Tlaloc

Redshift Blues

Refilled coffee-cup in hand, Everest lit up the console and resolved to drag a well-paying contract out of the universe by sheer force of will.

The holo-desk he’d had outfitted was equipped with plenty of bells and whistles that were distinctly out of place on a characterful vessel like the Dullahan. Some captains ruled from the cockpit, and others on the frontline of conflict: he ruled from this, his command centre. Here he organised, planned, communicated, prospected. Yes, its installation might’ve meant that he had to skimp a little on armament repairs (the mid-deck turrets were more than a little cumbersome), but he had evaluated his priorities, and was convinced that good organisation at the top was the key to sustainable success. It was difficult to relay information in the vacuum of space, and if the Dullahan edged out competitors in that regard, they would win races before their rivals even knew they’d started.

Freelance listing, union halls, private security brokers — all the routes one might exhaust to find off-record work.
So far, he’d found plenty of leads. None of them were any good.

It’d be easy enough to score a profusion of lucrative jobs in a few months time, with plenty of heliodollars already in-pocket and a reputation to boot: but as of today the crew of the Dullahan were as good as nameless, aside from Gravel, perhaps, though even his name carried diminished weight in these waning years. If Everest wanted to carve out a place in the stars for himself et al, he’d need to do a damn-sight better than satellite scrap retrieval. He sipped at his Mercurian gold roast and winced through the listing. Some Amalthean maintenance conglomerate was offering 400 measly helios in exchange for the requisition of six errant solar panels that had been knocked loose from a weather satellite, scattered among asteroids and potentially contaminated by irradiated materials (though the latter detail was barely forewarned). A wholly uninspiring task at first, second and third glance: such a dangerous and yet mundane undertaking that it offended Everest’s adventurous heart, and offered nowhere near enough monetary incentive to tempt reconciliation. Now and then, he had found himself lingering on these kinds of listings; not because they were remotely worth his time, but because he found himself imagining what kind of poor soul would take up the offer. This particular job had all the markings of backwater busy-work tailor-made for the desperate and destitute, with no measure taken to protect its prospective hirelings. Among the unsettling terms and conditions were clarifications such as ’the contractor is responsible for any fuel used during the expedition’, and ’Unipex Corporation is not liable for any micro-meteor abrasion or complications related to irradiated materials incurred during this expedition’. These kind of high-risk, low-reward contracts were blasted out across the cosmos loudly and indiscriminately: Jovian corps knew if they dangled a few credits out, some poor fool would get them their loot. And if they didn’t? Nothing of importance lost: after all, payments were made upon completion. Of course, corporations like Unipex assuredly had the means to retrieve the panels on their own; but it was more cost effective to outsource the work with no up-front payment. It beggared belief how many rust-bitten vessels were lost to the heavens during these low-end requisition operations, and how many penniless sailors were lost with them, chasing a last resort; often to pay off debts they owed to the very same entities who contracted them. This was the cruel law of Jovian Blocspace; civilisation existed within a vicious cycle of debt wherein there was only ever one winner: he who carried the plumpest purse. Everest, though, had seen only half of the picture, and while the concepts of poverty, disparity and desperation were not unknown to him, their extremes most certainly were, and, as such, the intrepidly desolate were closer to a mythical fascination to him than something true and real that he empathised with. Even on his ship there were those who had clawed to escape the very darkest corners of society, and he lacked a nuanced understanding of their plight. And so, briefly, his mind painted a romanticised picture of some daring, haggard rain-dog who would snap up this contract, and on he scrolled.

Any mogul worth their salt would agree that once a venture crests its first great wave, its current will push it forward — but first glory is not so easy to happen upon. And so, even if it meant sorting through hundreds of duds, Everest would find a wave worth cresting. Or, perhaps it would find him.

With such a notion in mind, Everest ventured to the ends of his inbox, wherein two final messages awaited.

The first was from an old friend at Tarleton Industries; Mihal Dontelles, one of the less intolerable individuals that Everest had found himself regularly in the company of throughout his time on Europa. A charming fellow who worked in Tarleton’s Human Resources department, and one of the few who hadn’t ostracised him after his unceremonious expulsion from the company.

’Hey Eve,
Hope all is well. It’s been a while since you messaged. Figured you were laser focused on something? Anyway, thought you’d want to see this. Could be nothing, but it’s spiked this week and the system flagged it. Stay safe out there.
-MD

’FWD:
____________________
‘Notification of activity: recent employee.
EVEREST MACLAINE was queried 51 times in the last 48 hours by anonymous terminals.
If you believe this was unauthorized, contact your corporate liaison.’’

