Dirk Gently looks a bit at home. The Dirindi seems to admire the simplicity of the working environment that this place breathes. The holistic detective takes notes, as he quietly listens to the side of the Collective representative.
As my esteemed colleagues have both mentioned, our only job is the truth. That is what will be in our report.
Seeing no bowl of treats on the desk, Dirk smiles politely pronouncing their immediate departure to space....
After tacos.
Otal Serissi sees you back to the airlock and your waiting REBU, and your return to Absalom Station leaves all of you with time to think on the coming morning. Ambassador Nor indicated that the shuttle that was arranged and retrofitted for you would be ready when you were, and a quick check on the departure bay with your permissions shows a shuttle named "The Hippocampus" just about green to go.
The specifications of the modification on the ship indicate that it has been modified with a turret and some defensive countermeasures. Certainly not enough to stand in an all-out dogfight, but the flight path is just beyond the Armada, in the Quarantine Zone. It was likely capable enough to be able to evade any hostile actions and make it back into the secure zone of the station defenses.
At present, things have not changed with the Acreon and its cargo. The ship remains silent and unmoving, and nothing else has developed, with the detail from sensors at the quarantine range relegated to practically visual—only. Even the media coverage, in light of the lack of information, has been running the same shots, reiterating what had been said before. The InfoSphere topics on the subject are full of wild speculation, though there might be something insightful buried amidst all of the wild guesses. All of you would find out either way tomorrow.
As the docking clamps announce your arrival along with the static hiss of the pressure equalizing, the evening and night are yours to do as you would. Morning would see you at the indicated bay, and the Hippocampus ready to go.
15-0-10 trots back onto Absalom Station, then turns slightly to look back at its new colleagues. It opens its mouth and asks in a very neutral voice, "Shall we meet a few minutes before our departure time in the departure bay? I have nothing further I need to prepare between now and then, but I can occupy myself."
Dirk Gently procurement of tacos is carried out prior to boarding the Hippocampus....
With the evening and night spent as all of you might individually like, as morning creeps closer, so does the actuality of setting foot on a highly-visible mystery. It has been over two weeks since the Acreon has made headlines, and your arrival onto the station and into this situation is seeming to culminate in this. The hustle and bustle of Absalom Station does not stop, but the pace and flow does change as the diurnal crowd starts making their presence known.
Whether taking the trek by foot, or arriving in style in a REBU Black, the docks are both familiar and unfamiliar. Familiar in that no matter the station, planet, or celestial body, the dance of function in arrivals, departures, loading, unloading does not change, just the dancers and the set pieces. Unfamiliar in that you are not departing through docking bay 94, but docking bay 86, where the remnants of the evidence of upgrades sits around the shuttle intended to get you to your agreed-upon destination.
Augmented reality overlays drift across its outline, projected by Absalom Station’s universal civic grid. At a glance, the ship looks plain; through AR, it is bracketed with crisp identifiers of its designation, current clearance level, and assigned flight plan— flickering neatly in blue-green text. Icons pulse at hatches and docking clamps, offering visual confirmation that safety checks have cleared. A soft chime sounds as it recognizes your access, the overlay gently shifting to highlight the boarding ramp, as if the station itself were ushering boarders forward. Unlike the polished spectacle of Bluerise Tower or the unsettling gloom of the Eoxian Embassy, here the AR is practical, universal, and unobtrusive.
Fumbling, jostling, bumping, dico dancing up the gangplank, the whistling Holistic Detective is seen carrying enough luggage, handbags, carryons, carry offs, snuggles, pillows, blankets and even a stuffed white rabbit called White Rabbit for a college D&D weekend.
Anyone bringing popcorn? I forgot.
15-0-10 trots into the docking bay precisely five minutes before departure time. It sits back on its haunches and considers the AR feed pinging on its consciousness. It appreciates the quiet efficiency of the feed, a relief after the corporate propaganda yesterday.
It waits for the others to arrive, perfectly still.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The only thing Sparks does before getting to sleep in preparation for the start of the project to explore the Acreon is to purchase a radiation badge. He figures everyone should know if the drift rock was radioactive.
He arrives at the dock, anxious to see what awaits.
