MissingAxis

A realistic fantasy roleplay

Interested.

Homeric Greece Nation Roleplay

I would be greatly interested in this.

The Stars Themselves || Sci-Fi Nation Roleplay

Low Akheron Orbit

Twenty-four hours of being awake was uncomfortable, but not particularly difficult. Twenty-four hours of being awake in an already uncomfortable suit, in a cramped capsule, with limited air supply, and a need to stay completely alert at all times was difficult. Kassner had made it through those twenty-four hours, and was approaching the twenty-fifth. He'd been around Akheron over fifty times now, and was just about sick of the damned rock. Mission control checked in a few times an hour, just to make sure he was still breathing. If they took much longer, he reckoned he wouldn't be.

The astronaut wasn't sure how they intended to rescue him. To his knowledge, the other space programs didn't have much but missiles and satellites. Bill figured the Taiben wouldn't be too far behind the rest of them in space capability, if there were any still out there, let alone ones that could stop screaming and killing long enough to inflate a balloon.

Kassner closed his eyes a moment, exhaling and slouching in his seat. He just wanted to relax a moment and forget about space, planets, and moons, about being in a tin can circling the last star in the universe.

He had a daughter back home, just a few years old but still able to tell when something was bad, if you gave her a chance to look at your expression. Bill wondered how she was taking it, or his wife. What did the program tell them? Daddy's work got extended, he won't be home for a couple more days? Your husband's craft malfunctioned, and he's stranded in space, but don't worry, we're asking the Sanctians for help? Did they speak to his family at all?

Would the last thing he said to his family be "I'll see you soon?"

"Control to Gödel. How you holding up, Bill?" The voice was faint in his ear, but he heard it well enough. Not much else to hear, other than his own breathing.

"I'm all right," he mumbled back. "Just getting some shut-eye before the next mission, sir."

"You're sleeping, Kassner? Wake up." Control got an incoherent mumble in reply. "Bill, wake up!"

His eyes opened slowly, and he brought an arm up to his watch. Fifteen minutes had passed; just eleven shy of a full loop. He let his arm drop and his eyes closed another moment.

"I'm all right, Control. Fell asleep a couple seconds, nothing more." His throat was dry, but his voice sounded otherwise fully awake. He opened his eyes again and sat up, checking his watch once more before resuming his staring out the viewport. It wasn't for another moment that he realized his O2 meter was near empty, and he was on his last breaths of pure O2. Kassner was about to unbuckle when he noticed it, a mountain range a dozen kilometers away. His lungs started to burn. The capsule had passed that mountain range half a hundred times, but something about it seemed off. Was he hallucinating? Roughly six kilometers away now. The capsule was much too low.

He flipped the switch for the RCS and spun the capsule around, orienting the single remaining rocket thruster in the few seconds he had to spare. The viewport was now facing the direction he had come from, and he was flying blind. It was set, with seconds to spare, but the astronaut hesitated. He couldn't stop another tumble before his oxygen depleted. The burn would have to be just right or he wouldn't be able to get the tank swapped out with all the spinning. And Kassner couldn't be sure he wasn't actually high enough.

Bill shoved the throttle, and the craft slowly flipped, given no time to accelerate to more than a half-rotation per second. He braced himself, lungs afire as he waited to see if the burn was long enough. "Control," he began.

And when he saw the mountain range pass underneath him, he unbuckled, tossing his spent O2 tank aside and plugging in the new one. Bill gasped for breath, the fire in his chest slowly fading. Control finally got back to him.

"Yes, Bill?"

"I'd really like to talk to my family before I die up here."

With a deep breath, he finished: "Over."

The Stars Themselves || Sci-Fi Nation Roleplay

Passive-aggressiveness must run in the blood of the people in the States. The governor's aide sounded not too dissimilar to the President, the sex difference aside. Alex shifted uncomfortably in his seat upon hearing about the mission's apparent failure. While he couldn't be sure the UCS hadn't been planning on building a nuclear missile base on the largest of Asphodel's moons, he didn't want the mission to fail, either.

"Sorry to hear that," he began, slowly and sincerely. "Now, I'm not entirely sure on our space program's present capabilities, or what I can tell you, but if you don't mind holding a few minutes while I dig up the files, I'll see what we can do for your man up there."

Alex gently set the phone down on his desk, and opened a drawer to retrieve a contact book. In it, the names and phone numbers of every Swehtesh government official in office and on public record. As he stepped out of his office, he flipped through it, looking for a name. There it was, halfway through the book, with red ink scribbled next to it. Once a mid-level administrator like Alex, Peter was now one of the project overseers for the Swehtesh space program, as small as it was. Commandeering his receptionist's desk, Alex dialed the number in the book, and waited.

---

"All right, thanks for holding, Mister President. I've got some good news, some bad news, and some confidential stuff that I won't be telling you. Bad news is that we don't presently have anything sitting around that we can get to Akheron to pick up your man, unless you've got some Sanctian tech-wizardry for a small, unmanned mission."

