Penny

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Junebug had been in class one triage facilities on three prior occasions. Once on Temlek where artillery fire had gotten through the net of anti-ordance plasma guns and blasted the gun pits that she and her troops had been sheltering in whilst waiting for the reliving column to break through. A nearby vehicle had been hit and she had been sprayed with burning petroleum. Another time on Chadon’s World, a directional mine had gone off beneath her combat car. She had been riding in the left wing gun and had been tossed clear before the secondary explosions had slagged the vehicle. A third time on Chalcedon she had been shot in a rear area when a bar fight escalated unexpectedly.

Just because a sensation was familiar didn’t make it pleasant. The Terrans, like the Armored, used direct nerual impulse generators rather than anaglgesics once a soldier was safely in a med center. There were fewer side effects and they were more reliable. They also tened to scramble the mind of the patient when they were turned off. Light was suddely very bright on her eyes and she tried to cry out. Neraby a male voice said something and the light dimmed. After a moment she realised she was laying in a medicomp. Several nurses or doctors stood around looking at holographic read outs.

“Easy there Captain how are you feeling?” A man in a surgical mask asked. His right eye was covered with some sort of imager the clicked and whired. There was a powerful taste of antisceptic in the back of her throat.

“Just aces,” she tried to say but her mouth felt gummy and the words came out garbled and unintelligble. Frowning she tried again.

“Just aces,” she responded, clearer this time.

“Can I have some water?” she asked. Her mind knew she should be concerned with where she was, the last thing she remembered was shooting someone on a ship, though she couldn’t quite remember why or who exactly. SHe had shot alot of people afterall her mind rationalized.

“Not just yet,” the doctor replied, “we need to see how the resynths hold up.” As he spoke he glanced over at one of the techs who was cycling through a series of read outs.

“You were in quite a state, very lucky that the overpressure didn’t flat out smash any organs,” the doctor went on. He sounded proud, pleased that nature hadn’t been allowed to take its course.

“Sir I’m ready to return to my unit,” she mumbled. Judging from the confusion that clouded the physician’s eyes that wasn’t quite the right response either. He exchanged looks with someone too far out of her field of view for her to see. Junebug tried to turn her head but the medicomp wouldn’t allow it.

“Where am I?” she asked looking around. It was high tech for certain, probably better than most of the field surgical centers the Armored had used. State of the art without a doubt.

“You are aboard the Terran Vessel November Sky,” a voice said from behind her, a moment later a mustachioed man strode into view. He had a wirey dangerous look and his eyes glinted with intelligence. A Terran warship? She had a confused recollection of the Terran’s having captured the highlander. Adrenaline surged through her system and several alarms began to beep.

“Not to worry, you and your friends are our guests, your employers you might say,” the man went on. He clearly intended to say more but Taya pushed past him and hugged Junebug, even though most of her body was still within the medicomp.

“It is good to have you back Junebug!” the girl all but wept.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

The sealant fizzed and spawled as it expanded to fill the rent in the hull. The wind and rain whisked away the worst of the chemical stink but there as enough that Rene could still feel it burning at the back of his throat. The polymers in the paste straightened and expanded into something fairly close to steel in its tensile strength, it was designed to patch leaks in starship hulls long enough for them to touch down for more permanent refit. It had come as a mild surprise that it wasn’t in as sad a shape as the rest of the Bonaventure seemed to be but he supposed that given the complete lack of anything else, one had to have sealant or to have voided ones atmosphere.

“Alright, I think I’m ready,” Rene said into the communicator Solae had given him. Getting the barge into something vaguely like seaworthy condition had taken nearly two hours. He was soaked to the bone but had stripped down to his trousers and boots after it became clear that the we weather gear was both inadequate to keeping him dry and too hot to work in. Rene tossed the sealant can into the boat with a clang. He supposed he could have just as easily tossed it to the sand but he was instinctively reluctant to litter for no better reason than his own laziness. The universe should have an order, Rene had always been taught, and it was a lesson that life in the Marines had done little to contradict.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t bring out the engine?” Solae’s voice spoke in his ear. Rene smiled and shook his head even though she couldn’t see the expression.

“We need to keep the weight down,” he told her as he trudged down the wet sand and collected a spool of cabling. The cable was a boron mono crystal weave, lightweight but insanely strong, he fixed it to the davot at the stern of the ship and then turned to face the sea. It was still churning but the fury of a few hours ago seemed to be subsiding.

