Terrans

Empire of the Clouds

Private Aden Robertson

"Why Mister Robertson, I thought you'd never ask!" Zoe declared with a slight smirk, extending a hand politely, to allow him to lead her to the dance floor. She glanced across at Carter, then Volodar and Arkadios, giving a quick eye to what was going on in the room before giving her full attention to Aden.

She still had that slight smirk on her face, as if there were some great joke that nobody else in the room knew about..

@Dyelli Beybi

Aden could admit he had been thrown for a loop. The first reasoning was that Zoe had accepted his offer. The second was that she had been waiting for his askance.

Then he was out on the “dance floor”; fumbling into his position with distant muscle memory. Hands settling in her grip and side respectively. He felt off; the emotional torrent still bubbled under the surface, the song in the background was off-tempo for a waltz and Zoe moved easier and surer in her steps. Aden stumbling slightly as he almost stepped in her left foot.

“Sorry.” He met her gaze. Flashing a grin that was part nervous and part anticipatory. He ignored the slight ache of the stitches and moved for the next set.

He wasn’t sure when he noticed but his attention eventually found Mitunbaal’s. She was watching from the corner. Eyes locked on Aden and Zoe’s movement; but he got the impression Zoe wasn’t cause for her attention.

Aden might have said something; or perhaps returned the gaze of Zoe hadn’t returned from the latest step of the waltz and nearly off balanced him.

Empire of the Clouds

Private Aden Robertson

Aden had been against a wall; making his escape slowly from the room. A mix if anger, shame and guilt still burning in his gut when Zoe appeared as if she was made of shadows.

Or maybe the blood thundering in his ears hid her footsteps.

"So," she declared, with a slight smile forming in the corner of her mouth, "The old boy made it sound like you leaped in front of a bullet intended for the whole crew. If so..." she raised her glass, taking a genteel sip, "Though I must say, I'm distinctly impressed by the quality of the stitches. Excellent work, you're healing up nicely."

She glanced idly around the party, "Nobody is dancing, which is distinctly boring."

@Dyelli Beybi

Compliments was the last thing he expected from her; or an agreement with Carter's ambitious toast for that matter. No sarcasm or ill intent seemed to linger on her gaze or features. Honesty seemed to be her default. It was refreshing and surprisingly it took some of the sting away.

"Do you want to?" Memories of the steps accompanied the days spent learning the common dances; a necessity for an upcoming trader looking to intermingle with the upper crust. If only out of a commonality. Still for whatever reason Aden offered the appropriate arm and bowed his head in askance. "My waltz is serviceable, my lady."

Though doing so in army boots, with a pistol belt and a stitched arm wound would be a new experience for Aden. He wisely left that part out.

Paradise Lost

Velia and John

Shuttles and colony ships definitely differed in their flight systems. There was a major advantage though to the more complicated system of bigger starships; they were often so complex they were automated to a degree. So one could say; initiate some sequences then take a walk to retrieve a next generation assault shuttle stocked with provisions and military equipment.

As John was doing right now with the comm officer Velia in tow. His helmet was back in place though the faceplate was popped and his breather mask dangled from its mounts on the helmet like a wayward branch.

"So I'm guessing you're not the captain of that ship." John broke the silence as he jerked a thumb over his shoulder; back down the concourse. "Any idea on who's leading this little exodus then beyond a rule by committee?"

"The Captain never made it from the surface," Velia replied with a sideways glance at John, "Which probably makes... umm... the pilot, what was its name? Anyway, I haven't read the regulations, but I imagine they are in charge. However, having said that, I'm the girl with the plan who's been at the coal-face of the Station's evacuation plan, so I suggest we don't tell anyone that until we're in space. Then they can appoint the pilot, or vote, or draw straws or whatever, they feel like doing to decide who's going to run the show."

“Wonderful.” John glanced at his erstwhile companion and her civilian attire. “So is there a reason you decided to wear your Civs?”

Not that he cared or was complaining; but it would have been an awkward walk to the bay in total silence.

"You wear a uniform to be recognised," Velia replied, her eyes roaming the corridor as they walked. The interior of the station seemed hotter than before; clearly the station's engineers hadn't located the problem yet. It was at moments like these when dhasath started to stand out; Velia seemed blissfully unaware of the temperature. She paused as a couple of people passed them, waiting for them to be out of earshot before explaining better, "If people know I'm 'that girl from the Colony ship', they start to get agitated about being kept here. People have been demanding I take the ship out for days. I have refused since I'm not a pilot and I figured waiting and praying for one to make it from the surface for a few days was better than me rolling the die with me and hoping not to crash and kill everyone."