The forward cockpit retains the sleek, fighter-inspired geometry of the original Wanderer, but the tri-node computer system has expanded the controls into a multi-layered AR interface that overlays flight and tactical data in seamless harmony. The pilot and co-pilot stations curve slightly inward, creating a focused workspace, each with its own set of holographic instrumentation tuned for efficiency. The upgraded mid-range sensors feed a constant stream of telemetry into the canopy’s transparent display— range grids, movement vectors, and identification codes flowing like threads of light through the black. The turret mount’s diagnostic readout glows in the upper corner, ready but unobtrusive, a quiet reminder of the shuttle’s newly installed coilgun.
Behind the flight deck lies the guest compartment, a welcome addition uncommon in most Wanderer variants. A pair of benches face inward along the port and starboard walls, each fitted with grav-harnesses and fold-out interfaces that provide personal AR readouts: life-support status, shield integrity, and mission data projected in gentle blue-green text. A narrow hatch at the rear leads to a small cargo hold, where magnetic clamps and stabilizers hold equipment or supplies steady even during sharp maneuvers. Overhead, recessed panels mark the lifeboat access ports, their AR overlays discreetly glowing to indicate emergency readiness.
Absalom Station’s civic AR grid overlays every surface in a faint, practical luminescence. Icons label compartments, color-coded guide lines tracing safe movement paths, and responsive highlights that fade in as crew members approach consoles or storage points. The system doesn’t dazzle like a corporate environment; it’s clean, neutral, and quietly reassuring, its tone matching the voice of Absalom Station itself. When powered, the interior illumination brightens to a crisp white, the hum of the core deepens, and the AR lines converge briefly into the symbol of the station before resolving into standby mode. The result is a ship that feels stable, capable, and trustworthy—a tool of duty rather than luxury, the kind of vessel built to weather trouble and bring its crew home safely.
The Hippocampus responds to the digital keys sent to your comms, registering your signatures and granting you access to the ship. A small walkway extends a short way out to the door, which opens as the walkway reaches it. All the work contracts are finished and completed, and every checkbox shows green as access is granted to the stations that everyone chooses, and preliminary synch occurs as your communication settings are adapted into the ship from your comm unit. All that is left is to get settled in.
At the start of the pre-flight check, alarms start to trip— not just on the ship but in the bay! The dock clamps show errors, the lights dim and cold drafts are briefly felt as the life support registers errors. A check of the comms show that lockdowns are initiating around the bay as well!
__________________________________
15-0-10 jumps up into the pilot seat, lifts its tails over its head, and settles its manipulator tendrils on the controls. At the same time it pops its datajack out if it spots a port for it in the console.
When the systems start glitching, it tightens its grip on the controls, trying to keep things steady. "It seems probable that someone is attempting to sabotage our mission," it states robotically as it does so.
"Absalom Station Flight Control, this is the Hippocampus. We were cleared to depart ... and need to be underway. Please clear the way and open bay doors immediately."
In the most nonplussed way possible, Dirk Gently is seen gently lowering his luggage (and such) neatly near the door, as the bells and whistles begins bleating and baying about.
Casually he saunters over to the computer console (winking at 15-0-10), and the merry holistic detective begins pushing buttons....
Tell me what's wrong Babycakes.
Having no significant knowledge of computers or engineering, Sparks tries to assist the effort to communicate the situation to the station flight control.
"Mayday! Mayday! Major system malfunctions across the board! Please advise!"
Everything is a mess for what feels like a minute, but was in fact several chaotic seconds before someone on the dock— whether it was a quick-thinking manager or adept worker– hits the failsafe. In seconds, Lockdown protocols isolate the dock and cut power to any connected ships. Similarly, a routine is run that forces a shutdown of any connected vessels. Controls no longer recognize input, and the station dock has total control.
Dirk finds the cause of the issues, but is subsequently unable to make any headway analyzing it— the workstation locking and going dark just as the digital dick discovers dubious data to decode. Drat!
Aside from minimal life support, the ship is silenced, lit only by the emergency lighting along the floor and by the door.
Dirk Gently looks both bothered by the bankruptcy of benefits bullied boisterously by himself....
