The shadows of paradise

[Aufidius]

Tuesday 20th April, 2348: UMI Mining facility on Regillus VI... 07.15 Zulu

On a particularly cold and rather bitter morning, between a set mountain peaks that littered the horizon like the lower jaw of some incomprehensibly vast beast, and the equally large web of temporary habitation units from which he had came, a single man strode towards his destination. The morning star had risen just enough to provide a burnt orange distraction in an otherwise grey sky that hung over the world as a blanket. The man needn't take the walk, he needn't brave the cold or the threat of rain, but for some reason, be it to shake of the restlessness of his night or otherwise adapt his routine for the sake of it, on this morning he walked.

It gave him sight of something he hadn't seen from this perspective before. Lying deep within the valley that was still green on its fringes, the mine complex owned by UMI sprawled outwards for miles in every direction, like a violent stab of darker colours from a painter's pallet onto a formerly fair canvass. As he approached, the complex hummed gently, a soft calling to foil its physically intimidating appearance. Eventually, the man reached the building he knew to be his destination. He checked his watch, and being satisfied, pushed open a door to begin his shift.

"Fabien, good morning. There's something wrong with the deep drill over in Delta - coming up as an electronics malfunction."

There was a trace of concern in the voice that greeted Fabien, but it was diluted with the type of apathy that came with expectation. After his long walk, he looked at his colleague with a sense of mild annoyance. Fabien was the morning supervisor. He had expected it to be a quiet shift so he could catch up on his book; the idea of a manual fix on a deep drill first thing in the morning didn't fill his heart with joy. His colleague, John De Rus, had worked for UMI nearly all his life, and his fine grey hair and well worn smile lines indicated that this meant a substantial period of time. Delta line had the oldest drill on the project and it was showing signs of wear - that it had malfunctioned wasn't expected, but nor was it thought of as unusual.

"Can you fix it from here?" came the exasperated reply. Fabien was a younger man, but not young. He was forty-one, divorced, and somehow still regarded well enough to hold down a supervisor's job. His thin black hair sat on a shapeless face; he was a large man, although not fat. He waited patiently for John to check the readings on his screen before the older man could answer.

"Negative, it's a source issue. Maybe wires got fried up. Want me to go take a look?"

It was tempting and for a second Fabien considered it. John could take care of it, he had no doubt, but if management came on a routine tour and found he had sent a man two decades older down into Delta pit to perform a manual electronics fix... well, they wouldn't be all that impressed.

"No it's fine. I'll go. Just so happens to be the week the tech engineer calls in sick."

"Thought you young ones didn't get sick nowadays?" John had a hint of mockery in his voice. The implication was clear - this new generation were growing soft.

"So did I..." Fabien mused. It was curious the engineer had got sick so suddenly - he was fresh out of central training with its mandatory medical check. Still, it wasn't unheard of, and there was something in what John had said - this new generation were growing soft.

"I'll be back in ten or so - probably just be a blown fuse or something. These older models still use them!"

Fabien left the control room, grudgingly placing the book he had brought with him on the soft, brown leather chair. He exited the room through a set of automatic double doors, each dull grey panel shunting aside as he walked through. Once in the cross-base capsule he simply keyed in the delta pit code and felt the immediate jar of the clamps releasing. The capsule softened then, as if it was floating on foam - the fact that it was now speeding across the complex at up to 362mph seemed absurd. Within moments he had arrived at his destination.

The drill itself was around a mile underground. Delta pit was thought to have been exhausted, but an order had come through the previous evening to begin drilling again. Fabien didn't question it - it hadn't been unheard of for new deposits to have been found in previously "exhausted" pits, although he had told John to postpone activity until the morning. By entering through the top of the drill, Fabien made his way down through the body of the vast machine until he reached the place where the central electronic systems were kept. The old drill hadn't been started in a long time, so he was confident it would just be a wear and tear issue. So when he discovered the truth he stood there, for perhaps one whole minute, checking his mind to see if some fundamental error hadn't been made on his own part.

"John, do you copy?" he spoke, the uncertainty creeping in.

"Go ahead, Fabein." John replied.

"John, there's nothing here. The drill. It's... got nothing. The electronics have been stripped away."

"Stripped away? Why would they ask us to drill with a machine that contains nothing to work it?"

"They wouldn't..." came Fabein's reply, even more uncertain now. "John, send over an extraction drone. We're going to pull delta up to take a closer look. Something isn't right here."

"Roger, sending the drone."

Fabein waited, still and unmoving. There was no point investigating until they had pulled the drill unit up; on the surface they could do more to ascertain what the issue was. The drone took six minutes to arrive, and half an hour to extract the vast two hundred tonne drill. Finally, Fabein heard the thud of the locking clamps at the pit entrance secure the drill like the claws of a magnificent creature.

"Fabein! Something's wrong. There's a power build-up in the drill. These readings aren't right though." John's voice was urgent but laced with confusion. How could the drill have power without its central electronics?

From inside the core of the gigantic machine, Fabein could hear something below his feet. It sounded like the rising of a great pit of untapped power - somehow unnatural and false to his ears. Slowly, he inched his way down as the sound continued to rise and build. He descended two levels until he came to the door where the drill mechanisms themselves were housed. As he opened it his face drained itself, not only of blood, but of hope; he became not white, but ashen grey in the presence of what he saw.

"John..."

"Yes?" came the reply.

"I know what's wrong..."

Tuesday 20th April, 2348: TCM forward operating base - Regillus VI's moon... 08.35 Zulu

"Sergeant, when are we expecting that convoy to arrive?" The voice of Commander Christopher Kobayashi was deep and of a precise, reassuring sense of routine. The forward operating base had been established to facilitate the transition of the mining colony and habitat centres of Regillus VI to TCM command. This was the cusp of Terran space, and a great deal of time and money had been poured into securing it from the pioneering mega-corporation that was currently in charge. Things had to go well, and Commander Kobayashi was adamant that they would.

"Not until tomorrow morning, Commander. I'll check the computer for the exact time."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

From where the command centre was, a perfect view of Regillus VI was visible through the large transparent windows that surrounded the circular building in a 360 degree radius. Although they were approximately 350,000km from the surface, there was a sense of responsibility that hung over these men and women of the TCM. One that was in this morning hour, on a day much like any other in its routine and sense of paradigmatic practicality, irrevocably shattered.

"COMMANDER!" The voice that gave rise to the demand of attention broke the sense of tranquil purpose that had settled in the room until that moment. Commander Kobayashi wasted no time; instead of shouting back, he instilled a sense of calm by quickly, but firmly walking towards the desk from where the voice had came.

"What is it, corporal?" came his reply as he finally reached his destination.

"Sensors detect an enormous explosion. It's the UMI base, Commander."

"What type of explosion?" Kobayashi replied, a slight quiver betraying his attempt to keep calm. He could see from the data coming in that it was immense.

"Some kind of plasma... but that doesn't stack up!" The corporal was young and letting his emotions take the better of him.