“I’m going to be off the radio for a minute,” Rene told his lover, “I need to get a little wet for this next part.” He carefully took the radio out of his ear and slipped it into a waterproof plastic bag which he secured beneath a metal waste bucket he had salvaged from the barge. This next bit would be dangerous but he hadn’t explained that to Solae. There was no point in her worrying and the tide was rising quickly. It was already filling the long trench in the sand Rene had dug with an entrenching tool, creating a makeshift slipway. High tide would be in twenty more minutes and he didn’t want to waste this chance. Kicking off his boots he strode into the water, shouldering the coil of cable. When it reached his breast he dove into the water kicking powerfully against the incoming tide, his athletic body driving him through the water with long powerful strokes.

It only took about two minutes to reach the edge of the shallows where the water surged and churned around large rocks or reefs hidden beneath the waves. White water surged around as the wind and surf crashed on the unseen obstacle. Rene dived beneath the water as a large wave swept over him. The salt content on Panopontus was lower than that of Capella and although the water was milky with kicked up silt it didn’t sting his eyes the way a more saline ocean would have. Kicking down he drove himself underwater down towards the large rock outcropping. A sudden wave drove him against the rock and he only just managed to pivot and take the impact with bent knees rather than with his neck. As quickly as he could he pulled himself around the rock, looping the cable around. The next wave drove him hard against the rock and he felt the impact of the jagged semi porous limestone like a hammer, palish red fluid diffused from where the impact had torn his shoulder in a superficial pressure cup. His lungs burned and his muscles ached but he finally made it all the way around the submerged rock face. The next wave drove him away from it, back towards the beach and he caught the line and snapped the attachment end to the portion he had already laid out, then kicked hard to get above the water. A wave smashed him in the face as he broke the surface and he sucked down a lungful of water. Coughing an spluttering he turned and gasped for air, pulling himself back to shore along the now secure line.

The whole operation had taken about ten minutes but his body burned with exertion as he pulled himself onto the beach and flopped over onto his back, letting the rain patter down over his face. His right shoulder was bruised and bloodied but that was a small price to pay. Pressing himself to his feet he half walked half staggered down the beach to where the barge waited, tethered to the submerged rock. Retriving his radio he pressed it back into his ear.

“...alright?” came Solae’s concerned voice at once.

“Rog… I mean yes I’m alright,” he told her rubbing at his shoulder before climbing over the bulwark and into the dilapidated barge. At the bow was a large hydraulic winch into which he fed the line.

“Alright wish us luck,” he said and tumbled the activation stud. It sputtered for a moment as the flywheel spun up and then began a slow clunking turn, drawing in the line like an angler bringing in a particularly large fish. As the slack ran out the cable lifted from the sea until it reached the rock where it suddenly snugged. The winch growled and protested, straining against the line, but it had been built to drag up pieces of coral that weighed several tons. With a grind of sand beneath the hull the barge slipped into the spillway and slid six feet, then ten, then was completely afloat. Rene let the barge drift out to a point where it would still be afloat at low tied and then snugged up the cable he had attached to a large tree on shore. The barge came to a stop between its two anchor points. Rene let out a sigh of relief. It was one thing to say a thing was possible, another thing to accomplish it. They still needed to load the simple engine Solae and Mia were putting together, but one thing at a time.

“Alright we are afloat,” he declared in a tired but triumphant voice.

“I’m on my way back now.”

Damned to the Depths

“The Weather Witch,” Calli prompted as she unstoppered one of the rum bottles with her teeth and took a fortifying slug. It was rotgut compared to what she had been enjoying in the palace only a few hours before. Still it was better than nothing.

“She’s down by The Old Grave.” The Weather Witch was a twelve gun sloop of war, or at least theoretically. It had been captured trying to slip past customs with a load of cacao. The captain had officially being arrested for not paying his taxes, though the truth was that the man had foolishly tried to short a port official on his bribe. It was extremely dangerous to deny an official his hard earned kick back, especially when he had already paid her for the honor of an appointment to the customs dock. It was amazing what some people would to to try to save a few florins. Though the Witch could carry twelve guns, the captain had long ago sold most of the artillery, a fact Calliope hadn’t felt necessary to list on the bill of auction she had signed. As of two days ago the Witch had only four guns and almost no shot and powder. Still a ship was a ship.