....and graciously gifted genuinely guidance in good gamepersonship! Dirk winks.
Dirk's Three Blue eyes seem to be blinking at the dead computer. He eases away, wiping away his finger prints from the controls.
Whistling an innocent tune, the Holistic Detective begins taking notice that the ship seems to be running among bare power and such.
So wat now?
15-0-10 tries to call the station docking authority on its built-in comm unit. While it does this it disconnects from the ship.
It speaks in what sounds very like the voice of a detective from a recent popular movie. [b]"There's mischief afoot! This has the scent of sabotage. We should get out and see what evidence the saboteur left behind."{/b]
It starts examining the ship for signs of tampering while waiting for a response to its call.
15-0-10 receives a static tone that pings to an automated messaging system, then drops the signal afterwards, a data packet attached to the forced termination.
{Faraday Protocol in effect, your attempt recorded. Please wait patiently.}
The heavy door to the dock hisses open, and within seconds, a half-squad of Station Security in dark-blue armor sweeps in with the kind of efficiency that comes from having done this too many times. Their weapons stay holstered, but their stance leaves no doubt that this is not a social call. At their head is Sergeant Harl Voss, a broad-shouldered human woman with the expression of someone who’s already filed the report in her head and isn’t thrilled about it.
“Alright, which one of you clever souls decided to make my morning interesting?” she says, her tone clipped and dry as she scans the group. “The lockdown flagged an unauthorized systems event on a restricted shuttle— that’s your shuttle, by the way– and Command doesn’t like surprises. So before anyone starts explaining how this is all a big misunderstanding, let me make one thing clear: the only reason I’m not hauling you straight to debrief is because I haven’t got the paperwork for it ready.”
She gestures to one of the nearby consoles, which still flickers faintly under station override. “You tripped three layers of security, one of which hasn’t been used since the Wisp Dock fire, so congratulations on that. I’ve got system control here, meaning the ship stays cold until a tech team clears it. That’ll be at least an hour, more if they find you’ve overwritten any of the safety code. So sit tight, breathe slow, and don’t touch anything— I’d hate for the next system to think you’re trying to leave without permission.”
Exhaling through her nose, she rubs at her temple with a gloved hand. “Look, I get it. Half the time, the right credentials don’t talk to the right terminals, and nobody tells the contractors anything until something sparks. But station procedure’s procedure. You’ll give your statements, I’ll file the incident, and if Command clears you, I’ll personally make sure your little field trip gets back on schedule. Until then— stay in sight, stay calm, and don’t make me call in Ops.”
"Ma'am, truth be told, my desire to be underway is only exceeded by my desire not to be any trouble. We were in school not that long ago, and while I was there to learn, my primary goal was to be under the radar."
The elf smiles, to her and to himself ...
"This is not that. Assuredly not that. I'm not even sure what the opposite of under the radar is, but I'll think about it. Let us know what you need."
Dirk Gently looks a bit nervous......
Sparks listens to the sergeant and when she is finished he offers, "Let us know if there is anything we can do to make this go faster. Otherwise, we'll wait for someone to clear this up. As you may know, we do not own this ship and only just set foot in it less than an hour ago. We were just settling in to fly the ship out to the Acreon as authorized by the Eoxian ambassador. I suspect someone does not want us to succeed in our mission. We'll await the results of your investigation."
15-0-10 trots out with the others to meet security. It opens its mouth and speaks in its calm, inflected-but-robotic voice after Sparks has spoken. "I concur that sabotage seems the likeliest explanation. I was just about to begin an inspection myself, but I understand the security reasoning for having station security inspect it instead."
Dirk Gently is seen looking under the fusalodge....
A short time later...
The dock lights shift from warning amber to a steadier white as the airlock seals disengage, the low hum of power returning to the bay systems. Sergeant Voss appears again with a datapad in hand, the faint reflection of an active comm channel still glowing on her visor. Her tone, when she speaks, is taut and formal— the sound of someone caught between irritation and the knowledge that this incident just jumped three levels above her pay grade.