"Now, the good news: The Swehtesh government is willing to help in any way it can to rescue your stranded spacefarer back home. Tell us what you need and when you need it, and we'll do our best to get it there."

"Okay, Mister President. Give us a call when you need us. Good day. And good luck."

The Stars Themselves || Sci-Fi Nation Roleplay

The humans of Asphodel will claim hex 2117.

The Stars Themselves || Sci-Fi Nation Roleplay

"Oh, what a pleasure." Alex had an expression of mixed confusion and amusement. Sure, his number was given to every country's government as a means to contact the Swehtesh government, but no one actually expected anyone to call it; GGB summits were where most foreign relations were handled, and members of the Body often exchanged phone numbers if they needed to contact one another. Intentionally calls to Alex's office from outside of the country was rare. Last time, it was a governor's aide from the UCS, who tracked down the number and was trying to keep in touch after one of Alex's brief trips to the UCS. His receptionist told her it was the wrong number. He still wasn't sure whether it was for the best or not.

"How can I help you, Henry? I can call you Henry, right?"

The Stars Themselves || Sci-Fi Nation Roleplay

The number on file for the head of the Swehtesh government was not, in fact, the head of the Swehtesh government, but the secretary for one of many heads.

"Alex Stromond's office. The administrator isn't here right now; can I take a message?"

Of course, in the case of national emergencies, you don't leave messages. The young man redirected the President to one of Stromond's advisor's offices, where Alex had said he'd be for the next hour. An hour ago.

"I'm sorry, Mister President, but Alex just left a few minutes ago. Yes, I understand. Of course, I'll connect you to his personal line."

At last, it seemed the President of the United Coalition of States had reached someone of authority... on New Age therapy.

"Hellooo. I can feel that your aura is projecting a sense of need through the line. I believe I know what you are looking for. Yes. You need quantum electron reionization. And we can give it to you, for a low, low price of 5000Σ, at the Flats of Light Quantum Therapization Cent-- Oh, emergency? Very well, Mister President, I will reconnect you, yes. But please consider scheduling a reionization appointment the next time yo--"

"Hello. This is Alex Stromond. What is your business?"

The Stars Themselves || Sci-Fi Nation Roleplay

Born William Kassner and raised in eastern States of the Coalition in a military family, Bill never dreamt he would become an astronaut. Neither did his childhood friends or fellow Air Force pilots, for that matter. Of all the people in the States or even pilots in the Air Force, however, the program selected him. He trained with about a dozen other astronaut candidates, practicing EVA in underwater simulations and enduring the human centrifuge that just left its brief testing phase. And here he was, months later: floating in a tin can four kilometers above Akheron. And here he would stay for the foreseeable future, travelling at six hundred meters per second relative to the moon's surface.

---

"Gödel is beginning approach. Got those numbers for me? Over."

"Roger that, Gödel. Control estimates your periapsis to be three point two kilometers, estimated velocity of seven hundred meters per second.. Do you copy? Over."

"Copy. Sounds like I'll be coming in close and fast. Maybe I'll be able to see the moon-folk wavin'. Over and out."

The moon drew closer, growing to fill the lander's viewport. Bill glanced between his instruments and the viewport, watching as craters and ridges flew by at almost a kilometer per second. For the most part, it seemed, there would be no particular issues with landing. While slopes were common, many of them appeared to be shallow rises, none too difficult to keep the lander safely balanced on. The Gödel continued hurtling over Akheron's surface a little longer.

"This is Gödel to Control. I'm prepared to make the stabilizing burn. Over."

"Copy that, Gödel. Proceed. Over."

His gloved hand on the throttle, Bill glanced once more through the lunar viewport. Turning his eyes back towards his instruments, he gently pushed the throttle for all four engines. Bill felt the craft pushing forward as it belched fire in its wake. He continued throttling upward, willing the Gödel into a higher orbit as the ground raced by just a few kilometers below. The burn was almost perfect.

No one was prepared for three of the four lander engines malfunctioning in sequence, least of the lander's pilot.

"Fuck."

The unbalanced thrust threw Bill and the module into a sickening tumble, and it took all Bill could to do not throw up in his helmet and to yank the throttle down completely. The tumbling continued, but its intensity did not increase. It took just another moment for Bill to activate the stabilizing reaction wheels, but they proved not to be enough, almost worsened the tumble in certain directions. The astronaut closed his eyes and held his breath.

Three seconds can be the life or death of a pilot or astronaut in a combat situation or when they're hurtling at a low altitude over the surface of a natural satellite at nearly a kilometer a second during a maneuver. But Bill took those three seconds.

Tapping the controls quickly, the astronaut activated the module's stabilizing reaction wheels. They began their work of slowly easing the tumbling, but he knew it wouldn't be fast enough. Through the capsule window, Bill watched as the view alternated between black and grey, his hands slowly moving into place over the controls.

"Gödel, do you copy? Over."