"Let's deal with what we know first, corporal." Commander Kobayashi craned his neck away from the sensor screen, scanning the room briefly before finding his target.

"Comms, send a priority message to lieutenant O'Markey - tell him to assemble a first response team to extract survivors, but not to undertake any unnecessary risks. I want him and his team back in one piece. Then patch me through to Admiral Ryan, priority level alpha."

Tuesday 20th April, 2348: Grand Terra Station - home of the TCM third fleet... 10.00 Zulu



It was the type of hobby a child would love; one filled with wonder at man-made marvels and the power the human race had born into the universe. From her window she watched them, straining her eyes to make out the markings. Over each vessel the sun cast a bright yellow finger, making the metallic grey hulls of these unnatural creatures sing with radiant energy and stand out against the dark recesses of space. There was the Diomedes - a swift, sleek cruiser, all soft elongated edges that betrayed a punch worth of its heroic namesake. To its left, some-way behind, was the larger, more bellicose looking Ajax; an unkempt cousin to the former craft. Sienna spotted only two others - the Teucer, a destroyer, and a much smaller corvette - the Leitus. Taken from the third fleet, this small battle group of four ships had been nominated to escort a convoy of cargo vessels to Regillus VI to assist in the establishment of the new military facility there. Given the developments of the last hour or so, Admiral Ryan, Commander in Chief 3rd Fleet (CiC3F), and Major General Gromyko, Commandant Terran Military Police (CTMP), reached an agreement to release the Leitus from escort service to provide immediate transportation of an investigation team to Regillus VI. The team she had been asked to lead.

"Tea, strong English breakfast. No sugar." The words unfolded themselves in a delicate, precise command to the machine. It was an utterance spoken many times to request her favourite drink, but she still found it odd to ask. It used to be, growing up, that her father would have the tea waiting for her, brewing nicely in the pot in the morning for when she woke up. It was a loving memory, and one which always provoked a question if machines would ever develop such a paternal intuition.

Sienna glanced down at the watch on her wrist - a plain, black, analogue watch, unremarkable in most respects. The same could not be said for the rest of her uniform. She wore her best, short of full dress uniform. The black tunic piped with red and gold made her fair skin illuminate in the bright, artificial light of her room. Her shoes shone like quartz mirrors, her trousers neatly pressed. Her blonde hair was done up in a delicate manner but without over-formality; her eyes were like blue ink set against brilliant white. There were thirty five minutes until the meeting, but she was required to be there ten minutes early, which gave her just enough time to go over her notes once more and drink her tea. As the warm mug gave its warmth to her hands, she turned again to the profiles of her team.

Admiral Ryan and Major General Gromyko had made the calls, brought in their people, all she had to do was head it up. Easy? Perhaps, if she had a week to prepare, but that wasn't on the cards. If she was honest, she wasn't used to having a team assigned to her; the years of hard work it had taken to attain the rank of Major typically gave her the prerogative of selecting her own team, but there had been no time for that. There was some unspoken secret in this tragedy that would not reveal itself; a presence, a spectre of malice that clung to the words on her pad like a subconscious memory does to the conscious workings of the mind: there, real but unknown, overlooked. It wasn't a rational knowledge, more of a hunch, those strangest of things. For someone with a powerfully deductive mind, hunches played no part in formal reasoning, but experience had taught her that the galaxy was a place where not everything gave up its secrets easily to the stoic charms of logic. She would mind her thoughts, keep them open as long as she could.

Sienna finished her tea within fifteen minutes and walked out of her room, casting a glance once more to the void outside her window, and under it, the great blue marble of her home world. She knew at that moment, it would be a while until they were reunited. She arrived at a meeting room on the uppermost floor of the station at exactly 10.25. She opened the door and upon seeing the two men she was seeking, stood to immediate attention with a firm salute.

"At ease, Major." It was Admiral Ryan who spoke first. He was a lean man, although it was hard to tell under his stunningly white naval uniform. He was about fifty to fifty-five, and although his short hair was still brown in colour, he looked his years. There was a faint warmth in his greeting smile. "Come, take a seat," he continued.

"The rest of the team will arrive in ten minutes." It was Major-General Gromyko who spoke this time. He was of similar build and age to Ryan, although his features were more distinctly eastern. He was clearly Russian, but of those furthest east where Asian features start to appear in their visage. His green eyes were less warm than Ryan's, despite Sienna knowing him far better. He was clearly attempting to keep the whole affair formal to provide it with the gravity it warranted. That was fine with her. "It's important we brought the right people together quickly, Major," Gromyko continued, "this meeting will be brief but thorough. It's essential you get to know your team well. This doesn't have the hallmarks of one that will be over quickly." And with that, Sienna felt her subconscious pang come alive once more - her hunch all but known to be true.

[Mammoth]

The ports at Pretoria were home to dozens of ships at any given time, whether it be cargo, personnel, or military. The sprawling mass of metal and energy fueled docking bays extended for quite a while. The bustle of man and machine, carrying all manner of cargo, started from the morning until very late in the day. A small, unremarkable, beat-up, run down, ancient cargo ship slowly dropped in and very nearly missed the docking bay, much to the dismay of the loud yelling fat man in some tower somewhere along the dock. As the ship pulled in, the underside cargo door slid open and a creaking screech of metal on metal shot through the dock, a sound of a ship that had not seen much in the way of care for many years. Most ships were well maintained and even somewhat quiet, their engines and reactors by this time a well oiled machine of nuclear fusion that made surprisingly little noise. However, the old hunk of junk sitting in the cargo bay was hardly one of those masterpieces of Terran engineering. Every person within 100 yards could hear that fusion core hum and hiss as if it were about to melt down.

"Touch that rifle again and I'll smack that silly grin off your face, Ivan!" A voice rang out, loud and boisterous. A stout, ripped, drunk man carrying a duffel bag stepped off out of the cargo door and laughed as he waved to a tiny Russian who closed the door behind him. The man was in beat up black Viper fatigues. He had cut the legs of the fatigues off at the knee and had cut the sleeves off of his shirt. Underneath the rippling mass of old fabric was something that no civilian would recognize. Looking as if it was just one of those breathing shirts that athletes would wear, the fabric was actually a tight weave of carbon-fiber armor. The light of the cargo bay seemed to get lost in the fabric, making this man stand out a little where everything was so bright and shining like a new dime.

"Sir, You can't offload here, this is for cargo only. You have to--" A man in uniform that was clearly security for the docking bays stepped up waving his arms like an idiot.

"Lieutenant Frank Traxis, TCMP. Get the fuck out of my way." The shorter man said as he went to walk by the security guard when his path was blocked. The security guard and three other tall, dumb rednecks stood in his way.

"You're going to have to go through personnel receiving like everyone else, smartass." One of the men said as he reached for Frank's arm. Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a PDA that identified him as a superior to these four idiots in front of him, and they all looked at each other in confusion.