“Well,” she starts, glancing up from her screen, “congratulations. You’ve officially made it onto the station bulletin. The Eoxian ambassador himself just pulled strings to get your clearance reinstated. I don’t know what kind of political mess you’re walking into, but it’s got every eye from Astral Extractions to the Hardscrabble Collective pointed straight at this dock.” She thumbs across the datapad, and the faint hum of the power core rises as systems flicker back to life under station authority. “So— good news, your shuttle’s live again. Bad news, if you so much as sneeze on the wrong circuit this time, I’m going to need to call in a diplomatic liaison to explain it.”
She holsters her stylus, the gesture sharp and final. “You’ve been cleared for immediate departure, under Nor’s authority. You’ll have escort telemetry fed from Station Control until you’re off-grid, so don’t deviate from your flight path, and don’t make me read about another ‘procedural irregularity’ in the logs. The ambassador might have faith in you, but I don’t take orders from corpses— diplomatic or otherwise.”
For a moment, her tone softens just enough to be almost human. “Look, whatever this Acreon business is, get it sorted fast. You’ve got miners, executives, and now an undead diplomat all waiting on your report, and none of them have a reputation for patience. So— keep it clean, keep it official, and if you come back in one piece, maybe I’ll even pretend this morning didn’t happen.”
"Ten-Four," Sparks says. "We read you five by five." He hopes that's meaningful, as he is just repeating what he's heard actors say in adventure videos.
Then he settles back into the captain's chair on the bridge and begins to observe operations, calling attention to things as he spots issues.
He is willing to relinquish the chair if someone wants it more, but as he is not qualified as a pilot, a science officer, or an engineer, he rises to his level of incompetence, which in this case is the captain's post.
As the Inspector reenters the vessel, Dirk Gently is seen sitting quite quietly, feet firmly planted on the deck, hands flat on the counter in front of him, three blue eyes forward.....
Zeph can be seen Token Spelling some decorative patterns in the decor ... keeping ready
As soon as it's allowed to, 15-0-10 sets about checking the ship's systems for signs of sabotage.
15-0-10, performing a thorough look through the systems of the Hippocampus as part of the ready check, is able to discern the work that was done by the station technicians. The systems were cleaned. It is likely that the technicians stripped everything out of the system down to the factory default settings, and then reinstalled the needed programs and integrations from scratch. As such, a lot of the startup and ready check is done as if it is the maiden voyage for this ship.
The checking of the integrity of the engineering reports does lead to finding a small Observer drone, marked in storage and listed on the manifest, still in its sealed packaging. An AR tag serves as a message and signature, with the window aesthetics and appearance styled in what you might call "Diplomatic Eoxian", complete with the organic stylistic touches and not-quite-uncanny coloring.
~ {This Observer drone will unobtrusively record your exploration and verification without needing any oversight. Please deploy it prior to docking. -Ambassador Nor}
The remainder of the Engineering sweep finds repaired and replaced panels and wiring regarding the docking clamps that were damaged in the initial situation, and its related systems. Everything appears correctly placed, and properly prepared.
For the first hour, the journey through the void is routine— uneventful but charged with quiet anticipation. The Hippocampus hums steadily under the guide of the pilot, the power core thrumming through the deck plating with a rhythm that settles into the bones. Beyond the canopy, the light of Absalom Station fades into a distant glimmer, replaced by the endless depth of the black. The AR overlays from station control taper off one by one as the shuttle leaves the primary traffic lanes, until only the faint green arc of the quarantine perimeter remains ahead—a slowly pulsing boundary marker in the void, surrounding the silent form of the Acreon.
As they near the restricted zone, the comm channels grow quieter still, save for the occasional burst of static and the soft ping of long-range sensors updating. The AR interface flashes intermittent updates: <Approaching quarantine threshold. No authorized transmissions within radius. Automated defenses inactive.> The Acreon soon resolves on the sensors— a medium-sized explorer-class vessel, its transponder broadcasting a weak but steady identification signal. Visually, it drifts with eerie precision, held in perfect station-keeping against the backdrop of distant stars. Its hull bears the faded livery of the Hardscrabble Collective, streaked with micrometeor scars and decades of wear. The forward shielding shimmers faintly, still powered, though no visible movement comes from within.