“Still rolling a die with me.” John said; feeling the sweat began to appear on his face; untouched by his flight gear’s life support system.

The need to put his faceplate down and embrace the cooling sensation balanced out by the drain of the flight gear outside the shuttle’s power system.

Velia’s condensation free skin, despite her jacket and jeans, plus her tanned complexion and darkened eyes and hair cast a sudden revelation.

“Dhasath?” The word wasn’t an accusation so much as a curious query.

"Don't say that!" Velia exclaimed, then laughed, "Well you have the proper pilot in Navigation so the odds are significantly better. As good as we're likely to get."

She cocked her head to one side, as if wondering where the question was going, "I am."

“Just curious whether you were that or an android who didn’t feel temperature.” John gestured at her garments then his uniform. “I’m feeling the heat even in this.”

Something nagged at the back of his mind.

“Why is this station even heating up anyways? Place can’t be that run down?”

Velia gave a small shrug, "Something is broken. Somebody hasn't fixed it."

She paused, frowned, then held a finger to her lips, stepping back to peer down a corridor they had already passed. When the conversation stopped there was the distinct sound of heavy footfall. A glimpse around the corner showed the Security chief leading a dozen or so security guards behind Divaldo, the strange little amphibian, powering himself forward with pompous purpose on his mobility scooter... followed by the weird snake with the cat.

Velia watched them pass, heading back in the direction of the ship, "Mmm... that doesn't look good."

John leaned out slightly more to watch the strange procession over Velia’s head. Consternation and confusion dancing across his features.

“Should we do something about that?” He didn’t know if she had anything hidden beneath the jacket but his single sidearm wouldn’t help if something came to blows.

Not that he wanted to when his shuttle was within reach and both he and Velia could be safe in vacuum with armor plating between them and any hostilities.

"No... let's get the shuttle and dock through the ship's hangar bay," she looked over to John to make sure he agreed, "Let's hope nobody on the ship is stupid enough to open the door."

“Yeah let’s.” He didn’t specify whether he agreed with her wishes or the need to get to the shuttle; but the pilot met her eyes and gave a nod of assent.

The pair eventually heading off towards the shuttle bay; quieter and slightly more cautious than before.

Empire of the Clouds

Private Aden Robertson

Healing magic had always been the thing of fiction to Aden. Tales relegated to history and the occasional play or novel the private indulged in occasionally. Rumors abounded about some squirreled away within the higher echelons of some societies but that was the standard gossip along the like of those vile cure all drinks they peddled in the seedier districts.

Yet for all the stories; none had actually captured how it went. Mitunbaal looked drained in the glimpses he caught of her. Not withered but more akin to the aftermath of a long march. Or how his wound felt as if he had simply overexerted the limb and not suffered a near debilitating gunshot. The scar almost faint instead of the angry red and upraised skin it should have been.

Though the still stained greatcoat hanging in his locker a stark reminder of how close he came. Physically at least.

Mentally he could still remember the panic and the pain as Zoe flittered about. The deck rumbling around him as he felt his eyes grow heavy; the fear that this was it. The cold spreading in his chest. Thoughts of his family; abandoned in a moment of youthful rebellion. His first squad, their corpses splayed across the Calarian border, eyes bulging from gas. His first kill, the young mortar spotter, killed by Aden so the marksman could die on a airship. Poor trade-

Then Aden woke up in his bunk. Fresh clothes and scar too small for the wound he remembered. It had taken a day for him to gather what had happened; a miraculous save by all accounts.

"Poor trade." He muttered aloud as he worked at a side table within the bridge. A manual for ariel gunnery laid beside his sketchbook. The private making notations within the sketchbook and scratching out ballistic calculations; trying to figure out how to adapt his sniper rifle for the airship.

The book was made with machine guns in mind but the rounds were similar enough to-

'Once again you cheat death. How many others more deserving didn't?'

The thought was intrusive; his pencil scratching harder then necessary and breaking off the slightest bit of lead. Aden gave a grunt of frustration, closing the sketchbook and reaching into his borrowed airman uniform pulling out a cigar; half squished and partially smoked. A flick as his lighter followed the cigar; stubbornly remaining unlit for just long enough to remain annoying.

Finally, the familiar taste of the cheap tobacco and those other flavors he and the others had associated with their "trench smokes" filled his corner of the bridge.

"Thank the Dawnbringer for helium."