"Get the fuck out of my way." Frank said, curtly. The soldiers stepped aside and saluted. "Yes, sir."

"I could get used to this officer thing." Frank laughed as he walked away, turning toward the main concourse where he was sure he was probably about to be scolded for being late by his new commander. He glanced down at his PDA for a moment and stopped walking, laughing to himself.

"Aww, you son of a bitch." Frank said, realizing he had been told to meet an hour before the actual meeting. His previous commanding officer knew him too well, "Well, I'll make 'em think I'm turning over a new leaf!" He exclaimed to nobody in particular, continuing his walk toward the concourse. "I wonder if they'll buy it considering I just ditched my dropship to hang out with an old drunken Russian..."

----

After finishing a small meal from a street vendor as he entered the city, Frank dropped his duffel bag by a trash receptacle and ripped his beaten fatigues off, throwing them in the trash. Reaching into his duffel bag, he pulled out his combat vest and slid it over his shoulders. His side-arm had been in a holster on his side the whole time, easily concealed in the beaten fatigues, but his two rifles were in the bag. The SRT-111 was a collapsing energy rifle, it collapsed to the size of his side-arm when not in use and rested comfortably in the inner left holster of his combat vest. His MP-2110 fit in the rifle sling of his vest and rested along his back. Despite the shocking appearance to civilians of a man walking in full combat gear down the street, Frank knew he could get away with it. He stuffed the duffel bag in the garbage and turned down the street.

He walked into the TCMP building about 5 minutes ahead of schedule, 55 minutes behind his schedule. Walking through the lobby, nobody even bothered questioning him or stopping him to check his ID. No doubt they had been told he was coming, and it wasn't like anyone else was going to walk up in Viper combat gear. He took the elevator to the top floor and checked his breath for the remnants of the few bottles of vodka that he had been swilling on the day-long detour from his previous stop. Reaching into one of the pouches on his vest, he popped a breath mint as the doors slid open. His walk down the hall gained purpose, as he no doubt expected fully shock the uptight woman he was soon to be serving under. His uniform left little to the imagination and Frank knew how he looked. He wanted to test her resolve, and she probably knew it was coming. No doubt she'd been privy to a thicker file than she'd ever seen on a soldier and she'd combed through it to lecture him on long before he arrived.

As the doors to the meeting room shot open as he approached, he turned and was greeted with two faces he didn't expect to see. He might have, had he read the dossier, but he didn't read those things. No matter how arrogant or lippy Frank got, he knew better than to try and raise hell in front of some of the commanding officers of the entire TCM. He shot to attention and saluted as he thanked God for having him dress in his combat uniform. It wasn't formal, but if he'd shown up here in beaten up fatigues, he'd likely have been demoted on the spot. This wasn't ideal, but it wasn't going to get him screamed at by a man who could have him shot and nobody would give a damn...

[Vietmyke]

Red light filled the space of Sleeping Deck 3 of the TCN Gemini I as a loud warning alarm blared. Sleeping Deck 3 consisted of two rows of three bunk beds, each with a pair of foot lockers located nearby. The alarm blared again, but the soldiers were already awake. Legs swung off the sides of beds and soldiers in undershirts and boxers jumped off their beds and onto the ground. Some soldiers began hurriedly pulling on their fatigues, others just bolted from the room in their boxers, sprinting for the armory. Likewise, the rest of the battleship Gemini I was soon filled with noise as soldiers and crewmen scrambled into uniform and ran to battlestations.

Nick Ryner bolted to his feet and pulled on his fatigues at a breakneck pace, pulling on his pants in two seconds, and getting his shirt on in another, Ryner was fully dressed in his combat fatigues in five seconds. He bolted out of the doors of the sleeping quarters and into the crowded narrow corridors, making his way to the armory as soldiers and crewmembers rushed this way and that, all while straining to hear the bellowed orders of officers and the commands coming through the shipwider intercom.

All Gemini I crew, shift to alertness priority Alpha, this is not a drill. Repeat, all Gemini I crew, shift to alertness priority Alpha, this is not a drill. AWAT teams, prepare to receive orders. Repeat AWAT Teams, prepare to receive orders.

Nick paused and pressed himself against the wall of the corridor to better let other crew scramble by him. He did his best to tune out every sound except for the intercom. In a moment the intercom opened up again with orders for the AWAT teams.

Angels 1-1 Report to Advance Armory 4. Double-Deuce 2-2 Report to Rapid Deployment bays immediately. Poker 1-2 Report to Rapid Deployment bays immediately. Jungle 1-3 Report to Rapid Deployment bays immediately. Chess 2-3 Report to Advance Armory 4...

Nick didn't listen to anything else, he heard what he was looking for. Chess 2-3 to Armory 4. He left his place on the wall and made a mad dash for the Armory. He bulled past soldiers and swerved around crewmen, dodging and juking his way through the crowd until he had reached the large door labelled "ADVANCED ARMORY 4"

The armory was massive, racks of weapons and power armored lined the sides of the walls, as long rows of worktables crossed the length of the armory, tools and such located in boxes under the tables. In the center of the armory, dividing the room in half was a square structure, a counter enclosed with thick glass. Within the glass were multiple arms masters giving commands to AWAT teams on the arms they should pull from the racks. The Armories were built to provide arms for 6 AWAT teams each. This armory in particular already had 4 AWAT teams inside of it, and several more seemed to be piling in. Nick took a moment to locate his unit, finding them in the far corner of the Armory assigned to the Chess Team, a tall woman stood barking orders and pulling weapons off the rack. Seeing Nick, the woman yelled something along the lines of 'hurry the fuck up' and waved at him to get his ass over there. Nick quickly made his way over to his unit.

By the time he made his way over, the woman already had her back to him as she pulled on an armored ballistic vest. AWAT in stark white contrasted clearly with the black body armor on a label located on the back of the neck. More prominently displayed on her back was her callsign. The word "QUEEN" in heavyset, bold lettering was emblazoned across her back. And a queen she was, barking orders left and right to the rest of her team. She pulled out a heavy battle rifle, mounted with a medium powered optic and rangefinger, as well as a smart-grenade launcher. "Well its about damned time!" she barked loudly, "Hurry up and get your gear on! Team! Sound off."

"Good to go!" barked a gruff voice coming from a man of considerable bulk. He wore a heavier version of the battle armor Queen wore, it was one of the most protective body armors in existence before one had to start upgrading to heavy power armor. A heavy backpack filled with ammunition was linked to a heavy machine gun in his hands. On top of the ammunition pack, and on the back of his helmet the callsign "Knight" was scrawled on, carved with a knife, and made visible via a thick layer of white Liq-metal, a substance commonly used to patch up wrecked battleship armor before it could be replaced at a navy dock.