Off the Acreon’s port bow looms the Drift Rock. It is a dark, irregular mass of stone and crystal nearly the size of the ship itself. It rotates lazily, its surface reflecting faint, unnatural hues: purples, greens, and deep blues that seem to shift even when unlit. The rock’s proximity to the Acreon feels almost deliberate, its tethered edge held fast by the ship’s anchored light tether. Every sensor return paints it as inert, yet there’s something about its silhouette— uneven, almost wrong– that makes the eye want to glance away. The void around both vessels is disturbingly still; even radiation readings sit flat, the emptiness too perfect to feel natural.
The Hippocampus glides along the edge of the quarantine perimeter, its exterior lights dimmed to passive mode. Automated warnings from Absalom Station echo faintly across comms: “Caution. Quarantine boundary established. No boarding or transmission contact without authorization.” Within the cockpit, the glow of the displays reflects across intent expressions and focused eyes. The Acreon hangs ahead like a ghost— its lights low, its engines cold, and its silence pressing. Beyond it, the Drift Rock turns slowly, patient and inscrutable, waiting.
Satisfied with its system sweep, though suspecting that the station's technincians had wiped out any signs there might have been of the cause of the problems, 15-0-10, jumps back into the pilot seat and jacks into the Hippocampus. Its body goes perfectly still as its consciousness concentrates on piloting.
As they near the Acreon, its voice--the inflected but robotic one it often uses--sounds from the shuttle's speakers. "We are the authorized boarders. If there is nothing you wish to see from the outside, I will begin docking procedures. I assume we wish to go to a personnel hatch, not a cargo hatch?"
Dirk Gently rides along in the cockpit. The Holistic Detective barely manages not to touch any of the colorful flashing lights, switches, knobs, levers, pulleys, buttons (well not those kind of buttons), as he whistles a haunting melody.
Once the Acreon shows in the forward shield, Dirk immediately sits up straight, considering 15-0-10's question.
Isn't that what they'll expect. Perhaps we dock in the cargo bay?
As the ship and rock come into clear view, Sparks watches intently, switching between the view presented on the view screen and a direct view out the bridge window. "Circle once around horizontally and once vertically. Science officer, do a scan of both the ship and the rock. Let's start with all the information we can get before we decide where to board."
"Switching primary processing to sensor input," 15-0-10 reports robotically, still over the shuttle's speakers.
As the ship and rock come into clear view, Sparks watches intently, switching between the view presented on the view screen and a direct view out the bridge window. "Circle once around horizontally and once vertically. Science officer, do a scan of both the ship and the rock. Let's start with all the information we can get before we decide where to board."
Zephyr laughs, probably as fully as any of his teammates has ever heard.
"That was some kind of odd Brennari humour ... right? Something that would have been funnier when we were still in school maybe? You were watching old episodes of Path Trek and thought you were Venture-Captain Kirk?"
Zeph continues to chuckle as he goes over to the scrying station to see if he can get any additional information that way.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
The Hippocampus glides in slow orbit around the Acreon, the sensors pinging rhythmic notes into the dark as 15-0-10 works the console. Green holo-lines trace the transport’s silhouette on the display—medium-class hull, Hardscrabble Collective registry, crew capacity six. Data scrolls by in precise, orderly columns, yet something about the readings feels off. The power signature is faint but stable— minimal energy output consistent with life support and gravity, but no propulsion, no weapons, no movement.
Refining the scan, the aft section pulses brighter in the readout— Airlock. Open. Vented to vacuum. The instruments confirm exposure across several compartments, yet interior pressure elsewhere remains intact, contained by emergency bulkheads. The ship is wounded, but not broken. A second pass sweeps through the weapons grid: the chain cannon and gyrolasers are powered down, their targeting systems cold, no threat evident. A handful of subroutines still run at low priority— life support, gravity, environmental stabilization– all at survival thresholds.
When the sweep widens to include the Drift Rock, the return signal flares, then flattens into noise. The asteroid registers as inert— rock and metal, density consistent with drift debris— but the readings resist refinement, as though something in its structure is swallowing the scans. The sensor feed jitters briefly before stabilizing, the display showing only static where mineral data should be.
