Forums » Role Playing
Too Much Adventure
Too Much Adventure
Part 1
All I wanted to do was dock somewhere, get a bite to eat, maybe linger over a tankard of Dau Senate Ale, catch up on things with the sports vid, and get a sleeping cube for the night. It had been a long day coaxing Pyronic out of every imaginable variation of roid, and when you think you are beginning to hear large chunks of ice or rock make rude remarks about your ancestry, it is definitely quitting time. Unfortunately, things started spinning out of control immediately after I had set the nav coordinates, coerced Matilda, my great lumbering Behemoth, to maximum turbo, and mashed the Big Red Button.
Ion storms are rarely threatening, as normally I would navigate around their usual haunts, especially when fully loaded with cargo. However, being a little too tired can cause one to forget such minor details as life and limb, and thus did I find myself where I did not want to be, in piloting conditions I do not enjoy, and accompanied by very unsympathetic machines with whom I do not willingly cavort. It is truly amazing how time seems to slow under such conditions, watching with one eye the battery charge meter lazily crawl back to full, while the other eye tries to track, on radar, the approaching residents of one of these very unhappy places.
At least pirates (or most pirates, anyways) hail you with some clever witticism, or perhaps with a lusty growl, and are often content with what's in your cargo hold or your wallet. However, these artificial, territorial, and predatory creatures have no such sense of style, nor do they negotiate. One must simply fight or escape. I invariably choose the latter. Fortunately, Matilda has the exceptionally thick skin common for her kind, and although she grunted and groaned under the relentless nipping of this local pack, she still faithfully bore down on the storm exit point with uninterruptible determination. Soon we warped into the relative safety of the station sector.
Tansus Outpost is not a remarkable oasis, unless one has a peculiar attraction for Ishik ore, cheap common trade goods, or scientists. The music piped across the common areas is a forgettable mixture of Old Earth classical and 'New' Age, but does have a soothing, if not dulling, effect and is exactly what one can count on to calm the nerves or cure insomnia. The decor does not provide visual stimulation, but is instead functional in a comforting manner. The food is the same enhanced fare one should expect on a Serco station, flavored enough to disguise whatever organic compounds inhabit the recipe, and is also rumored to be nourishing. Honestly, I have found it to be quite suitable, even desirable, when my main objective is to simply 'fill the hole'. Bessa Vodek, the manager of the local franchise of the Yoda Hut, also keeps a stock of Dau Senate Ale; I believe I may be the only customer that asks for it.
As I sat at the counter, absently nibbling away at the hot goodness on the plate before me, my attention bounced randomly between the Local Trades gliding by on the message banner near the ceiling, and the sports vid hung over the door to the station's main corridor. Nothing on the Trades seemed particularly interesting, and the Paladins were on another loosing streak due to a ball carrier that seemed to be developing an inner ear problem; an eventual career-ending condition for any athlete in zero-G sports.
"Mr. Lennan? Cron Lennan?", asked a quiet, even-toned, somewhat mechanical voice from behind and slightly to my right. It's not often I fail to notice someone approaching, things being the way they are out here among the stars, but I guess it was a combination of his stealth and my weariness. Fixing me with the typical, piercing, unblinking gaze of the Serco was a tall individual, slender of build, a blend of designer physique and exquisitely engineered enhancements. The hood on his jacket was pulled forward over his brow, perhaps to deliberately accentuate the back-glow of his eyes, a dim and deep crimson.
"Yes? Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. ..?", I offered warmly in return, spinning slowly on the stool to face him and extending a hand I was sure would not be taken. Such gestures often put officials off their game a little, allowing one a brief conversational advantage, and this one carried with him the universal aura of law enforcement. His initially addressing me as 'Mr.' set off a little alarm in the base of my brain, as it is often a technique intended to put the quarry at ease in order to gauge their reaction when the boom is subsequently lowered. Ahh, the nuances of human (mostly) communications.
His stare flickered briefly to my hand, as if slave to the commands of some auto-aim device, then returned directly to my eyes as his long-fingered hand slipped inside his jacket pocket and produced the credentials of a Shipping Inspector. There was no hesitation, no momentary disruption of mental scheme. Either this one was very good, or I was not really quarry after all. Still, he did not shake my hand, perhaps out of either custom or regulation. I've never really understood the Serco, even though I have successfully conducted a great deal of business with them.
"May we return to your ship?", he half asked, half directed. "We have some questions about the shipment you've just delivered". He did not move muscle or servo as he continued his unwavering gaze, waiting for a response.
"Certainly, Sergeant Eskel", I answered with a polite nod. "Always happy to assist the local authorities". The glow of his eyes flickered brightly just once at the term 'local authorities', an important fact that would soon fall into place. I rose and followed him into the main corridor, glancing once over my shoulder at Bessa, who was apparently eavesdropping. She shrugged once and returned to clearing the counter of my half eaten meal.