“Well anyone wearing a uniform will be laying low for a while,” Calliope reasoned, glancing unconsciously towards the palace at the top. Revolutions were easy to point in a direction but once they went off they were a little unreliable. The mob might have started out filled with righteous anger, but that would be dissipating in an orgy of drunken looting that might last days. Sebastian might be able to get a few of the more hardcore revolutionaries to listen, but she doubted he could control the port for days yet.

“Working the Witch with just two people will be a bitch and no mistake,” she went on. Calliopie had been on ships of course, before she had become Tyrant but she didn’t pretend to be a real sailor. She noticed that Markus had fallen silent as though expecting something and she realized she hadn’t told him her name. It might perhaps have been wiser to make up some sob story about being a low level courtier, or some such nonsense but this was still her city. Instead she tossed her hair definitely.

“My name is Calliopie,” she said airily.

“You may have heard of me,” she added with dry understatement.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

“Interesting,” York said, examining Neil’s hand as though he thought he ought to have it amputated. After a moment of uncomfortable silence he let the pilot’s hand drop and returned to his desk. The holographic display flickered into high resolution shots of Neil’s hand, clearly taken by recorders hidden in the walls or ceiling. Patterns of light, clearly a computer imposition flashed over the tattoo, but they seemed to lose resolution and fade out before every quite completing.

“There are some people, quite a body of experts actually, who would suggest we toss you in a lab for the rest of your life,” York said with a touch of dry amusement to his voice.

“If all you too are going to do reminisce about old times I dont see why we need to be here,” Saxon hissed, folding his muscular arms infront of his body. York nodded as though Saxon had made a good point. The intelligence operative raised his hand in a languid guesture. Two Terran marines in full battle gear stepped towards Saxon. The Hex hissed and shoved at the nearest guard, his companion drew a thick black rod from his belt. Snarling, Saxon shoved the first guard into the second, smashing the armored marine to the ground like a bowling pin. Taya screamed and ducked behind a chair as the Hex swung around and leaped at York, clawed fingers outstretched. The spy moved like a snake, he seemed to twist out from his chair like vapour, catching hold of Saxon’s body armor while he was in mid air and pivoting with his body, hurling the airborne lizard through the hologram and into the wall beyond. The bulkhead dented inward as several hundred kilos of Hex crashed into it. York was on him in an instant he drew his hand back and delivered a single sharp blow to the back of Saxon’s neck. The Hex spasmed and went limp. York stood up as though he was stepping out of a limo and resumed his seat. There was a dry alien sound that it took a moment for the occupants of the room to recognise as Sven’s laughter.

The shame faced marines grabbed the unconscious Hex and dragged him from the room. A moment later they reemerged and escorted the still laughing Sven from the room. There was a moment of silence broken only by the click of keys at the Terminal. York, not even sweating, paused in his typing and looked up at Taya. The girl met his eyes, though she looked terrified. After a moment of eye contact York nodded and killed the display.

“Fortunately there will be plenty of time for that if things don’t go well,” York continued as though the interruption had never happened. He tented his fingers before him and leaned forward.

“Terran Intelligence has a project for you Mr Edwards,” York stated pleasantly.

“If this project goes well, we can probably find it in our heart to forget about a few convient archaeologists.”
@POOHEAD189

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

No problem, just wanted to be sure before I start the next step.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

@Fetzen Still with us?

Damned to the Depths

Calliope gasped lungfuls of air, her throat burned like the very devils. She had just enough time take in the fact she was still alive before the mob, baying for her blood, came charging down the stairs, torches and bloody knives waving. At their head dressed in an elegant and expensive suit of armor was Caliban, one of Sebastian’s chief lieutenants.

Her captor, a dirty looking man with dark hair in a ponytail, rightly judged that the mob would tear him apart and grabbed her and pulled her away from the cell. He seemed to be leading her towards a cracked culvert where the waste from the prisons open latrines flowed. Calliope was in no position to argue even though the wretched smell made her half gag. As she turned she looked back over her shoulder and shouted another word of power. It came out as more of a hoarse croak but the actual sound of the utterance mattered less than the mental focus. A shimmering plate of force appeared across the bottom of the stairwell. It was a simply shield spell not good for stopping more than a thrown rock or knife, it shattered almost immediately as the armored Caliban charged into it, but it did check his progress for a half second. Dozens of bodies crashed into him and the front rank of the mob collapsed in a heap. Those behind continued to charge forward, unaware of what was going on at the foot of the step and unable to arrest their progress. The whole mob became a mass of tangled bodies and shouted curses but even had she more powerful magic to hand their was no way they could have dealt with the whole lot of them.