Everest barely emoted. He’d concoct a polite response later. The queries were probably nothing, but it was kind of Mihal to notify him. Regardless of the message’s importance, his attention had already been seduced away by the final message on the console: encrypted and anonymous.

“Captain,
I understand you are currently available for contract work. Your vessel is equipped with a boring drill. Am I correct? If so, I would be very interested in meeting you on behalf of my client.
I cannot say much more without certainty that this line is secure, but in the interest of facilitating good business, I would like to offer you and your crew an evening of complimentary hospitality at the Grand Florentine Hotel & Casino on Europa.
If you are to find yourselves there in the coming week, I believe we might find an opportunity to discuss my proposal in further detail.
Regards,
Lennon.”

Everest inhaled deeply through his nose, rapping his fingers against the edge of his desk as he digested the message. A conflicting feeling befell him: distrust in his gut, but excitement just about everywhere else. Out of everything so far, this felt like a wave worth cresting Something to run by Gravel, indeed, but surely worth further investigation?

He reread the message two or three times before a crunchy drawl snapped him out of his focus.

“Everest,” a voice that sounded like two rocks grinding together fizzled through the radio comms. “You there?”

“Copy, anything to report?”

"Got a line on a job,” Gravel continued, his caustic tone further deep-fried by the poor connection of his comms. “Looks like we’ll be moving bodies off this rock: a dozen, maybe more if word spreads. Goons from some failing gangster. They don't want to hang around when the corps come to clean house.”

“Goons?” Everest echoed, skeptical. Letting thugs on the ship in those sort of numbers could be a recipe for disaster. And the last thing that—

“Pay’s up front,” said Gravel.

“Right,” said Everest, quelled somewhat by the certainty of a payday. “Excellent.”

“But keep your head on a swivel,” the consigliere warned. “Harrow’s a slippery bastard, and this whole setup reeks too easy. Easy means traps. Or idiots. Sometimes both. Mo'll brief proper when he's back aboard."

“Noted. Good work, Voith. I’ll speak to Montalban.”

Truth be told, whether or not this was a good idea wasn’t really within Everest’s jurisdiction. A gut feeling, while sometimes a good indicator to follow, was nothing when compared to good old experience. Besides, it sounded like the deal was as good as brokered on Gravel’s end, so to Everest it seemed like a good time to start preparing rather than wildly speculating.

Everest spun his chair around and took to his feet. It was time to find Ringworm. If there was anyone aboard who could merc-proof the vessel for a dozen unruly passengers, it was the XO.

Redshift Blues

‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾
◤ _{We at the height are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.}

— 'Julius Caesar' (IV.ii.269–276)
‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾

---

"Captain's log. Earth-date: March 27, 2178 — Adrastea-1."

"I can't say we've set the stars ablaze just yet."

"The convoy escort was steady work — three haulers dragging themselves between Callisto and a few outer rocks. Our job was to dissuade raiders, and to snuff them out if they got too close, which they didn't — more trouble than the cargo was worth — anyone with enough firepower to take down the Dullahan has bigger fish to fry. Anyway, it wasn't the glorious maiden voyage I'd hoped for, but the crew did their jobs, no one panicked, and the ship didn't fall apart in orbit. For a dry run, I'd call that a success. Teeth: cut. That said, the pay was meager. Daily burn’s just shy of ħ4,000. This run cost us ħ27,853; payout was ħ35,000. On paper, a touch over ħ7k in the black. In practice, it's all runway, not profit. We need enough to keep breathing until the next hit, so: no prize pool. Everyone knew that was on the table. Next time the crew will expect more. So now we raise the stakes."

"We've docked at Adrastea. It's not much more than a dustball with a refueling spire, a few grease-stained hangars, and some bars where miners feed their scrip into rotgut. The crew have scattered to stretch their legs: half of them will probably end up in the same place as the off-duty miners. Voith and I are weighing our next move. He's got a nose for chatter, and if there's any unique opportunities to be found among the ore-haulers, he'll sniff it out. Otherwise, I'm nudging my contacts in Europa via comms to see if they have anything interesting for me. Hopefully, one way or another, we'll have a lucrative job opportunity by this time tomorrow."

"I told the crew this first job was just a test of our mettle, and that bigger things are coming. And I meant it. I know what this ship is capable of; what I'm capable of. Time to start carving out our legend."

"End Log."