The first card appears— The Lost Sailor, inverted– a figure adrift amid tangled lines of energy. The interpretation blooms across his senses: the crew are gone from their proper course, their fate severed from the paths of life but not yet claimed by death. The next glyph forms, The Blooming Crown, its Castrovelian motif of flowers entwined with circuitry glowing softly. It pulses once, then fades into shadow– life remains, but wan and fading; nurtured by something unnatural, a mimicry of vitality rather than its source.
The divination shifts, the digital vines curling into the outline of the Drift Rock, rendered as a void where no data dares touch. The third card emerges—The Shrouded Root, its imagery twisting into obsidian tendrils. The card trembles, flickering between organic and metallic hues. Through the hum of the shuttle, the Zephyr senses something– it is not malevolent exactly, but ancient, still, and deeply alien. It is not that the Rock resists revelation. It is that it has no reflection, nothing the weave of magic can grasp. A stillness so profound it consumes meaning.
When the final glyph fades, the Harrow projection dims to a pale, living green that settles over the console like moss in moonlight. The divination ends, but a faint echo remains— a single, recurring pulse from the Drift Rock’s position, inaudible to the ear yet thrumming through the heart of the interface. Whatever dwells there does not move, yet it waits, and its waiting feels vast.
__________________________________
"Open airlock detected. No life signs detected," 15-0-10 reports robotically. In a warmer, more inflected voice it adds, "It looks part of the ship is still pressurized, and part isn't. That open airlock would be an easy place to dock. Any objections to it?"
Dirk Gently stumbles slowly along his keyboard attempting to assist 15-0-10 in his Scientific endeavors....
The Espionage Specialist looks at his pilot giving a crisp salute!
Open air lock means environmental protection activated!
Dirk seems excited to explore....
"Starships are a team effort and that calls for someone to lead," Sparks says, a bit annoyed at Zeph's response. "I'm not expecting salutes and 'Yes, sir!'. If you think of something better, let us all know."
"Seems like we should suit up and see what's in that airlock area. Maybe re-pressurize the area and see if something left or entered that part of the ship before the end."
"Starships are a team effort and that calls for someone to lead," Sparks says, a bit annoyed at Zeph's response. "I'm not expecting salutes and 'Yes, sir!'. If you think of something better, let us all know."
"Seems like we should suit up and see what's in that airlock area. Maybe re-pressurize the area and see if something left or entered that part of the ship before the end."
"Don't need to think of anything better, friend, you already took care of it. Teams don't actually need someone to lead, they need leaderSHIP. Like the shared leadership model you just employed by saying "Seems like we should ..." Absolutely no salute is implied, but a course of action is. Makes me wish I were already changed."
Zeph looks pensive for a minute
"I get that broader magical studies were more my thing in school than anyone else's, and I headed to the scrying station for that reason. The divination I conjured was intense and we should keep it in mind as we move forward. Obviously the flavour of my metaphors comes from my heritage, but there are very real, very strong portents for us to consider."
Zeph relays the vision to everyone
"Confirming the integrity of life support needs to be a priority, but keeping watch as that happens should be too. There's a malevolence here."
Dirk Gently stumbles once he listens to Zephyr's mysterious promonitions.
That The Lost Sailor definitely sounds as if there may be undead crew about. The other two seems to support that assumption. Scary.
The Holistic Detective begins accessing their garlic and holy water inventory.....
Crossing the quarantine perimeter is almost anticlimactic— there’s no alarm, no visible shimmer of a barrier– just a soft chime from the AR display as the green arc on the viewport dissolves into nothing. The comm feed crackles, and the last tethered ping from Absalom Station fades into static. Out here, even the stars feel more distant. The void presses close, the kind of silence that seems to listen.
As the Acreon fills the view ahead, its worn hull details resolve: the faded red sigil of the Hardscrabble Collective, a faint trace of carbon scoring near the bow, and the gaping aperture where its main cargo bay doors stand half-open. No running lights blink along its hull; no heat signatures register beyond residual power. Yet its systems hum at the faintest threshold— shielding active, internal life support at minimal levels, a low-draw pulse of energy flickering through the sensors like the ghost of a heartbeat. The Acreon isn’t dead. It’s waiting.