Without a backward glance they fled into the hot foetid darkness of the sewer. Her rescuer, whoever he was seemed to know the way. Was he perhaps a smuggler who had been bringing people in and out of the palace. Whoever the fellow was he clearly realised that now was no time to argue with an angry bloodthirsty mob. That spoke well of him at the very least. Their feet splashed up a spray of stinking waste as they fled down the low tunnel. It twisted and turned but her guide seemed to know the way. Within a minute they burst into small chamber where several smaller tributaries of shit river ran together. THere was also a small exit to the street. The stranger didn’t hesitate taking the exit at a dead run, behind them the sound of the screaming mob was amplifying. She climbed out after him into an alley.

“This way!” she snapped. In her mind she rationalized that it would be safer to stick together, safer for her which was the important thing, but in her heart it was because she didn’t want to be a lone fugitive in a city hunting for her. Moving at a brisk jog they wove their way down the street, passing looted shops and the occasional body. Here and there the riotous mob were drunkenly shouting triumph and looting more prosperous shops. At last they came to a rope makers shop, too poor in attractive women or alcohol to make an attractive target. Furthermore Calliopie knew it to be deserted because the fellow had been thrown in prison for failing to pay his taxes a few days ago. It smelled powerfully f hemp and flax but it was a good place to lay low.

“We should be safe enough here, whoever you are,” she said, her hand rested on her sword. WHoever this was she doubted he had saved her out of some sort of innate goodness of heart.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

After painful consideration I have decided to go with:

@Hour Error@POOHEAD189@Fetzen@Sophrus

Everyones character was excellent and I was sorely tempted to expand the RP but I really wanted to keep the group small. Thank you all so much for you interest!

If I picked your character please move it to the character tab. We will start workshoping shortly.

Dark Streets - Urban Fantasy Noir

Much interrupted by thanksgiving but I should be back in the saddle tomorrow

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

“Ah,” said the Intelligence Officer, “ I should be delighted.” With an unhurried grace he made his way across the room, and took a seat behind the console. With swipe of his finger he bought a holographic display live. The display focus at the eyes of its user and was just a blur of light to anyone else trying to read it. The terminal might have been displaying data, stress readouts, or it might just has easily have been a ploy to make them feel like they were less important than mundane work.

“Firstly my name is Major York,” he said in his tone of faux gentillity, smiling at them like a snake with particularly perfect teeth.

“You are here, because Mr Edwards and Captain Cykalii are wanted for the murder of a team Terran archaeologists about three years ago.

“What!?” Neil spluttered coming to his feet with a look of shock on his face. If York was discomforted or surprised by the reaction he gave no sigh.

“You mean that team of commandos you dropped on us back on Savran?!”

York cleared his throat delicately and turned the display into an omni-directional mode.The screen flashed into holographic images of Neil and Sayeeda with biographical notes in galactic including charges of murder and conspiracy. The photos ranged in quality, old photos from an I.D showed a younger Neil, and a twenty something Sayeeda Cyckali in an officer cadets uniform. More recent footage was of grainy poor quality recording equipment like helmet recorders and gun cams.

“Those would be the archaeologists yes,” the officer continued a note of wry amusement giving his voice a richer tone than before.

“The Directorate was very insistent you be picked up after the incident,” York continued, “You wouldn’t believe how much time and resources they spent coming space around Fornax for you. Of course you were off taking your little cryo nap at the time. Funny how the universe works.”

The console made a beeping sound and York looked down at something before brightening.

“You will be pleased to know that our surgical computer predicts that Captain Cyckali will make a complete recovery. She should be combat effective by the end of the day. Excellent news!”

“So you shot down all those ships and captured the Highlander to arrest them?” Taya asked, looking back and forth between Neil and York in confusion. York reached up and fiddled with his musache for a moment. Then he clicked a holographic key and the image zoomed in on the strange tattoo Neil had picked up from the Ancient artifact on Savran.

“I shot down all those ships and captured your freighter so that we could talk about this.”