled with a deep amber liquid tucked under his arm. He passed the bottle over, and peeled off a small bundle of banknotes from within the wallet. "Here. A small gift, to help you towards an early retirement and to make the nights pass a little easier until that day. Now, are you certain you don't remember anything?"

Something lit up in the Governor's eyes, and he nodded enthusiastically, snatching the bottle and cash with glee. “There was something after all! I was showing Whitlock around the place, at her insistence, and she had to take a call right while I was in the middle of a conversation with her – arrogant little tart that she was. Think she was chatting to a chap named Fleming, by the sound of it." He thought for a second. "Heard the name before, I think. He’s a Navy man, if my memory serves me correctly." He hesitated. "Don’t rightly know where you might find him though...” Luther tutted, sliding a few more notes from the wallet into his hand, and holding them out to the Governor. He grinned. "...although last I heard he was was serving at Fort Rhodes. Might be worth a look. Anyway, she hurried off right quick after that, and took her fleet with her, so that's all I know. Strange business, if you ask me."

Carrington nodded. "You've been a great help, Governor Larkin. Pleasure doing business with y-" A distant yet still deafening boom ripped through the air, the unmistakeable sound of an explosion deep within the heart of the prison. The privateer leapt into action, drawing a pair of heavy autorevolvers from within his coat and barking orders to the marines who raced off the [i]Bodkin[/i] with their carbines raised. Whatever madness was happening now, his business here was not finished yet.