[img]https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/001/525/887/large/ironbelly-studios-humanbattleship.jpg?1447973555[/img] [sub]Aboard the [i]ARS Suleiman[/i], flagship of the Second Fleet...[/sub] The [i][abbr=”Archduchess’ Royal Ship]ARS[/abbr] Suleiman[/i], despite being the flagship of Her Majesty the Archduchess’ Second Fleet, often found itself delegated mainly to patrol duty in Jovian space. It wasn’t as though Europa was engaged in a multitude of conflicts, but to see such a magnificent ship delegated to coast guard duty didn’t always sit well with the admiralty. One such grumpy admiral was none other than the ship captain himself: Admiral Hercules Muhammed Wellsley. Admiral Hercules Muhammed Wellsley, as one would note quite quickly upon seeing him, was a chimpanzee, specifically an uplifted one - a simmie, as his kind was called. He was in his graying years, with large ashen bushes growing on his brow, and his once dark brown scalp, neck and back growing ever lighter. He wore a scowl, one aimed sharply at the ray-shield monitor before him. The bridge of the [i]Suleiman[/i] was propped full of cadets, technicians, knights and engineers, competing with the beeping and rumbling of the machinery around them for who could be the loudest. The admiral offered a growl and tapped around on the display, the screen switching to show the near-space radar scans from the last few minutes. A blinking dot on the screen caused his eyes to narrow. “Ms. Senai? Remind me - has Overwatch received any transmissions of inflights in this sector?” A dark skinned woman in her late thirties overlooking a monitor beside him pursed her lips and switched around the displays, pulling up a log. “One minute, admiral. Search: Augustus Sector, Jupiter’s orbit above gas drill station Ivan.” A brief beep signalled the computer’s confirmation of the order and the list turned to a blur as it scrolled through the logged reports of flights through Europan space. After thirty seconds or so, the blur became intelligible again. Natsinet Senai swiped the list to the left, sending it to the admiral’s display. “At 23:31, a small freighter by the name of ‘Theogony’ sent in a notice of passage, which was cleared by Overwatch.” The admiral looked at the time and sighed: 04:59. “Acknowledged. Performing standard verification procedures and all that... What was the registration code on the [i]Theogony[/i]?” “IPF20BAA-9.” “Very good. Mr. Lavigne, run close image scans - verify that the ship code matches the one in the register. Mr. Brun, bring me a cuppa.” “Yes, admiral!” shouted Mr. Brun over the noise of the bridge and jogged to the water boiler. The admiral flecked his lower set of fingers and rolled his head around his neck. For fifty years, he had been an admiral of the Royal Navy - this sort of work was beneath him. He gave his temple a slow rub. “Uh, admiral?” The ape raised a brow. “Yes, Mr. Lavigne?” The radar operative enlargened his own display so the whole bridge could see. “Take a look at this.” He enhanced the image. “The code doesn’t match. This one’s VL2991.” “That’s not a freighter at all, actually,” Ms. Senai added. “That’s a corvette. A shabby one, too.” The admiral felt a small rush. Finally - some action. He sat himself properly in his chair and copied a live feed of the the imaging display onto his own monitor. “A gas runner, huh? Probably thought Ivan would be a quick in-and-out. I would not be buying lottery tickets if I was them.” Those around him snickered. The admiral smirked. “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, let’s not allow them to sully Her Majesty’s industrial parks any longer. Lt. Yung, sound the alarm; Ms. Keaton, open up a communication’s channel; Cpt. Schmidt, have the cannons manned and missiles locked. Aim for thrusters with intention to clip their wings - the gas runners will hang from the gallows in Aaland, as all who defy Her Majesty’s laws will.” “Affirmative, admiral,” the three of them shouted in response and the alarms blared swiftly thereafter. A Europan ship-of-the-line like the [i]ARS Suleiman[/i] had what some considered to be unnecessarily large crews, as though the modernisation of their fleet had thrown advanced AI to the winds. While that was certainly the case, it also stemmed from a wish among the admiralty for a return to the glorious past - a manned navy, free of the terrors of the cold AI that so tortured their system. There sounded mechanical thunder as the broadside cannons exited their hatches. Above, the woosh of air blasting out of open missile pods sent shivers through the ship. Companies of spacers on the floors beneath the bridge ran back and forth between the armoury and the cannon controls. “They’re responding to our communications request, admiral. Bringing them up on the screen now.” Ms. Keaton flicked the display over to a large, central hub screen on the wall. The channel opened, revealing four filthy faces, two humans, one diwa and what looked like a skimpy jarian. They appeared frozen with fear. The admiral put on a face like stone and collected his hands behind his back. “Good evening, scoundrels. This is admiral Hercules Muhammed Wellsley of Her Majesty Archduchess Aurora Saint-Mary Rosenkrantz-Monsoiller’s royal navy. Per the rules of Port Europa and the laws of the Panhuman Empire to whom we swear loyalty, your ship is trespassing on royal property. Remove yourselves from the premises or expect to be treated like the pirates you are.” “S-shit, Donnie, it’s the… Oh, God, shit, shit, SHIT!” came a whimper from the jarian. One of the humans and the serengeti exchanged looks of terror. “W-we d-didn’t--! W-we’ll get out of here!” The human scrambled to reach the other side of the cockpit which they were in and started mashing buttons desperately. “Admiral,” said Mr. Lavigne. “We can confirm that the target has maxed its thruster output in a direction away from gas station Ivan.” Admiral Wellsley spat dryly. The communication channel closed. “What do you think are the chances that they took something?” “Uh, small, sir. They were still on their way to the station by the time we intercepted,” Mr. Lavigne added. Heads were turning to face the admiral. Wellsley pursed his lips. “Small is still a chance. This could’ve been their tenth run tonight, for that matter. I do not play with chances.” He hopped back onto into his chair and pressed a button. “Cpt. Schmidt, disable their thruster capabilities.” There came a few gasps. Mr. Lavigne rose out of his seat. “Admiral, they retreated. Is this really necessary?” “They’re pirates, Mr. Lavigne, destined to hang from the neck until dead. A running pirate is nothing more than a running criminal. Lt. Yung, have boarding fire up the tractor beam.” Mr. Lavigne furrowed his brow and sat back down. There came a thunder from below deck and the radar display showed three gray dots travelling towards the targeted ship with a mighty speed. Infrared imaging of the target showed three brief flashes of white before the hot white which had been the thrusters began to cool. “Confirmed hits on all three thrusters, admiral,” shouted Lt. Yung. “Good. How’s that tractor beam coming along?” “Already active, sir. The corvette is getting closer as we speak.” “Very good. Have the romsoldats bring them in once they’re close enough. Tell them to employ stun weapons; if they resist, switch to lethal.” “Understood, admiral.” As orders were repeated into speakers, Wellsley leaned back into his chair to observe. He cast occasional glances over at Mr. Lavigne, who sometimes looked judgingly back at him. Radar operators… They never had the gall to do what was necessary, he felt. No matter. He would learn as all his men and women had. Besides, nothing broke the monotony of this job like a good hanging at dawn.