"Just a minute."

Bill pulsed the RCS thrusters, timing it with the shift between grey and black, killing the tumble on one axis. Taking a few moments to familiarize himself with the new rhythm, he repeated the process, completely terminating the tumble in a minute. The lander's viewport settled on the horizon, facing prograde.

"All right. Okay." Bill sighed in relief. "Control, this is the Gödel. I've lost three of my engines. No other immediately apparent issues, but my orbit is likely off. I entered a tumble when the engines blew out. Over."

"Roger that. Can you proceed with the mission? Over."

"Negative. The thrust isn't balanced. No way in hell I'm landing this thing or coming back home on my own. Over."

"How much oxygen do you have left? Over."

Bill froze, remembering. The mission was never meant to be long term, with his suit's current tank only supposed to last eight hours, and the spare attached to his seat lasting another eight, in case of complications. He undid the seat buckles and half-stood, reaching into the overhead compartment. A larger tank of oxygen sat just inside the compartment, strapped down, along with a couple more eight hour spares. The engineers complained about the waste of mass allowance, saying there wouldn't be a situation where that much extra oxygen was needed and the craft wouldn't be destroyed, crew included. Bill silently thanked the bureaucrats for denying their appeals to remove the tanks.

"I think forty eight hours. Maybe more. Not much, either way. Over."

"Roger that. Control is preparing a rescue team as we speak. Over and out."

The astronaut closed the compartment and buckled back in. He glanced at his oxygen meter and exhaled slowly. Not long before it was time to switch tanks.

Realms: The Coalition Era (NS Depository)

The Nation Sheet:

Name: Vendici Autarchy
Location within Realm: Coastal lagoon stretching between Galadon and Stahlern.
Species: Human
Racial Traits: Olive skin tones; light brown to black hair; brown, green, hazel, and gold eye colors; typically 5’8” to 6’2” in height, for both sexes.
Brief Overview: The Vendici Autarchy is a small nation with three cities settled in a coastal lagoon, thriving off of trade and foreign diplomacy, maintaining only a small military. Its people are hard working and respectful, seeking self-improvement in their work and worship.

---

Government type: Autocracy, autarch elected through a series of competitive tests involving a number of candidates from a pool of low-level politicians and their subordinates.

Military: The Autarchy maintains a small standing military, mostly in the form of naval patrols and police. Most able-bodied individuals in the Autarchy receive regularly scheduled basic military training, for self-defense as well as in the event that a draft must be called.

Economy: The Vendici economy is fueled by careful negotiation and free trade, using their golden bravos and exotic exports to become a fairly prosperous nation, for its size.

Religion: The Vendici religion has no name or worship procedures. Instead, it is hero worship and the deification of the mortal man who has gone above and beyond. The mythos is scattered and sometimes varied, leaving the canonicity of each tale unknown.

Society: Vendician cities are busy day and night. The hours of daylight are filled with hard work in the docks, shops, and canals; at night, many of the honest folk leave the streets to make room for duelists, consorts, and gamblers. Regardless of the time, Vendicians are respectful of one another, rarely speaking rudely outside of playful banter.

The War of the Great Kingdoms (A Sci-Fi NRP)

Nat awoke, nudged from his sleep by the plane's momentary shuddering. Outside his window, the sun was just beginning to rise over the ocean, partially eclipsed by a wing and rotor. It took a few moments for the administrator to notice the plane's gradual descent, which had been going on for a while before he awoke, judging from the height of the clouds. He sat up in his seat and enjoyed the dawn.

A door in the front of the plane opened some time later and a helmeted man stepped halfway through, the cable attached to his helmet stretched nearly taut. He seemed slightly surprised to see Nat awake, but recovered quickly.

"Wasn't sure you were awake yet, sir. We're nearly there, ten minutes or so." Nodding to the other side of the plane, the man continued: "Shall I wake them, sir?"

Nat looked to his right, having nearly forgotten about his escort and entourage: two trench-coated men with shoulder-holstered pistols, a young man, and middle-aged woman. He shook his head and waved dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I'll wake them as we come in for a landing. As you were, pilot."

The plane touched down just nine minutes later, and the passengers stepped off the plane to be embraced by the fog. The crisp morning air nipped lightly at his exposed neck and cheeks, but he was warm enough beneath his thick woolen great coat. The same could not be said of his young aide.

"Cold, Arne?"

"No, sir. It's quite refreshing, actually." Nat saw the man rub his hands together and breath gently on them. He had forgotten his coat at the airport, but pretended otherwise to avoid looking a fool in front of his superiors. The administrator smirked and continued walking. The aide would learn soon enough either to admit his mistakes, or remember his damned coat.

"Claudia?"

"I have them."

"Good."

* * * * *

Nat's party wasn't the first to arrive in the forum chambers, but few enough had been there before him that he still had time to prepare. While Arne set up at the large circular table that sat in the theater's center, the administrator and Claudia stepped off into the projector's control room.