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

The group around him never responded to his question; so John turned back to "his" drink. A sip this time instead of his earlier attempts at draining the whiskey.

How had it come to this?

In some rundown space station bar, slugging whiskey straight from the bottle, still covered in the blood of......of his crew.

That last thought drew a shuddering breath.

' Amanda's words cutting out with a pained gasp. Dmitri's pleas before he toppled over. The ramp closing as the blasterfire and screeches of Metacer's drew closer.

She drained the rest of her whiskey setting the glass down on the counter before turning to the pilot, "bring the bottle with us," she said as she stood up, not wanting to waste the alcohol. She turned to address the rag-tag group of hangers on she and Fihlyn had acquired, keeping her tone calk and conversational, "Okay, I am going to need help to set up in preparation for launch, including, but definitely not restricted to crowd control."

"At this point, unless you have some loved one you can't not tell, let's keep what we're doing between ourselves. We don't want an angry mob trying to storm the ship."

@Dyelli Beybi

Call it adrenaline dump. The pleasant buzz of alcohol. The lingering warmth of where she had touched him. Or maybe the general lack of care he had at this present time.

He nodded without question. Closing the bottle and tucking it into the vacuum proof survival pouch dangling from his left web gear. His helmet tucked into under his shoulder.

"Man...." He took a shuddering breath through his nerves and the alcohol. "Manual."

He held out his left wrist towards the dark haired woman; the flight crew TacPad chiming awake with a dull blue glow. Awaiting the information transfer.

******

Last minute cram sessions had been far and few between in John's upbringing. Relegated to a few times in flight school for the most part.

But even John could admit that glossing over a colony ship's six thousand page manual while walking through a colony station in the tow of an ensemble of characters was a first. His TacPad scrolling through diagrams and procedures as he followed vaguely in the cluster en-route to the ship.

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

Perhaps it was his liver finally regaining functionality. The touch of the dark haired woman giving him a physical sensation beyond the insulation of the suit. Or maybe the increasing crowd of individuals coalescing in his corner of the bar.

Either way the result was John’s surroundings snapped into clearer focus. Understanding dawning on him. The crew of the only ship capable of escaping was missing.

He fought back the rising dread with another slug of whiskey before he turned his attention back to the group’s conversation.

“Isn’t there some kind of back-up crew for that thing. A Bravo and Charlie crew?”

The arrival of a slim figure in an environment suit followed as if in answer.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

@Bentus

“Well looks like we have our pilot.” John lifted the bottle in salute before taking back a healthier swig then his last. His vision starting to muddle at the edges again. “You have need of a next generation assault shuttle with provisions and armaments already onloaded?”

He tried to keep his voice calm. Hoping no one would ask where his crew or passengers were; the thought of them twisting his guts. His gaze shifted back to the bottle in his grip.

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

Motion in the corner of his eye causes him to turn his head slightly. Hand inching towards his blaster….

"Looks like you had a close shave on the surface... Pilot?"

Mutely she motioned at the bottle of whiskey, encouraging him to help himself.

@Dyelli Beybi

Pre-Metacers the dark haired woman focusing on him while offering a bottle of whiskey would have been a preamble to a weekend adventure in a hotel.

Now, he simply took the bottle with singleminded fixation. The first slug went down burning. The urge to cough prickled. He bit it back in favor of a second swig. It went down easier. The panic at the back of his head dying down by the third gulp.

"I don't suppose you're here to fly that Colony ship are you?" the question was really more of a suggestion.

@Dyelli Beybi

John realized she was addressing him again. He paused from taking his fourth ship in favor of examining the dark haired woman in the leather jacket.

“I can pilot anything….” A pause to take a swig. A slight bit of swagger coming through. “… Just give me the manual and some time and I can get anything moving.”

He went to take another swig before he realized the amount he had put down. The empty splashes sloshing very noticeably.

Paradise Lost

Captain John Lockman

John wasn't sure how long he sat in the station's docking bay. Pressed against a wall with his helmet off. The docking crew bustled around refueling and prepping the bird; not from any order but because it was the normal thing to do and no one had countermanded them.

Not that John noticed. The sounds around him muted as he stared at his flight suit's gloves. Stained.

Blood. There had been so much blood.

Back at the base splattered over the walls, the inert forms of the marines and militia. Firefights and screams of terror coming closer as they prepped the bird.

Then Amanda and Dmitri. They hadn't donned their helmets yet; their eyes on full display full of horror and fear forever. Their blood stained the lowered ramp of the shuttle; a reminder John had tried to ignore as he disembarked.