The Behemoth is a relatively new ship class, and has become exceptionally popular in the trading and mining businesses. Although slow to respond in maneuvering and certainly no thoroughbred racer, it has very good armor and abundant cargo capacity. Owning a Behemoth is something of a status symbol amongst trades-pilots; they aren't sold to just anyone. Unfortunately many station managers have found them to be problematic. Because of their size, the Behemoth is known for nudging the edges of launching and loading docks, keeping them in a constant state of repair. Also, and again because of size, parking inside the station requires some innovation, not always in a form convenient to the Behemoth pilot. Matilda, this day, was occupying two of the less popular slots, furthest from both the maintenance station and the contracting office. This particular corner of the hangar was in a state of some neglect, and I doubt security paid it much attention.
Sergeant Eskel and I weaved our way between the other ships, heading toward Matilda. Many of the other pilots we passed were ones I knew, and our passing was not unnoticed. Smirks from some, and concerned stares from others, told me this would be an interesting encounter that was probably not at all what it seemed. Of particular note were the glances Sergeant Eskel received from the members of the various deck crews. Common amongst them was the element of unfamiliarity; these people did not recognize the Sergeant, an odd thing for a Shipping Inspector who supposedly would spend a good deal of time in the hangar.
He allowed me to step in front of him as we approached the ship, and glanced away momentarily as I punched my personal security code into the door lock and pressed my hand onto the small screen. Obviously, he had been trained in security, and understood the gesture of respecting another’s security practices, a good sign perhaps. We stepped inside and turned right towards the cargo hold, where I had the station transaction terminal installed. As a practice, when I enter a station and deliver a load, I keep the transaction log entry locked onto the terminal screen. The entry shows the transaction IDs of the both ship and station ledgers, as well as the details of the transaction. Legitimate Shipping Inspectors find the practice very helpful in resolving the confusion that sometimes arises while conducting business during peak shipping times.
As I stepped towards the terminal, I noticed the Sergeant stop and reach into his jacket pocket again. I turned to face him and to also orient myself to the various escape routes, not all of which are obvious. Without looking at me, he pulled out a small device which blinked, and softly hummed and clicked. He turned slowly in place, most of his attention not focused on me, as he watched the small thing, glancing occasionally at the deck and bulkheads. As he completed his 180 degree pivot, the device emitted a two-toned beep. Satisfied with the results, he put the device back in his pocket and stepped very close.
"Enough games Lennan", he muttered, so low that his voice didn't echo from Matilda's cavernous insides. "You have some business at home to tend to, apparently, and I've been assigned the task of delivering a message." His tone was now direct, with a slight hint of annoyance, as if this were something outside his normal duties or at least beneath his interest. He waited only a moment for a response, which I did not offer, before continuing.
"Someone named Helen has been kidnapped. Go home to your Dau Senate. You will be contacted again there. Bring a load of steel, showing that you received this message.” He spun on his heel and walked away, leaving me staring open-mouthed at his back as he exited Matilda’s empty hold. I vaguely recall hearing the hull door slide open and close. I could feel my eyes beginning to mist.
Helen? Helen!
Part 1
All I wanted to do was dock somewhere, get a bite to eat, maybe linger over a tankard of Dau Senate Ale, catch up on things with the sports vid, and get a sleeping cube for the night. It had been a long day coaxing Pyronic out of every imaginable variation of roid, and when you think you are beginning to hear large chunks of ice or rock make rude remarks about your ancestry, it is definitely quitting time. Unfortunately, things started spinning out of control immediately after I had set the nav coordinates, coerced Matilda, my great lumbering Behemoth, to maximum turbo, and mashed the Big Red Button.
Ion storms are rarely threatening, as normally I would navigate around their usual haunts, especially when fully loaded with cargo. However, being a little too tired can cause one to forget such minor details as life and limb, and thus did I find myself where I did not want to be, in piloting conditions I do not enjoy, and accompanied by very unsympathetic machines with whom I do not willingly cavort. It is truly amazing how time seems to slow under such conditions, watching with one eye the battery charge meter lazily crawl back to full, while the other eye tries to track, on radar, the approaching residents of one of these very unhappy places.
At least pirates (or most pirates, anyways) hail you with some clever witticism, or perhaps with a lusty growl, and are often content with what's in your cargo hold or your wallet. However, these artificial, territorial, and predatory creatures have no such sense of style, nor do they negotiate. One must simply fight or escape. I invariably choose the latter. Fortunately, Matilda has the exceptionally thick skin common for her kind, and although she grunted and groaned under the relentless nipping of this local pack, she still faithfully bore down on the storm exit point with uninterruptible determination. Soon we warped into the relative safety of the station sector.