"Always prepared," came a quieter, calm voice. A thinner man in his late 30s sat on a bench, cradling a carbine rifle in his arms. He too wore a large pack over his back, however instead of ammunition, this pack had a bright red plus sewn on it. Overtop of the red plus, woven in red fabric of the same color was the callsign "Bishop". He was, clearly, the team's medical support, with extensive knowledge of wounds, and the know how to treat almost anything you could throw at him, be proved to be invaluable both on and off the field of battle.

"Right here," Nick called absentmindedly as he rushed to pull on his battle armor. His armor was considerably more stripped down than the rest of his squad, though it was still extremely protective, an underlining of carbon-weave protecting where his armor plating wouldn't. His callsign, "Rook" like his squad leader's was emblazoned across his back in heavy lettering. He specialized in close quarters combat, moreso than the rest of his squad, who were all trained extensively in urban combat. He strapped on ammunition for his sidearm and rifle, and attached his knife to a shoulder sheath and pulled on his helmet.

With the squad fully geared up, Queen pulled them all up on their feet and prepared to issue orders, but before she could, a loud voice cried out.

"Officer on deck!"

The entire Armory was silenced as every AWAT member stood at attention. Inside the armory was Lieutenant Commander Hades, second in command of the ship. "Listen up! I'm gonna cut the crap and get right to it. An explosion was reported on Regillus VI, which sent out an automated distress call. AWAT is moving in force to secure the TCM Forward Operating Base. However I will need an AWAT soldier to come with me for special orders."

A dull murmuring rippled through the AWAT soldiers. 'Special Orders' usually meant something unenjoyable, be it tedious escort duties or errand running. Very few people felt the desire to volunteer for 'Special Assignments'. Hades must have known this because he didn't wait for someone to step forward. He quickly scanned the room and locked eyes with Ryner. He immediately pointed and called out. "Rook, you just volunteered, pack a duffel with a light ballistic vest or two. Grab a something decent and a BDU and report to shuttle bay 7."

With that, the officer left the Armory, and the clamor immediately resumed. Ryner groaned but started packing a duffel immediately, accepting a pair of vests that Bishop handed to him and pulled his battle dress uniform and an extra pair of fatigues out of his armory locker and folded them into a plain black duffel bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder and around his back and prepared to leave. As he walked, he could hear his squad leader calling out to other squads to reinforce the hole left by his leaving. Hey! Hey, Angels! Seraph, you got anyone? Lend me Principality will you?"

---------

In shuttle bay 7, Ryner was quickly ushered into a shuttle as the Lieutenant Commander gave him a quick briefing. He was being assigned to a specialist team headed by a Major Sienna Jennings. The team was taking on different elements from all sorts of places. They were to take a more in depth role in the investigation of the planet Regillus VI, but he'd have to get more information from Jennings at her briefing back on earth. After that his shuttle launched out into space, where he could get a good look at the twin Gemini battlecruisers. Along with the Gemini battlegroup were a group of several other ships, including a Sonic class corvette, a ship smaller than most corvettes by any standard, used mainly by high ranking officers to quickly move between systems.

No sooner had Ryner's shuttle been secured within the corvette did the alarm to prepare for FTL jump sound. Ryner made himself comfortable, in the shuttle as the ship launched into hyperspace, taking the time to change into battle dress uniform. He pulled on a ballistic vest and strapped his knife to it. He attached his sidearm to his thigh, but collapsed the rifle and stowed it in his duffel.

The corvette phased into Earthspace before he knew it, and the shuttle began warming up long before shuttle bay doors opened. As soon as they did, the shuttle rocketed out of the hangar and sped for the Grand Terra Station. Whatever it was, it was probably urgent if they were willing to essentially priority ship Ryner all the way from fringe space to Earthspace. His shuttle pilot came over the intercom as the ship made its way into the station's shuttle bays. "Ah, Ryner right? Your meeting starts in half an hour, I'd get a move on if I were you."

Ryner nodded and quickly made his way through the station, making it to the briefing room just in time to see a pair of doors close. Ryner checked his watch. He made it to the briefing room with 3 minutes left to spare. He quickly strode into the room, quickly noting four officers and saluting them. Two of them were very high ranking officers, an Admiral and Major General to be specific. Major Jennings, the officer Ryner had been assigned to was among them, and then the fourth one seemed to be assigned to her just like he had. He noted the Viper insignia present on the man's uniform, just as AWAT was emblazoned on his ballistic vest, and nodded to himself, Vipers were a fickle sort, but they were all incredibly efficient in their duties.

He saluted again to the high ranking officers. "Staff Sergeant Nick Ryner, reporting."

((it kinda shits out towards the end... I'm busy at a rehearsal and I'm multi tasking, so my time has started to get a bit thin))

[Shimmerene]

BELLIGERENCE

One of the first things a navigator learns as they being their training to pilot the TCN's vast fleet, is that every ship has a name, and every ships has its own personality. From the flighty shuttles that flit between corvettes and battleships with cargo, both human and otherwise, to the vast titans of the void, cantankerous and uncaring for the shoals of lesser ships about them. To tame the personality of a starship is a feat that only trained Navigators can do, and even then it's a battle every time they take up the helm. Sometimes these battles are terribly one sided, and a ship becomes adrift as their Navigator is found a drooling wreck at the helm of the ship, something that is swept under the rug of TCG bureaucracy, as well as a backup Navigator. Ipluvian thought of these things as he wrestled the controls of the mighty container ship he had been assigned. It was supposed to be an easy trip, just haul a load of raw material to Terra for direct examination by TCG officials, and then report to TMP HQ for an assignment. He swore loudly as the ship rocked with another impact and the cockpit lighting dimmed from "Imminent-Death" red to pitch black and back to red again.

He placed one hand on the archaic wheel-mechanism that served as the X-Axis controls, and pulled up the map of the sector once more. "Shit." The curse slipped out as he found that the sector he had dived into didn't exist. The co-pilot nervously glanced over, well-past hysterics and gaunt faced horror, and simply gawped at him. Ipluvian didn't even give him the time of day(night?) and let go of the wheel to pull up TCG clearance protocols. He had done this many times before, when an incompetent captain had given him use of ship and materials to navigate, and then found that the captains maps were older than the ship they had been inloaded on. TCG clearance protocols allowed him to access the TCG's main network across the galaxy and gain access to up to date maps of the sector. He grimaced as the map overlaid the captain's map, the words Mortis Extremis placed over the large expanse that the container ship was barreling through. Finally the co-pilot found his voice, the scrawny wretch's high-pitched voice doing more damage to his ears than the klaxon blaring overhead, "What!? What is it?!" Ipluvian glanced over, boring into the co-pilot with his deep purple eyes set into a scar-visage that had seen the death of many ships before. He let the kid quiver under his gaze before telling him what he found, his voice slightly mechanical from his replaced vocal cords, "It appears," he purposefully drew out the comment, taking some mild pleasure in the boy's fear, "That we have entered an asteroid field some million kilometers across."