---

Flickering hazard-strobes blinked across the near-side of the Dullahan, illuminating the patchwork of plating fused into the ship’s hull; scar tissue borne of inelegant, economic medicament following years of deterioration. The ship had its charms, which were found more readily and enthusiastically by its captain and crew, but were easily betrayed by its appearance. The discoloured, pockmarked exterior was, once upon a time, a pristine Sol Federation cobalt-blue. After the ship's commandeering at the hands of pirates, it was embellished with black paint in visual analogue to its repurposing. Now with pigment decayed by solar winds and many years of grit, the Dullahan had dulled to a bruised blue-black. Everest could’ve had her painted when the repairs were done, but he chose not to. He was endeared to her imperfections; the rust blooms on the panel seams, the scoring of char-streaks across the flanks, the micrometeor abrasion on the dorsal ridge, and the purplish heat-flash discolouration around the thrusters. There was something living about a ship like this, and Everest was keen not to let it die. Indeed, it might’ve been considered by some as a kind of corpo gentrification, but his sentimentality was, in his own eyes, uninfringed by corporate schooling. He had never liked the sterile minimalism often found in the upper city of Galileo. He was happy to instead have a ship littered with excentricities. The Dullahan had it’s own voice; an ensemble of idiosyncratic hums and sighs that Everest found far more comforting that the vacuous ambience of a state-of-the-art Europan vessel. The deck plating creaked underfoot in certain spots, and there was a low, throbbing thrum in the walls: a pulse that quickened when the drives were hot. A heartbeat of sorts. All these things, in addition to countless other quirks Everest had not yet discovered, told a story; of adventure, of life and death, of fortune.

At this particular moment, Everest was at his desk in the operations wing of the upper deck — audio log complete, mind in a brief, transient state of day-dream-like absence. The upper deck felt somewhat disconnected from the rest of the ship, and not only due to its detachable functionality: it was sleeker and cleaner than the ship’s begrimed belly, where the crew toiled day-to-day, dirtying their hands with oil and blood. The Dullahan’s ‘command deck’ was less of a warehouse or a barracks, and more of a bureau. It was a place for administration, logistics, and navigation. It was here that Everest conducted most of his work, at the rear-side of the bridge — his ‘office’ — an old, repurposed nav alcove where crewmembers would be summoned for formal, one-on-one discussions. The desk sported one of the few up-to-date pieces of tech on the ship, which Everest had requested to be installed: a curved holo-interface that projected various data-readings, schedules and telemetries. It was compact, organised, and perhaps among the cleanest corners of the vessel. Montalban and Voith had their own desks in the room: smaller, tucked-away consoles where they could work in peace, but both gentlemen spent less of their time pencil-pushing than Everest, with their duties often leading them to the other decks. While Everest would often make the rounds of the ship, observing crew and ‘checking in’, the bulk of his time was spent either at this desk, or in the gimballed and worn synthleather co-pilot seat beside Araya — though, he was prepared to quickly vacate the cockpit and make room for a more competent co-pilot, such as Anavansi, in the event of a dog-fight scenario.

Everest ran a hand through his hair. Blue holo-light illuminated his face. His eyes were locked on the screen, but his mind was elsewhere. It felt strange now, things being still. The ship being mostly empty. It had only been ten Earth days since the Dullahan took to the stars for its maiden voyage, and yet it felt like this was the way things were meant to be all along — he’d stepped off the map, and the stars had redrawn it around him. While, yes, it was true that a distant, existential stress hung over him regarding the logistics of generating enough profit to pay off his employees, and more importantly, his loans, he remained energised. And while his exile from Tarleton Interstellar, and by extension the Corporate heart of Europa, was most certainly not self-imposed, he had begun to convince himself that the twist of fate he had encountered was predestined. He wasn’t supposed to sit behind a desk in Galileo for the rest of his days. He was supposed to captain the Dullahan. The stars called his name, and he held out his arms to them in zealous rapture. At least, these were the soothing thoughts that balmed his ego whenever an uncomfortable memory slithered into his mind. Perhaps, deep down, he knew his dreams were closer to delusive comforts than destiny manifest: but that was a psychological knot he refused to acknowledge, never-mind untangle. Before his subconscious could meander further, he snapped himself away from reverie. First, he reached for his coffee mug — a teardrop-shaped container that tapered to a pinched spout to prevent zero-grav spillage — though he quickly found it to be dry; emptied by him inattentively during his flow state. Instead, he rose to his feet and made approach to the starboard viewing window. It was away from the station, not toward, that he peered. He had no desire to gaze upon the grey-orange bulk that was Adrastea-1.