Tansus Outpost is not a remarkable oasis, unless one has a peculiar attraction for Ishik ore, cheap common trade goods, or scientists. The music piped across the common areas is a forgettable mixture of Old Earth classical and 'New' Age, but does have a soothing, if not dulling, effect and is exactly what one can count on to calm the nerves or cure insomnia. The decor does not provide visual stimulation, but is instead functional in a comforting manner. The food is the same enhanced fare one should expect on a Serco station, flavored enough to disguise whatever organic compounds inhabit the recipe, and is also rumored to be nourishing. Honestly, I have found it to be quite suitable, even desirable, when my main objective is to simply 'fill the hole'. Bessa Vodek, the manager of the local franchise of the Yoda Hut, also keeps a stock of Dau Senate Ale; I believe I may be the only customer that asks for it.
As I sat at the counter, absently nibbling away at the hot goodness on the plate before me, my attention bounced randomly between the Local Trades gliding by on the message banner near the ceiling, and the sports vid hung over the door to the station's main corridor. Nothing on the Trades seemed particularly interesting, and the Paladins were on another loosing streak due to a ball carrier that seemed to be developing an inner ear problem; an eventual career-ending condition for any athlete in zero-G sports.
"Mr. Lennan? Cron Lennan?", asked a quiet, even-toned, somewhat mechanical voice from behind and slightly to my right. It's not often I fail to notice someone approaching, things being the way they are out here among the stars, but I guess it was a combination of his stealth and my weariness. Fixing me with the typical, piercing, unblinking gaze of the Serco was a tall individual, slender of build, a blend of designer physique and exquisitely engineered enhancements. The hood on his jacket was pulled forward over his brow, perhaps to deliberately accentuate the back-glow of his eyes, a dim and deep crimson.
"Yes? Pleased to make your acquaintance Mr. ..?", I offered warmly in return, spinning slowly on the stool to face him and extending a hand I was sure would not be taken. Such gestures often put officials off their game a little, allowing one a brief conversational advantage, and this one carried with him the universal aura of law enforcement. His initially addressing me as 'Mr.' set off a little alarm in the base of my brain, as it is often a technique intended to put the quarry at ease in order to gauge their reaction when the boom is subsequently lowered. Ahh, the nuances of human (mostly) communications.
His stare flickered briefly to my hand, as if slave to the commands of some auto-aim device, then returned directly to my eyes as his long-fingered hand slipped inside his jacket pocket and produced the credentials of a Shipping Inspector. There was no hesitation, no momentary disruption of mental scheme. Either this one was very good, or I was not really quarry after all. Still, he did not shake my hand, perhaps out of either custom or regulation. I've never really understood the Serco, even though I have successfully conducted a great deal of business with them.
"May we return to your ship?", he half asked, half directed. "We have some questions about the shipment you've just delivered". He did not move muscle or servo as he continued his unwavering gaze, waiting for a response.
"Certainly, Sergeant Eskel", I answered with a polite nod. "Always happy to assist the local authorities". The glow of his eyes flickered brightly just once at the term 'local authorities', an important fact that would soon fall into place. I rose and followed him into the main corridor, glancing once over my shoulder at Bessa, who was apparently eavesdropping. She shrugged once and returned to clearing the counter of my half eaten meal.
The Behemoth is a relatively new ship class, and has become exceptionally popular in the trading and mining businesses. Although slow to respond in maneuvering and certainly no thoroughbred racer, it has very good armor and abundant cargo capacity. Owning a Behemoth is something of a status symbol amongst trades-pilots; they aren't sold to just anyone. Unfortunately many station managers have found them to be problematic. Because of their size, the Behemoth is known for nudging the edges of launching and loading docks, keeping them in a constant state of repair. Also, and again because of size, parking inside the station requires some innovation, not always in a form convenient to the Behemoth pilot. Matilda, this day, was occupying two of the less popular slots, furthest from both the maintenance station and the contracting office. This particular corner of the hangar was in a state of some neglect, and I doubt security paid it much attention.
Sergeant Eskel and I weaved our way between the other ships, heading toward Matilda. Many of the other pilots we passed were ones I knew, and our passing was not unnoticed. Smirks from some, and concerned stares from others, told me this would be an interesting encounter that was probably not at all what it seemed. Of particular note were the glances Sergeant Eskel received from the members of the various deck crews. Common amongst them was the element of unfamiliarity; these people did not recognize the Sergeant, an odd thing for a Shipping Inspector who supposedly would spend a good deal of time in the hangar.