Ipluvian sat back at the helm, grabbing the wheel and throttle control as the ship veered through a gap roughly a mile across, literally threading a needle in astronomical terms with the size of his ship being a factor. He looked over at the co-pilot, the boy having fainted roughly an hour ago after being told the truth of the inadequacy of their maps, to find him exactly as he left him. Truthfully, if the co-pilot had enough brains in him to actually go through the academy, the ship was nearly through and would be a simple jump away from Terra, and away from another near disaster at the hands of Ipluvian "The Razor's Edge" of Last Breach....

--------------------------------------------------------

BELLIGERENCE

One of the first things a Navigator will learn is that every ship has a name and personality, and that every time a ship enters a system, it announces itself to every ship around it and the port. The massive container ship burst back into real-space from FTL, its bulk scarred by asteroid impacts both recent and old. It was one of the oldest ships of the TCN, a ship built for blunt purpose, meant only for its job and nothing more. It was an age of inelegance, of brute angles and slab sides, all power, and no grace. The more modern ships of the TCN, those that slip in and out of FTL without trouble, were all sleek lines and knife-bladed prows, beautiful slayers of ships and escorts to the whims of the TCG. The ship now known to all of Terran space as the Belligerence, simply shoved its way into FTL with all the grace of a freight-train through sedan. Ripples issued out from its prow, after-effect of the trauma of its re-entry, nearby ships sending out proximity alarms and irritable Navigators screaming at him various slang-curse. Ipluvian set the ship to a course for the Grand Terra Station, finding the docking bay set aside for him and a wide berth given. They knew full well his reputation, and prepared for him, ensuring that no accidents happened again.

The subtle vibration of docking allowed him the reprieve to collect his materials and shake the insensible co-pilot awake. Ipluvian left as the man babbled to himself about the madness of the TCN Navigator, only smiling to himself as he knew that the co-pilot would likely never choose to fly again. Once outside the Belligerence, Ipluvian gave a loving pat to the side of the ship and bade the ship farewell, as he felt that he would likely not see her again. He made his way to the briefing chambers some distance away, knowing full-well that he was very likely late, and unbearably so. He found his internal chronometer read that he was, in fact, late, something he became even more aware of when he came to stare directly into the eyes of Admiral Ryan. He smiled, the mix of steel and enamel of his teeth showing, and bowed slightly to the Admiral, "Admiral, a pleasure." He then regarded the rest of the room, giving them the brevity of his introduction, "You are all welcome. If the good Admiral hasn't told you yet, you have The Razor's Edge as your pilot."

[Traverse]

Fields of green stretched across the landscape, gentle hills rolled and folded into the horizon, where they greeted a sky which existed as such a perfectly blue plane. Specks of red, yellow and white were intermittently present amongst the endless green, flower blooms, who's existence only enhanced the land's natural beauty. Darren was alone here. Darren, was happy here. Suddenly clouds started to form, and it seemed that only moment later the sky which had previously been so beautifully clear, had been muddied by brooding clouds of grey and black. Lightning now struck the ground, first from beyond the horizon, but oh too soon they came closer, hitting the hills, and then the fields. Those beauteous fields which only moments ago had held such awe of those who viewed them, now started to burn. At first the fires sat dormant, being suppressed by the endless downpour. Soon however, they began to spread and proliferate going forth, consuming all before them. It wasn't long before the vista which had once been such a wondrous sight, was an uncontrolled blaze, unending, it hunger never to be sated....

Darren found himself awake in his bed, his extremities cold, his body swimming in sweat. He sat up with an awkward jerk as he shook his head, which seemed to broadcast that he intended to clear it of what it had viewed last night. The dream had been recurring for the last three months, and even though he had seen two psychiatrists and a psychologist, it seemed that he was nowhere near finding what it meant, and what implications it held for him in the future. As spontaneously as it had entered his mind however, it had been exiled, for he had a more pressing concern. Groaning in protest of his own actions, he forced himself out of his bunk, and made his way toward the small washroom positioned at the rear corner of his room. The visage which greeted his entry nearly made him cringe, more so when he realized he was staring at his own reflection. After a short, though noticeably heavy sigh, he went on to perform his morning hygiene rituals. Stepping back into his small room, he pulled on his freshly cleaned uniform, and placed himself in front of a mirror, perusing his dress for any defects in appearance. With none found, he packed the rest of his gear for easy retrieval after the briefing, and stepped out into the maze of hallways which linked the rooms of the anthill that was Grand Terra Station.

Though not uncomfortably small, the walkways were certainly narrower than any terrestrial facility, and the issue of space was only exacerbated by the constant flow of people moving in every direction. Like an explorer venturing into the unknown wilds, he journeyed deeper into the station, trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the mess hall. After fifteen minutes or so, he was able to find it, a mid sized room which could comfortably hold around 60 people, but was currently holding around 110. After a brief scan of the room, he discovered the food line, which he joined, lining up behind 3 other people, all of whom were wearing TCN uniforms. After they had all got their "food", it was Darren's turn. A rather large, pallid man dropped a scoop of white paste, and two scoops of brown paste on his tray. Darren thanked them as sincerely as he could, though it was fairly obvious that his thanks were more formality than genuine thankfulness. Sitting down amongst the crowd, he ate his "food" to the best of his ability, subsequently deposited his near empty tray after his breakfast's completion, and once again made his way back into the anthill.

With his hunger sated, he allowed himself a much slower walk to the briefing room, giving himself a moment to consider what he was getting into. Those who had been chosen for the mission seemed mostly uninformed (others' amounts of knowledge were unknown to Darren, though he guessed that their position would be similar to his), aside from the core details, essentially that they had been selected to investigate a mine explosion on a planet undergoing takeover by the TCG. He didn't quite understand why they would send such a well armed military group as an initial response, though he supposed that domestic terrorists or one of their ilk could have done it in protest of their planet's capitulation, though this would be unlikely with their small population. Whatever the reason, his interest in it slowly waned, leaving his mind to ponder the mission's implications on him and his future. Perhaps in the coming days he would die, left to rot on some unremarkable rock for the sake of some supervisor knowing that his mine had exploded for a reason. Or perhaps he would come back as a war hero, recognized for his valour and courage, taking gunfire to save his comrades, or some other equally heroic action. The most likely outcome he reasoned was that he would go there, nothing would happen, and everyone would be happy knowing that soon the mine would be operational once more, and money would flow once more into executives' pockets. With that, he had reached the entrance to the briefing room, which, after a momentary pause to activate it opening mechanism, he entered.

Soon he realized that this mission would be more serious that he thought however, for in his briefing was not only his CO for the mission, but two older gentleman who seemed to be an admiral and major-general, as judged by their uniforms. He then came to see who he would be operating with, both an AWAT and Viper operative, and a rather odd looking pilot. Out of instinct more than anything else, he saluted the officers and announced,

"Corporal Darren Miller, reporting for duty."

