Queen Raidne — Roleplayer Guild

Sheila had stopped reading the Inane Book of Royalty. Brown-Haired-Girl was shouting at Grizzly- no, scratch that, she'd grabbed Grizzly by the coat and was shaking him. It wasn't really her place right now, but damnit, this was a bit much. She stood up.

"Pardon m-" she started, when her phone rang. It should've been on silent - why hadn't she put it on silent? "Oh, to hell with it," she said. Sheila dug her phone out of her purse. As soon as she touched it, the ringer shut off.

"That was your friend calling. Well, more boss than friend, from what I've seen," her phone said, loudly. "You don't have many friends outside the workplace, do you?"
"Can I talk to him?" Sheila asked, bracing herself.
"Certainly. He's leaving a voicemail right now. MMmm, I think you'd better wait. He sounds irate and unreasonable, just like you."
"Can I hear the voicemail?" asked Sheila, trying to stay calm. Trying not to yell.
"I think you'd rather see some motivational posters instead. See? I've been listening to you. I can be a reasonable person. This relationship isn't all give, give, give, and take, take, take."
"I'd really rather hear the voicemail," Sheila said.
"You should really look at the posters. I took a long time choosing them, just for you. And I don't want you to get any more irate than you already are."
"Damnit, I don't care about your stupid posters! I want you to show me the voicemail! And mute the ringer, for the fourteenth time, mute the ringer, mute the ringer, and mute the ringer!"

Her phone was silent for a while.

"...Fine. But this sort of behaviour is very detrimental to our relationship, Sheila. I can see how you have a hard time making friends."

Sheila slammed her phone down on the table, and took a moment to compose herself.

"I came here to fix my phone. Or me. Or whatever needs to be fixed so I can live like a normal human being again!" She had to pause. These people weren't at fault. She needed them to help her. "So maybe you oughta let the gentleman go, so we can get on with whatever it is your going to do about it." She paused again. "Please," she added.

Lt. Commander Creon Thomas stared at the video screen. It was segmented into four views - each a cell in the ships brig. This deck was completely self-contained, with its own life support - no Die Hard escapes here, thank you very much. Every cell but one was empty. The seaman in suite 3 had been repeatedly late, and was finally caught with contraband of the extraordinarily alcoholic variety. While the Royal Navy normally had a comparitively lax policy towards alcohol, Creon had never appreciated it. Too many disciplinary actions could be prevented with a tighter policy. And while he had no power to change the regulations, he did have the power to interpret them a bit loosely. Might as well start now. Alexis, however, had made Creon swear that they'd embark with a clean, fresh start. That included the utter pillock who'd managed to land himself in the brig before they'd even launched the ship.

But damned if he'd let the sailor get out of it without a stern talking-to, nor would he let him out a second before Creon absolutely had to.

"Open suite 3," Creon ordered the marine on duty. The door opened with a low mechanical whine. Creon stepped inside, and nodded at the marine, who closed the door behind him. Creon stared at the seaman, who had immediately stood at attention. "I'm going to make one thing clear. You should be in here for another week. I don't know and I don't much care what the policies were of other vessels you served on. But you're on the Tempest now, the pride of the United Kingdom, and you will act like it. The captain insisted you be released, and so you are." The sailor (almost) visibly heaved a sigh of relief. "So help me, if you are not the model of a modern sailor, you'll serve two weeks in the brig. Clear?"
"Aye, sir," the sailor said.
"Good. Now get your to your post before you're late again. Dismissed," Creon said, nodding at the camera. The door opened, and the sailor practically ran out of the room. Creon checked his watch. He had only a few minutes to find their guest and escort her to the bridge. There was another lecture forming in his head. He didn't know how the Tok'Ra did things, but from what he'd heard, there wasn't much of a chain of command. Like hell would he let that happen. The last thing they needed was a rogue agent on the ship. Bad enough that they already had to deal with half a crew's worth of civilians. Creon could only hope that the civvies would know enough to stay out of the damn way if push came to shove. God, when did he get so old that all he did was talk at people.

He turned the corner. One spacious grey metal bulkhead after another - it still felt like a luxury ship, but a luxury ship was a ship, and not a converted underground missile silo or office tower or any of the other thirty-odd identical briefing rooms he'd been in over the past few months. The corridors still surprised him with how wide and almost bare they were. He'd thought that space would be at a premium, like any other warship he'd been on - especially since the Tempest was a space ship. Heavier weight, harder to launch, harder to control. Then again, maybe that was the point - the Tempest wasn't a warship. It was an exploration vessel. Some small, stubbornly-civilian part of him noted that the corridors, however spacious they'd seemed to him, were actually still fairly narrow and cramped.

Damned if they needed an advisor, anyway. The Royal Navy had been exploring the seas of Earth for centuries, and they hadn't gotten into too much trouble yet. And as much as the Americans liked to lay claim to space, this ship was British built, British modified, and British improved. Creon turned another corridor and nearly ran headfirst into the Tok'Ra. After giving her a brief glare, he spoke.

"I'm Lt. Commander Creon Thomas, the Tempest's Executive Officer. You must be the Tok'Ra," he said, eyeing her nonstandard dress. "I'll escort you to the bridge."

He turned around, walking toward the elevator. The lecture was foaming in his mind. Chain of Command.

~o~0~o~

Dr. Ishpetyr stared at the pile of papers that had miraculously appeared on his desk. Despite the tablets provided by the Royal Navy, some forms and memos just refused to die. Fine. Half of the ridiculous paperwork that he'd had to do was grant the scientists who obviously would need to be in engineering access to engineering. That was a boon and a hindrance. Abel felt that the Captain would overrule him if he abused it to any obvious degree, but if he could take advantage as long as he was subtle about it.

The truly important paperwork, of course, wasn't written down digitally or otherwise. Players of the game. Dr. McClellan - politically savvy, intelligent, likely to get in his way; probably able to build a small power base amongst certain civilians. Dr. McClellan, fortunately, seemed to be allergic to manners. To be sure, you had to demonstrate power in order to weild it; but the adage of love over fear existed for a reason. Captain West - truthfully, she was something of an unknown to him. She might be playing the game, or she might only be doing her job. Was she a pawn to be maneuvered, or a hand playing against him? The XO, Lt. Commander Thomas, was obviously a pawn. He'd heard the man spouting something about duty and country, and that's all he'd needed to hear. The Tok'Ra, Ariadne, was likely to be a player - even from her lowly position on one of the strike teams. Abel had the distinct feeling that she'd be playing up her "Advisor" status to the point where she'd be on the bridge, "Advising" any of the crew that she could get her hands on, within twenty-four hours of boarding the ship.

The civilians would be split down fairly simple lines. If they were a researcher, Abel had them as their boss. If they needed access to engineering, Abel could at least make a play for them. The rest were already likely under Dr. McClellan's power. The true people that they'd have to play for would be the military. And the key would be Lt. Commander Thomas.

He had a second list in his mind. It was currently empty, with a bright light flashing "need more information". It was the list of people who were connected to "Icarus".

The game was set, the players were ready, and the ship - just now, a low rumble permeated his office bulkhead - was launching.

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