Sounds. Muffled. John ignored them until a light kick hit his boots. He jerked; hand flying to his holstered blaster as the offender, a weapons tech, took a step back with hands raised. Sound came back slowly till the bay's clamor, and the man's words, were back in full audio.

"You hurt sir?" John blinked for a second before he realized the still drying gore across his suit's front.

"Not mine." The words were graveled. Adrenaline having stolen his energy and his hydration apparently. A few seconds of awkward silence before John's tongue touched his dry lips and basic needs came to mind. "Place to get something to drink around here?"

The weapons tech regarded him wearily. The line's of John's face and the exhaustion evident in the pilot's eyes'.

"The Drink. Head that way and follow the signs. Can't miss it." John didn't say anything say hauling himself to his feet and staggering down the hall with the gait of someone trying to find their feet. His helmet swinging limply in his grasp.

The weapon's tech gave a shake of his head and turned back to the shuttle. At least there was no need to replace the bird's ammo; an easy refit. Probably the last one in the days head for his crew.
******

John barely registered the bar's occupants as he staggered in. Collapsing into a stool and tossing his helmet onto the bar.

"Give me a bottle. Strong stuff." A handful of hard credit chits pulled from his thigh pouch and shoved towards the tender. He was a sight; perspiration from his recent brush with death still coated his features. Blood sprayed a pattern across his chest armor, suit sleeves and gloves. His survival knife was missing and a gash adorned the back of his armor. The only part of him with any color was his squadron patch; a field of blue with six stars in a semi circle surrounding a green one.

Paradise Lost

John Lockman

Character Description

Name: John Lockman
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 28
Role/Job: New Eden Military Assault Shuttle Pilot/Test Pilot
Appearance: Possessing the a lean framed body at a decent 1.9 meters. His dark red air kept in a crew cut that so carefully done no military barber would ever perform. Light grey eyes blend in with a complexion that speaks to a lot of time indoors or in flight rigs. Captain John Lockman looks the part of a stereotypical pilot.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:
Test Pilot: Thanks to personal connections, Lockman more or less was fast tracked into the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron near the start of his career. Most of the frames and equipment he used therefor were near new or unproven; while this allowed him to play with all the latest toys it also meant he had to be adaptable throughout his career. Keeping constant vigil and learning the mechanics of new systems and airframes even as he piloted them.

Zero-Gee: While just a pilot, all flight crews of the 98th SASS all had to qualify in Zero Gravity Rescue, Repairs and Operations in the event of massive failures of equipment. While not the best claim to fame; Lockman holds the current record for most spins before vomiting in the Disorientation trials. Meaning he possess an excellent "Space Ear" as it was called.

Improvisor: Whether its cobbling together a connection or calculating an orbital slingshot; Lockman excels at thinking on his feet and making something from nothing no matter the situation.

Weaknesses:

Unproven: Thanks to his familial connections getting him into the 98th SASS; Lockman never did a tour of duty in a combat zone. While he has qualified with personal and ship weapons per doctrine; he has yet to fire shots in anger or even take hostile fire outside of training.

Legacy: While he took the position offered by his family; Lockman feels overshadowed by his name. While he is proud of the accomplishments of his family he does wish he could move past them and make a name for himself separate from them.

Cynic: Doesn't believe in other people and thinks all people look out for themselves first. Everyone has an angle and Lockman won't help until he believes that angle will benefit himself; or at the very least not impede him.

Background:

Backstory:

Born second eldest of Harold Lockman, of Lockman Aeronautics and Aerospace , and Elizabeth Lockman-Halley of Halley Pharmaceuticals; John Lockman was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. A physical kid from a young age; John could often be found swimming through the lakes or climbing the trees of the Lockman estate. Playing or rough housing with his seven siblings between bouts of homeschooling and tutoring by a succession of teachers and experts.

The Lockman family's destinies were all planned in advanced; with each child's upbringing cultivated for their chosen path in life. John eventual goal was to climb the ranks of the New Eden military and attain a flag officer's position; opening doors for even more lucrative contracts for Lockman Aeronautics. Excursions to space stations, simulators, military etiquette and customs; all some of things a young John underwent along with traditional schoolings.

His commission and training with the New Eden military were uneventful; with his initial tour slated for the 3rd marines as an assault shuttle pilot for anti-piracy patrols. The day of his deployment; his father changed his orders and instead John found himself assigned to the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron; the test bed for the newest craft, tech and equipment on their way to the Fleet. John arrived at the perfect time to test the three new assault shuttle designs being reviewed for the navy; the next five years of testing being an arduous task of crosschecking frames with existing and upcoming gear along with stress testing.