(It's a bit more tedious than I aimed for, but a guest has been my primary focus the last couple days)

[februari]

Of his assigned duties, Corporal Stevens met most with a sense of duty and purpose regardless of whether they actually interested him or were the more menial sort that a simple messenger or comm conversation could sort out. This one, however, was different. Stevens was a young man, mid-twenties in appearance, a crisp and polished up-and-comer in the TCMP with an eye toward the clusters and bars, and the top brass very much had their eye on him as well. This night, however, saw him dispatched at the witching hour on his least favored errand, but the request had been urgent and, given that it was the Friday-Saturday cusp, he knew it wouldn't be easy. The sounds of raucous laughter and blaring music quickly drowned out the heel clicks of his military issue black patent leather shoes against the pavement as he approached The Dogs Bollix, its sign colorfully decorated, and in the shape of what else but a pair of canine gonads. He paused at the entrance to double-check the coordinates, uttering an uncharacteristic curse under his breath as they confirmed that he was, in fact, at the right location. In truth, the check was wholly unnecessary as it was immediately apparent from the stench of cigarettes and liquor pouring through the entrance that this was where he'd find her.

The room was packed as he bumped his way toward the bar, catching several odd glances as he passed through, for in this rowdy rabble of unkempt hoodlums he was the proverbial turd in the punch bowl. Finally, he caught sight of her, seated atop a rickety wooden stool near an extensive set of beer taps talking across the bar to an attractive auburn-haired young woman. The crowd near the bar was denser and much more stubborn, so it took considerable effort before he reached her and, with a final shove, shoe-horned himself into a tiny spot beside her. Though against his nature, he shouted at her to raise his voice above the pub's roar, "Corporal Riordan!"

"Whale oil beef hooked! Come round for a go on the piss?"

It made absolutely no sense, but that's what he heard as she acknowledged him. For a moment, he had to admit to himself that her eyes, a brilliant blue this evening, were stunning and that, if cleaned up properly, she'd probably be considered beautiful, even by his refined standards. That her hair was a tangled mess of twine-like strands and her breath reeked of smoke and booze made her less than such in his eyes. And that was what he hated most about this assignment. Each time he was sent to fetch Danica, it reminded him that as hard as he had to work for his success, her talents came so naturally that she seemed to simply call them forth when necessary and then forget them all in drink as the mood suited her. If he could manage a moment of honesty with himself, that disdain he held for her could be marked as jealousy.

"You're drunk. It's only midnight." It was the best he could manage.

"So you've never met her? She'd suck a wet beermat." Laughed a voice from behind the bar, which Stevens traced to the auburn-haired bartender. Her accent was unmistakably Irish, which wasn't terribly surprising given the establishment and that it was in the heart of Boston, which easily hosted as many Irish as the island itself it seemed.

"Not if it's that piss yer servin n tha frosties." Danica shot back. That much Stevens could follow, which could be a trick at times. He'd only met her at "the office", if calling field briefings an office qualified, occasionally and found her accent more tolerable then, but when she'd been drinking it was a near impossible task. That was especially true in instances such as this, when she found a kindred and the both of them reverted to some foreign dialect that surely ceased being English at all at some point. For a moment, the exchange between the two was lost to him until it finally drifted back to a range he could comprehend, or so he thought.

"He yer fella?"

"Na, but give him some breast."

Stevens perked up at the mention, unsure as to whether he was relieved or disappointed when a shot glass arrived holding some kind of whiskey. He pushed it back across the bar a bit, when Danica's hand caught his. She traced a finger across the back of his hand and looked him squarely in the eyes, then raised a similar glass of her own to her lips. As if under some kind of feminine hypnosis, he took up the glass and awaited her lead. At once, they both shot back the liquor, which burned Stevens' throat but ultimately settled well. And that was the last he recalled of the evening. He awoke alone, bleary-eyed and his head throbbing as if it'd be smacked against a wall.

"Had fun, did ya?" Came the familiar voice of the auburn-haired girl from the previous evening. "Come down when yer up to it. I've got breakfast on." Stevens rolled sideways, unable to lift his head, to find himself on a sofa, apparently shirtless, in what he could only surmise was a room above the bar as he hadn't recalled going anywhere else. Though he searched for remnants of the previous evening, his mind only screamed back at him in incomprehensible blurs. When he eventually found his way to his feet and staggered uneasily to a sink, he saw his ashen countenance in the mirror above it, decorated with reddish lip marks and a few bruises on his neck of unmistakable origin. As he stood there, still trying to piece together blurred events, the blaring of his comm sent a blinding flash of pain through his tender skull, "She's en route to Regillus VI. Well done, Stevens!"

---

For an off-worlder, Danica hated space travel. There was something about being sealed in a vessel, regardless of its size or classification, that, if breached, would readily spill her entrails across a thousand worlds that unsettled her. As the TCMP transport made ready to jump, she sought distraction in her visor's display, authoring a message for Corporal Stevens. "Had a wonderful time last night. Looking forward to next time. Love, Danica. XOXO." Richer mediums were clearly available to her, but so much could be inferred from simple text, and Stevens would surely be beside himself over their encounter, if he could recall any of it. A voice over the cabin's comm indicated clearance for jump had been granted, thus beginning a count. Danica closed her eyes and recited minerals of the periodic table in order of descending atomic weight in a largely unsuccessful attempt to mask the jump entirely. She held her breath as the vessel went through and instantly appeared a vast distance from its point of origin.

Tuesday 20th April, 2348: Grand Terra Station - home of the TCM third fleet... 09.45 Zulu
Even before the vessel snicked into the docking rings, Danica was out of her seat and headed to the forward of the cabin, eager to disembark. On entry to Grand Terra Station, she was greeted by a TCMP representative, a private from the absence of any significant insignia, to escort her to the briefing room. The young escort led Danica through a series of corridors to a lift in a quieter, more business-like section of the station, ushering her in before closing the doors and voicing her selection of locations. "So who is it today?" Danica's question was left hanging. For the first year or so of her "captivity" she'd pursued answers to such questions, but had subsequently resigned herself to the "what's the fookin point" perspective after having been met by walls of silence. At least Stevens would usually give her the ranks involved or a general heads up as to the situation, but even he seemed blind to this one and that made her nervous.

She followed the escort to an abrupt stop at an opaque set of glass doors. After an awkward moment before them, the escort nodded to Danica to apply her "tags", which was the traditional term for the dog tags of old and while still worn about the neck, they'd long since been embedded with biometric details, security clearances, and a wealth of personal information active only for the wearer with the correct psychometric signatures. Danica took the cue and swiped her tags across a small sensor to the right of the doors, urging them to open with a swish. On seeing those already in attendance, she shot the private a "why the fark didn't you tell me" glance. As it was, while properly uniformed in every respect and absent of obvious piercings, Danica's hair was down per its usual appearance and she knew she must've still reeked of smoke and liquor. None of it was strictly punishable, but when ranks above Major were involved anything could be applied retroactively at their whim. She was punctual, neither early nor late, and she hoped it counted enough, or that the job was important enough that they'd look past her superficial transgressions this time.