This little old moon was nothing remotely special. It was the final destination for the Dullahan’s escort contract — had it not been, the Dullahan's crew would likely never have set foot upon its regolith-dusted surface. It was a certified backwater; beside essentials, fuel and liquor, there was little in the way of imports. Nearly everyone here was a miner, and there was no real industry otherwise. And yet, despite it all, Everest was truly grateful to have visited, despite not yet having stepped foot off his ship. For Adrastea’s most notable quality was not its mines nor its hangars, but its relationship to Jupiter. Of the giant’s many dozens of moons, this one was the second closest in proximity. Thus, while the rock upon which the Dullahan sat was nothing to marvel at in itself, its view most definitely was. Adrastea was tidally locked to its master — a moth bound to a lantern, forever facing the light — a bearing in a turbine, turning only because the giant turned and graciously permitted its subservience. Jupiter engulfed the sky, filling over a third of its width — a towering wall of unmoving, banded cloud, and a churning, cyclopean eye that gazed upon the void, with no expectation of the void's reciprocation. Such a gargantuan sight was terrifying; electrifying; awe-inspiring. It was for this reason that Everest found himself peering out of the starboard window, and not the port. He was, as usual, looking to the sky with stars in his eyes, and not to the mundane ground below. Perhaps later he would venture into the station, or perhaps not, but until the ship's next contract was secured, he hadn't the luxury of lounging in a bar. He would, however, for a moment or three, grant himself the sublimity of basking in Jove's orange glow.

While Everest mused and the Dullahan slept, the crew dispersed. Some remained in their familiar haunts within the ship; others relished the chance to escape its constraints. While yes, the grimy bars and second-rate markets of Adrastea-1 were barely worth visiting, they were, at least to some, preferable to another day restricted to the same four walls. An opportunity to stretch the legs — or, for those with a disposition for alcoholic beverages, a chance to share more than a few cheap drinks with their new colleagues for the first time — without the overshadowing of Everest's policing, nor the burden of responsibility.