But by the end; John Lockman signed off on only one prototype. Lockman Aerospace's LG-54 "Kestrel" Assault Shuttle; with him getting a transfer to a another top tier unit. The 1st Special Detail Squadron "New Eden's Own"; the squadron responsible for ferrying around the top tier of New Eden's political elite. Life was good.

Then the Metacer's came. In the chaos Lockman's shuttle took off; a cargo hold of provisions and armaments, no passengers and his flight crew missing. Unable to contact command or anyone for that matter; he set course for the one station in reach still transmitting. Low on fuel, Lockman's shuttle barely made it to the station.

Paradise Lost

John Lockman

Character Description

Name: John Lockman
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 28
Role/Job: New Eden Military Assault Shuttle Pilot/Test Pilot
Appearance: Possessing the a lean framed body at a decent 1.9 meters. His dark red air kept in a crew cut that so carefully done no military barber would ever perform. Light grey eyes blend in with a complexion that speaks to a lot of time indoors or in flight rigs. Captain John Lockman looks the part of a stereotypical pilot.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:
Test Pilot: Thanks to personal connections, Lockman more or less was fast tracked into the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron near the start of his career. Most of the frames and equipment he used therefor were near new or unproven; while this allowed him to play with all the latest toys it also meant he had to be adaptable throughout his career. Keeping constant vigil and learning the mechanics of new systems and airframes even as he piloted them.

Zero-Gee: While just a pilot, all flight crews of the 98th SASS all had to qualify in Zero Gravity Rescue, Repairs and Operations in the event of massive failures of equipment. While not the best claim to fame; Lockman holds the current record for most spins before vomiting in the Disorientation trials. Meaning he possess an excellent "Space Ear" as it was called.

Improvisor: Whether its cobbling together a connection or calculating an orbital slingshot; Lockman excels at thinking on his feet and making something from nothing no matter the situation.

Weaknesses:

Unproven: Thanks to his familial connections getting him into the 98th SASS; Lockman never did a tour of duty in a combat zone. While he has qualified with personal and ship weapons per doctrine; he has yet to fire shots in anger or even take hostile fire outside of training.

Legacy: While he took the position offered by his family; Lockman feels overshadowed by his name. While he is proud of the accomplishments of his family he does wish he could move past them and make a name for himself separate from them.

Cynic: Doesn't believe in other people and thinks all people look out for themselves first. Everyone has an angle and Lockman won't help until he believes that angle will benefit himself; or at the very least not impede him.

Background:

Backstory:

Born second eldest of Harold Lockman, of Lockman Aeronautics and Aerospace , and Elizabeth Lockman-Halley of Halley Pharmaceuticals; John Lockman was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. A physical kid from a young age; John could often be found swimming through the lakes or climbing the trees of the Lockman estate. Playing or rough housing with his seven siblings between bouts of homeschooling and tutoring by a succession of teachers and experts.

The Lockman family's destinies were all planned in advanced; with each child's upbringing cultivated for their chosen path in life. John eventual goal was to climb the ranks of the New Eden military and attain a flag officer's position; opening doors for even more lucrative contracts for Lockman Aeronautics. Excursions to space stations, simulators, military etiquette and customs; all some of things a young John underwent along with traditional schoolings.

His commission and training with the New Eden military were uneventful; with his initial tour slated for the 3rd marines as an assault shuttle pilot for anti-piracy patrols. The day of his deployment; his father changed his orders and instead John found himself assigned to the 98th Special Airframe Services Squadron; the test bed for the newest craft, tech and equipment on their way to the Fleet. John arrived at the perfect time to test the three new assault shuttle designs being reviewed for the navy; the next five years of testing being an arduous task of crosschecking frames with existing and upcoming gear along with stress testing.

But by the end; John Lockman signed off on only one prototype. Lockman Aerospace's LG-54 "Kestrel" Assault Shuttle; with him getting a transfer to a another top tier unit. The 1st Special Detail Squadron "New Eden's Own"; the squadron responsible for ferrying around the top tier of New Eden's political elite. Life was good.

Then the Metacer's came. In the chaos Lockman's shuttle took off; a cargo hold of provisions and armaments, no passengers and his flight crew missing. Unable to contact command or anyone for that matter; he set course for the one station in reach still transmitting. Low on fuel, Lockman's shuttle barely made it to the station.