[Aufidius]

Beyond the relatively plain space of the reception room, a single black wooden door led through to Admiral Ryan's personal meeting room. As Commander in Chief third fleet, he had one of the most exquisite rooms in Grand Terra Station as his office; the walls were a shade of stone blue in vertical stripes with cream interlaced between them. There were no pictures on the wall except one, the spaces being given to large open windows through which the beautiful outline of the Earth could be seen. The single painting was an original Joseph-Marie Vien, standing prominently at the top of the room on the only wall without windows; fixed above the Admiral's seat at the head of a twenty foot, neoclassical styled oak table, the painting depicted the Roman God of War, Mars, being led by a naked lover in Venus towards his great helm, upturned to house two nestling doves. The Admiral himself naturally sat at the head of the table, his mature figure taking position just under the large painting. Following him, Major-General Gromyko sat down just to his left going down the table; Major Jennings did the same on the opposite side, to the Admiral's right.

The private who had accompanied Corporal Riordan stayed to hold open the single door to the meeting room, holding a stoic, firm appearance as the summoned individuals filtered in. Once this duty was done, he looked to the head of the table where General Gromyko gave him a nod, and with that he saluted firmly before leaving with the door securely closed behind him.

"Take a seat, please." The Admiral spoke, his voice inviting but without warmth.

Once the team was seated, Ryan flicked a small switch under his desk, causing the previously seamless wood of the table to slide open in front of each person, revealing a personal data pad.

"Please review article A." It was the General who spoke this time. He made brief eye contact with the newly assembled team, each glance a review of the individuals he had helped to select. A man like Gromyko knew the men and women he worked with; he knew the ambitious ones, the rogues and the geeks; he knew secrets and histories. He knew those whose arms were being twisted and those who truly believed in their vocation. That was his job, and he was good at it.

Article A was a dense series of pictures and the analytic deductions that followed them. There was a high degree of detail in the analysis, but it effectively amounted to a 'before and after' view of the UMI base and the surrounding area. The base was enormous; it incorporated an expanse of several miles, including multiple mining pits alongside processing factories, engineering warehouses, distribution hubs, general offices and many other buildings. Further away was the habitation zone. It wasn't nearly distant enough.

"Given the speed at which we must work, I'll keep this brief. The destruction was highly substantial, around 84% of surface material. Some of the reinforced buildings held up, but barely. Analysis of the pictures correlates strongly with a plasma explosion. Plasma is used by UMI for a variety of purposes, but there are few to none that we know of that could produce such extensive damage. The blast is far more similar to that of a Neo-Thermite Plasma warhead, as you can see by picture seven."

Picture seven was of a controlled test site explosion of a TCN-P11 Neo-Thermite Plasma torpedo, of the type used by capital ships for destroying large, soft targets on planetary surfaces and in space. The image of the UMI base on Regillus VI and the test site had remarkable parallels, even to Seinna's non-specialist eyes.

"We have issued a summons to the CEO of UMI to answer questions regarding their use of plasma in mining operations and produce documentation. This is ongoing and you will receive information as soon as it arrives; in the mean time, however, we are treating this as suspicious. A fleet wide audit of Neo-Thermite Plasma weaponry is being undertaken, but there are too many correlations for us not to make this a priority one military investigation."

The General finished speaking, turning immediately to the Admiral who had sat quietly through the speech. In juxtaposition to the stoic face of the General who maintained the steel like demeanour expected of military men in times of great tragedy, the Admiral now smiled, albeit very briefly.

"You are the best team we could assemble for this job. The Major here," he said, indicating Sienna, "will lead the operation, but there is no one here to make up numbers. Make no mistake, we are placing absolute trust in your ability to discover exactly what caused that explosion, where it came from, and why it happened on our watch. It is our job to rule out worst case scenarios. If there is a separatist or terrorist group out there with access to military grade fleet weaponry, we're all in the shit. We are taking this very seriously. The Gemini battle-group is already in sector to support this operation and secure that area of space.

You should also make contact with Lieutenant O'Markey who has led first response teams on the planet. Article B on your pad is his first report - it will be regularly updated - so keep checking it. The Lieutenant isn't an investigator, but he's intelligent - he'll notice things."

The Admiral paused now, flicking a glance over to Sienna. It implied trust, but in an inquisitive way. A rhetorical 'are you ready?'. At that moment, a small red light flashed on the screens of the data pads alongside a popup message - The Leitus had docked.

"Well ladies and gentlemen, that is your ride. Any questions?"

[Mammoth]

Frank sat at the end of the table once everyone had assembled and looked around at the "team" they had gathered for this mission. One thing was for sure, this group was a clusterfuck of misfits. Frank couldn't imagine what compelled them to put together a team of jokers like this and expect anyone to complete a mission, but he had been deceived by appearances before. The Navigator looked like he had been in a few too many wrecks, which wasn't exactly something Frank was too excited about, and the Corporal that just walked in had holes for piercings that she wasn't wearing in the meeting. Frank smiled as he noticed that, realizing he may not be the only trouble maker in this group of buffoons. The others were unremarkable, standard soldiers or career military. Nothing that wouldn't be expected.

Once the Admiral started speaking, Frank's eyes quickly shot down to the small display at his hands. For all of his bravado, he didn't make it this far by not being good at what he did, and you can't be good at what you do without paying attention at briefing. The images and information didn't seem to add up to him. Warheads and mining colonies. Terrorist organizations and plans and schemes. What was at that mining colony that could attract a terrorist organization? They weren't mining expensive metals or military resources. They were mining for minerals used in medical supplies and support ops for the TCM. There were hundreds of mining colonies just like that one, even if that one was larger. There had to be something down there more than what the records were showing.

Frank flipped through screens on his datapad as the Admiral and the General spoke, holding back the laugh that rose to a lump in his throat at the suggestion that this team was "the best" and not just a group of idiots they could grab on short notice. There were a couple images that seemed to show the blast center being near surface, implying the "warhead" would have been in plain sight.

"Any questions?" The Admiral said, probably rhetorically.

"Yeah. One. Those warheads are supposed to be the size of trucks. If we're to buy that it was used to blow up this mining colony, how did nobody notice it and how did they get it there? It's not like they can just sneak that in and drop it off. Do we have backgrounds on the staff at the mining colony?" Frank stated while not looking up from the images he was still flipping through. He had more questions for the Admiral, like how they didn't have the day surveillance video or the work logs of who went where. That type of information was standard at every mining and research colony. He grew up on one, he would know. However, if he asked them, he would probably be challenging the Admiral and the General, and he didn't really feel like spending his next few months locked in a cell.

Something about this wasn't adding up. The commanders knew more than they were letting on, and Frank hoped his new CO could see this as well as he could or this was going to be a long trip.