---

Random Access Memories

CEB37E 8CBF51

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Redshift Blues

Big Mo Born in the bustling heart of Lagos, Earth's most populated mega-city, Mo came from a hard-working family who worked the dockyards. From a young age, he was destined to the same path; gifted with formidable strength, he found the grueling physical labour of a stevedore more manageable than most. By his late teens, he had demonstrated an excellent eye for detail. This, coupled with his tireless work-ethic, drew him to successfully enlisting for a procurement and logistics apprenticeship within the Sol Federation military-supply chain. He was well suited to the role, effectively managing shipments, manifests and paperwork while taking a hands-on role in cargo management. Through his twenties, he grew disillusioned with the bureaucracy associated with the Sol Federation — endless forms, bribes, and cut corners all mounting up while ordinary dockers, like his own family, broke their backs. He eventually resigned and found himself looking for work in Jovian Blocspace, aware that it would not only pay better, but that the paperwork wouldn't be as needlessly convoluted. He eventually found himself in the employ of Garran "Gravel" Voith, adapting his procurement expertise to fence-work. Broad, burly and tall, you could be forgiven for mistaking Mo for an enforcer. While he is comfortable getting into a scrap, his priorities lie elsewhere. With a broad smile and a booming laugh, he is significantly less intimidating once befriended. While disinterested with wider politics, he is loyal to friends and families — but ultimately, as a pragmatist, he won't risk his life for ideology. With a natural, jolly "fixer" personality, he has a good eyes for taking hot goods and legitimising them. Traits: Hard-working, pragmatic, dependable, detail-oriented, resilient, physically strong, grounded, adaptable, resourceful, streetwise, approachable, friendly, jolly, easygoing, apolitical, good-humored, sociable, observant.	____________________________________________________________________________ ◤ “Count out the 3s, I’ll do the rest.” Full Name: Mohammed Kwasi Tochukwu Age: 34 Homeworld: Earth Occupation: Procurement Officer / Fence Affiliation(s): Sol Federation Navy (formerly), "Gravel"
Brenko Europa is a land of commerce and opportunity: a magnet for the successful or ambitious; a place to double or triple their existing wealth. For those who were born and raised on Europa, however, particularly in the underbelly of its capital, Galileo, life is not so glamorous. In fact, it is a most unfortunate place to be born. Crime is rife, and unless it impedes upon the profit margins of the Commonwealth, it is left to fester. Brenko was a Galilean street urchin as a child, and a thug as a teen. To crawl out from the cracks of civilisation, one must dirty their hands, and dirty them he did. He had no access to an academic education, so he learned how to kill instead. He first took a life at thirteen years old, and by twenty he had lost count. In truth, he was one of the lucky ones; he had the ice-cold nerve of a hunter, and the dexterity to wield weapons effectively. Where others were unable to drag themselves from the detritus of the slumlands, Brenko crawled and clambered his way out, doing whatever he could to find a better life. By his twenties, he'd escaped the darkest corners of Europa and found himself consistent, well-paying mercenary work. For the next twenty years he would work dozens of contracts, mostly as a part of private armies for corpo Guilds. A gruff, blunt, and antisocial man, Brenko will avoid 'team building' and crew interaction at all costs, usually gravitating to wherever on the ship is least busy, lest he find a kindred spirit who is comfortable with silence. Now in his late fourties, Brenko's lethal edge is beginning to dull, pushing him into life as a corsair' more sporadic in its physical demands (for every field operation, there are days of drifting from A to B; a better life for the weary bones of an ageing hunter). He makes no effort to mask his distaste for corpos, but he is also acutely aware that are, and have always been, the source of his paycheck. He does not like Everest, and does not pretent to, but to him: helios are king. Traits: Cold, hardened, cynical, ruthless, professional, sharp-eyed, calculating, intimidating, detached, opportunistic, adaptable, bitter, humourless, selfish, methodical, distrustful, survival-driven, world-weary.	____________________________________________________________________________ ◤ “Hormatyňyzy saklaň, maňa töläň.” Full Name: Brenko Temirkhan Age: 47 Homeworld: Europa Occupation: Headhunter Affiliation(s): Various merc groups (formerly)
Dr. Treschow Once upon a time, Erling Treschow wore a white coat and latex gloves; a Federation-certified physician who worked at the prestigious Schiaparelli Memorial Hosptial in Tharsis, Mars. He'd been a family man, with a wife and two children. At some point, for reasons buried deep in Federal bureaucracy and sealed files, he was delicensed. Rumours on Callisto, where he has made his home for the last fifteen years, vary dramatically; malpractice, thievery, corruption, experimentation, and every other possible explanation under the sun. Treschow himself never speaks of it. It is not uncommon for the Sol Federation to chew up and spit out its people and for them to then make their way to Jovian Blocspace. Most find the adaptation to be challenging, and never truly acclimatise to the grime and lies. Treschow, however, was willing to wade through the muck to carve out a life for himself on the sooty, industrial moon of Callisto. For many years, he offered his services to anyone who would pay for them; often mercenaries who sought out cheap alternatives to corpo-ran private hospitals. His clinic was a murky rented room in Mandragora space port. It wasn't pretty; but if you needed a bullet digging out, a wound stitched, or a black-market implant installed, he was a good value option. Recently, local corporations have chased him out of town for impeding on their business, and he has sought alternative work. Though outwardly gruff and unflinching, Treschow carries himself with a dry wit and a disquieting fascination for his craft. Some of his patients swear he enjoys his work little too much, as he is prone to treat surgery more like a puzzle than a human life in his hands. He is discreet and tight-lipped about personal matters, yet prideful of his skill, always insisting on being called Doctor. Aboard the Dullahan, he will happily engage in conversation with crew members, but is equally content being left to his devices. Traits: Calm, secretive, eccentric, intelligent, cynical, unscrupulous, resourceful, dry-humored, dark-humoured, discreet, prideful, unnerving, morbid fascination, jaded, unemotional, clinical, unflappable, calculating.	____________________________________________________________________________ ◤ “I don’t ask questions. Don't you.” Full Name: Dr. Erling Treschow Age: 50 Homeworld: Mars Occupation: Surgeon Affiliation(s): Schiaparelli Memorial Hosptial (formerly)

Well well…

Welcome back!

Redshift Blues

_{━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════}

ʀᴇᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ

^{════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━}

● │ ├─ │ │ │ ├─ │ ├─ │ │ ├─ │ │ ├─ │ │ │ ├─ │ │ ├─ │ ├─ │ │ │ │ ├─ │ ├─ │ │ ├─ │ ├─ │ │ │ ├─ │ │ │ │ │ └─