He allowed me to step in front of him as we approached the ship, and glanced away momentarily as I punched my personal security code into the door lock and pressed my hand onto the small screen. Obviously, he had been trained in security, and understood the gesture of respecting another’s security practices, a good sign perhaps. We stepped inside and turned right towards the cargo hold, where I had the station transaction terminal installed. As a practice, when I enter a station and deliver a load, I keep the transaction log entry locked onto the terminal screen. The entry shows the transaction IDs of the both ship and station ledgers, as well as the details of the transaction. Legitimate Shipping Inspectors find the practice very helpful in resolving the confusion that sometimes arises while conducting business during peak shipping times.
As I stepped towards the terminal, I noticed the Sergeant stop and reach into his jacket pocket again. I turned to face him and to also orient myself to the various escape routes, not all of which are obvious. Without looking at me, he pulled out a small device which blinked, and softly hummed and clicked. He turned slowly in place, most of his attention not focused on me, as he watched the small thing, glancing occasionally at the deck and bulkheads. As he completed his 180 degree pivot, the device emitted a two-toned beep. Satisfied with the results, he put the device back in his pocket and stepped very close.
"Enough games Lennan", he muttered, so low that his voice didn't echo from Matilda's cavernous insides. "You have some business at home to tend to, apparently, and I've been assigned the task of delivering a message." His tone was now direct, with a slight hint of annoyance, as if this were something outside his normal duties or at least beneath his interest. He waited only a moment for a response, which I did not offer, before continuing.
"Someone named Helen has been kidnapped. Go home to your Dau Senate. You will be contacted again there. Bring a load of steel, showing that you received this message.” He spun on his heel and walked away, leaving me staring open-mouthed at his back as he exited Matilda’s empty hold. I vaguely recall hearing the hull door slide open and close. I could feel my eyes beginning to mist.
Helen? Helen!
Great story! Is it based on any truth? Are the stations starting to interact with players?
I'm ready to hear more!
I'm ready to hear more!
nice cron, how long till part 2? :D
Someone's stealing my bit at using ingame events/other characters as roleplay outlets. Grrrrrr...
Hint: Look at the date of my first post in the following thread.
http://www.vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/7303
Watch the timer, it goes round and round...
My eyes they feel so heavy
I need some sleep now... POUND
my head with a book,
will that work? Maybe...
EDIT: 8600th roleplay forum post!
http://www.vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/7303
Watch the timer, it goes round and round...
My eyes they feel so heavy
I need some sleep now... POUND
my head with a book,
will that work? Maybe...
EDIT: 8600th roleplay forum post!
Great story Cron.
Celkan, yours is good as well. It really doesnt matter who came up with what first, they are both good in their own way.
Celkan, yours is good as well. It really doesnt matter who came up with what first, they are both good in their own way.
Nice read Cron.
Celkan though I will give you that you did start alotta of the RPing side of things you are far from being the only one that does it. :P
http://www.vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/8412
http://vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/8918
http://vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/9457
Celkan though I will give you that you did start alotta of the RPing side of things you are far from being the only one that does it. :P
http://www.vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/8412
http://vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/8918
http://vendetta-online.com/x/msgboard/7/9457
@Celkan
I confess. I'm guilty, and also a no-goodnik, a thief, a scoundrel, a thoughtless and cruel abuser of all that is good, a filthy murderous cad with no sense of style, a twisted lump of fetid evil, a festering boil on the hindquarters of humanity, a plagiaristic roue, and I am old, fat, and bald, with one leg shorter than the other.
Having said all that, my point in referring to my previous, humble attempt at a bit of fiction was to plead with you to post your complaint there as well, as it is woefully missing.
As an aside, this is not the first game that I have done this with, although it is the first time I have received such a justifiable complaint. Thank you for offering a new experience to such a mean-spirited, horribly grotesque ogre.
On the other hand, you might choose to get over it...just a thought though...
;)
I confess. I'm guilty, and also a no-goodnik, a thief, a scoundrel, a thoughtless and cruel abuser of all that is good, a filthy murderous cad with no sense of style, a twisted lump of fetid evil, a festering boil on the hindquarters of humanity, a plagiaristic roue, and I am old, fat, and bald, with one leg shorter than the other.
Having said all that, my point in referring to my previous, humble attempt at a bit of fiction was to plead with you to post your complaint there as well, as it is woefully missing.
As an aside, this is not the first game that I have done this with, although it is the first time I have received such a justifiable complaint. Thank you for offering a new experience to such a mean-spirited, horribly grotesque ogre.
On the other hand, you might choose to get over it...just a thought though...
;)
Cron, I don't care what Celkan says. Nice work.
:P I've been writing stories from early alpha. I think I have a lead on most of you in this game.
If anyone couldn't tell, I was kidding in the first place.
If anyone couldn't tell, I was kidding in the first place.