"We're in process of obtaining the records of the staff. You'll be updated on that during travel, Traxis." The Admiral said, applying emphasis to the name delivery. The tone was a message of "Don't you dare fuck this up." His reputation preceded him. The Admiral was apparently not a fan of Frank's attitude. That wasn't really a surprise as the Viper CO typically talked with the Admiral on a bi-weekly basis. No doubt Frank's name came up on the records of missions completed and complications created.

Their ship was here, and the sound of the General dismissing everyone led frank to break down the datapad to its pocket size and slide it in his vest. Hopping out of his chair, he stretched for a moment and walked out the door ahead of everyone else. They were no doubt awaiting the Major to lead the group out, showing respect to their new CO. Frank stopped in the hallway after some second thoughts about just walking to the loading area for their ship. He had to work with these schmucks, it probably wasn't a good idea to piss off the Major already. Turning around, he leaned against the frame of the elevator, crossing his arms as he waited patiently for his new teammates. Besides, the Major was actually kind of hot, so Frank wouldn't mind walking behind her for a few minutes. He chuckled to himself at the thought.

[Shimmerene]

Ipluvian sat at the behest of the commanders, not particularly excited about sitting through a debriefing with a crew that looked like it had been picked from a hat of all humanity. He kept a straight, and dignified face though, listening to the mission details as they went from interesting, to 'What the hells?' in a very short span of time. The dataslate before him contained several articles, mostly the main detail parameters, but he noticed his was inloaded with the specifics of their ship, a note from Admiral Ryan to please return it undamaged. He went through the statistics of the ship, highlighting the armaments and drive-train, as well as keying in his clearance to view the schematics for the Navigator's station. The Leitus seemed a veteran of the TCN, modest accolades, a good wallop in her guns, and from the Navigator's notations he caught that she was a very unforgiving mistress. The ship was excellent, the team seemed trained capable, but something didn't add up. Ipluvian had once had to do an inspection of a TCN warship, the turbulence of an FTL corridor knocking about the cargo bay causing a very large disturbance among the crew. When he had gone to investigate, sure as shit, there was a warhead the size of a landing shuttle sitting there off-kilter. The crew soon learned which weapon was more dangerous when he screamed them deaf for a straight hour over not disclosing the armament to their Navigator. It was, afterall, supposed to be fully disclosed to Navigation when the ship was carrying dangerous goods. It also paid better. Much better.

The Admiral finished the briefing, and Ipluvian leaned forward "Sir?" he asked, indicating he did have a question. Admiral Ryan smiled a moment, and inclined his head to give Ipluvian the go, "Well, Sirs, and Mam." He began, adding the 'Mam' hastily, remembering the CO was sitting right across from him, "I think it best if we would be able to acquire the transcripts of launches to and from Regillus for the last year. From there we can begin notating any vessel that had a hold large enough to hold a warhead, and their shipment sizes, as the vessels must disclose their weight at dock to avoid offsetting the orbital docks." From here he pulled up the schemata of the TCN-P11, several of the data-points were redacted, but he annotated the weight of the warhead, drawing the bullet-point to the an outside data-file he had hooked into his dataslate. The data-file was a standard TCN schemata of the Regillus orbital stock-yards, one of thousands of such stations across the known galaxy. The data showed regulations and ordinances dictating how much mass a ship could carry before it would affect the station itself, some thresholds rather strict. The standard cargo-vessel utilized by UMI and TCN came up on the screen, their cargo-holds outlined along with the numbers coalescing together into an elaborate chart, "Here, you will see that a vessel of the UMI carrying such a warhead, would be under this threshold, unless they were carrying supplies with them, as is usually the custom with UMI vessels. The UMI maintains a strict hold on their trade routes, never wasting a trip with an empty vessel, and any ship that did come empty would be heavily scrutinized."

"So," He continued, "What I'm saying is that it's either a TCN vessel, or an unauthorized ship that came to Regillus, but transcripts will be the end all, be all of the matter." He took the slate under his arm and stood, the chair sliding behind him easily, "With that being said though, I would ask that I take the helm of our ship, so that I may more properly acclimate myself to the helm." With a final salute to Admiral Ryan, and a slight bow to the other commander, Ipluvian turned and left the briefing room, eager to be at the helm of the Leitus. He had wandered the halls for some time before he came across the Viper operative, Frank Traxis. To be honest, Ipluvian didn't have much of an opinion of the operative, though he usually didn't have an opinion of cargo to begin with. He gave a half-salute to the man and continued past him, at least showing that he didn't regard Frank as cargo to his face.

[Vietmyke]

As they were joined by a rather odd assortment of people, the Admiral and General began their briefing. Nick paid attention where he deemed necessary, saving important parts of information to his blackbox. As he listened to the details, he began wondering more and more, just why was he here? Be it a accident or a terror attack, Nick just didn't see how his particular set of skills worked into their little team. Other than running security for the egg-heads while they searched for clues and information. It just didn't make sense. Nick was a soldier, he was sharp, but not built for investigation work. He was his team's secondary negotiator, behind his team leader, but when tasked with an investigation, Nick didn't particularly see where negotiations would fit in. If they needed him to just hammer his way through ghost enemies, they should've just sent him down to the planet with the rest of the battle group, not ship him to earth so he could be shipped back to Regillus.

The Viper operative brought up a question that bothered Nick as well, he was right, those warheads were massive, and it would be incredibly difficult for them to be snuck into the facility without some notice being taken or some sort of alarm being triggered. "No way they did it on their own, Nick murmured, referring to their supposed people who brought the explosive. "Probably had.. some sort of inside help." He spoke aloud, but more to himself, as though he was going over facts. No doubt others had deduced that information as well, so there wasn't any need for him to be so gung-ho and outspoken about it.

As their briefing concluded, Nick watched as their team's new navigator walked away, somewhat haughtily. Nick's brow furrowed. Helmsmen like that were as a rule of thumb quite arrogant, and stubborn, and Nick had seen more than one get themselves into a sticky situation because of that. From his ability to gauge people, born as a necessity to negotiating, Nick could tell that the navigator didn't particularly care for their company. Nor did the Viper operative, who waited by the elevator, his body language expressing his callousness. Likewise, the rest of the team had yet to make conversation.

Nick shrugged, he couldn't really make such assumptions, because he had yet to really converse with any of his new team members either, granted they had just spent a while in silence, paying attention, or hopefully paying attention to a brief. They were all probably just starting to acclimate with each other as well. Nick was uneasy, he had become too used to the tight knit camaraderie of the AWAT organization, and the almost brother-sisterly bonds he shared with his team. It was just like being thrown into basic training, surrounded by people he didn't know, people he may grow to like, or perhaps hate, but forced to rely on. It was rather daunting really.

Still, Nick figured everything would sort itself out in time. Sending the rest of the data to his blackbox, he picked up his duffel, which carried his sub-power armor, as well as a few extra ballistic vests and BDUs; and slung it over his shoulder. He would have time to don his armor on the ride back to Regillus, there was no need to rush to the ship.