61 days ago – In Conestogo Station, a seedy trade-estate and spaceport in Galileo, Europa, ᴇᴠᴇʀᴇꜱᴛ ᴍᴀᴄʟᴀɪɴᴇ visits a greasy auction house. There, Everest wins a previously impounded ship named the Dullahan for a remarkable bargain. However, the ship is neglected, peppered with minor hull damage, and requires some work to be serviceable. 54 days ago – Everest begins the formal application process to obtain a MARQ license from the Sol Federation. 48 days ago – With a large loan, and most of his assets liquidated, Everest pays handsomely to get the Dullahan spaceworthy, leaving it in the shipyards while turning his attention to finding a crew. 38 days ago – The Dullahan finds its officers. ʀᴀᴍᴏɴ "ʀɪɴɢᴡᴏʀᴍ" ᴍᴏɴᴛᴀʟʙᴀɴ, a Centaurian veteran, signs on as the ship's XO. ɢᴀʀʀᴀɴ "ɢʀᴀᴠᴇʟ" ᴠᴏɪᴛʜ, a former power-player in the Callistoan underground, joins to provide more illicit insights. 35 days ago – Everest grows concerned that his application for a Sol Federation MARQ may take months for approval due to the abundance of paperwork, jeopardising his investment. Despite Ringworm's reluctance, Everest convinces the Centaurian to send an encoded message via courier to Magna Centauri, testing the waters for an alternate source of MARQ license. 33 days ago – The officers recieve a blunt rejection notice from Magna Centauri. However, mere hours later, they recieve a second missive that backtracks the rejection and invites them to Specula-4, one of their outposts in the Kuiper Belt. 32 days ago – ꜱᴀʀᴀ ᴀʀᴀʏᴀ is hired to pilot the Dullahan, while ᴅᴇꜱɴᴀ ᴀɴᴀᴠᴀɴꜱɪ is hired as chief engineer. 30 days ago – Everest and Ringworm charter Anchor-transit to the Kuiper belt, and then passage to Specula-4, leaving Gravel to watch over the repairs. The station is a small outpost with no civilian populace. There, Everest negotiates with Centaurian emissaries. Despite their initial reluctance, they offer generous incentives for the Dullahan to privateer, as well as the promise of sanctuary should the crew become wanted. 29 days ago – Everest and Ringworm return to Europa with a MARQ license granted by Magna Centauri. 27 days ago – With repairs nearly complete, the Dullahan's skeleton crew begins to test systems and get to grips with the ship's operations — flying the ship within Europa's atmosphere. 19 days ago – After hiring a few more crew members in Galileo, the Dullahan's repairs are completed. 11 days ago – Everest, assisted by his officers, spends several days painstakingly filling out the remainder of the crew; unwilling to settle for mediocrity, but also restrained by his budget. The ship pays visits to Callisto, Ganymede, and several orbital stations in search of talent before the roster is fully settled. 10 days ago – The Dullahan embarks on its maiden voyage with its new crew. Without yet recieving any specific directives from Magna Centauri, the crew must self-source opportunities to wreak havoc across Sol and Jovian blocspace, safe in the knowledge that they have both safe haven and monetary incentives to do so via the Centaurians. For the next week or so, the Dullahan provides escort for a convoy of three haulers running a contraband cargo chain between Callisto and the outer mining stations. The pay is small, but steady, and the risk low. Petty raiders lose interest upon seeing a corsair escort. 1 day ago – Having made little money and even less impact, the Dullahan docks on the mining moon of Adrastea to refuel. Everest informs the crew that their first job was a dry run, and that big things are to follow. While Everest and Gravel source their next opportunity, the rest of the crew passes their time in Adrastea-1, the small, loud and dirty hub of the eponymous moon — and a glorified truck-stop of spaceport. Regretfully, the station boasts only a small scattering of mundane bars and markets, and little else of interest.

Redshift Blues

Adrastea

• Everest I: The Dullahan arrives at Adrastea-1.
• Gravel I: Gravel seeks out an old colleague at the Black Lung.
• Vĩnh I: Vĩnh seeks meaning in the endless upkeep of the Dullahan.
• Jax I: With the engines quiet, Jax makes his own noise.
• Keema I: Keema awakens from a night of hedonism. [⬅] Keema and Gravel reunite months after a tragedy.

^{[⬅] denotes a flashback.}

Redshift Blues

I’ll say I’m interested in this. Still need to read over the rest of the OOC but I think I have a character concept in mind if it’s not too late to send one through.

@icmasticc

We're not actively accepting right now, but you are more than welcome to join the discord and share your ideas. It is probable that spots will open up in the future.

Redshift Blues

Things are taking shape. I suggest if there are any lurkers, to make yourself known ASAP. While we aren't closing applications, we're recieving a lot, so we may put a pause on them soon!