The Hippocampus’ computer chirps quietly as docking protocols initialize. Target vectors trace across the viewport in faint green outlines marking the ship dorsal port as the most stable point of approach. Thrusters adjust automatically, microbursts of blue light flaring against the void as the shuttle aligns itself. The coilgun turret sweeps idly along the horizon as systems check and recheck proximity fields. Inside the cabin, safety harnesses click, and the tone of the engines shifts into a deeper, steady hum.
As the docking clamps extend, the hull of the Acreon looms so close that the pitted texture of its plating is visible beneath the shuttle’s forward lights. The AR overlays flicker once— just a hiccup, a single frame of static across the HUD– as the Hippocampus makes hard contact. The sound of magnetic locks thuds through the deck, deep and resonant, followed by the slow, hollow hiss of the airlock cycling. A faint tremor runs through the cabin, and then— silence again, heavier than before.
The internal lighting on the Hippocampus shifts to low blue, indicating sealed synchronization. The boarding ramp indicator pulses patiently, waiting for manual override. Outside, the Acreon drifts in perfect stillness, tethered to the vast, dark mass of the Drift Rock, both suspended in the lightless quiet of space. There’s no movement. No sound. Only the faint pulse of the ship’s external beacon, blinking once every ten seconds— like a heartbeat, echoing through the dark.
15-0-10 withdraws itself from the ship's systems with just a touch of regret. While becoming ensouled has made it more attached to its hardware than a fully digital existence, it still felt... expanded when it had a direct data link to some more processors and memory, even such a basic system as the shuttle.
Once it's fully detatched from the shuttle's processors, 15-0-10 physically detaches from the shuttle, its datajack withdrawing into the port in its forehead. It hops down from the pilot seat and trots towards the airlock. As it does, it taps two manipulator-tentacles to its solarian mote then spreads them out, a shimmering hemisphere of light forming between them as it does. It wraps another tentacle around its pistol, lifting it behind the shield, its camera-tipped tentacle laying alongside the gun as a sight.
"While there were no signs of enemies, it seems best to be prepared," it says in a voice that sounds very close to a recent action vid hero's. "If the rest of you are ready, let's get this party started."
Sparks stands an moves toward the shuttle's airlock. He makes sure his environmental protection features of his armor are operating and sealed for vacuum environments. He attaches a tether line to his belt at the back and checks that his weapons and other equipment is secured on his person. Then he nods ready to "get the party started," although he feels it might resemble a wake more than a party given the possibility of undead.
Dirk Gently stares steadily at the encroaching Aecron, as theirs slides, bangs, bullies, squeezes and smurfs it's way inside the cargo bay.
Anyone ever see this really old movie called Aliens?
Shivering as he mimics Spark's proper boarding procedure, the nervous Holistic Detective readies to properly board this Dead Ship....
The Espionage Specialist then begins checking and initiating some of his spy toys!
Stormweave Cloak (10cr)** – **Static-reactive fibers** subtly redirect light around the wearer. When charged, it **crackles faintly**, but Dirindi can control the effect. *(+1 Stealth vs. electronic surveillance.)*
* **Subvocal Comm Implant (Level 1, 50cr)** – Silent throat mic for **encrypted communications** without speaking aloud.
---
**Observation & Reconnaissance Gear**
* **Data-Tap Gloves (Level 1, 75cr)** – Dirindi have an **innate charge**, so these gloves let them **interface with electronic devices** (like computers, cameras, or drones) just by touching them. *(+2 to Computers for quick access, can bypass keypads with static pulses.)*
* **Solar Lens Visor (Level 1, 125cr)** – A **Dirindi-modified visor** providing:
* **Low-light vision enhancement** *(+2 Perception in dim light.)*
* **Solar wave detection** *(Useful for tracking stellar radiation or anomalies.)*
* **Electromagnetic pulse reader** *(Detects nearby powered electronics.)*
* **Sanjaval Echo Recorder (Level 1, 90cr)** – An **ID badge recorder** that picks up **whispers through walls** and **logs subtle shifts in sound frequency**. *(+2 Perception to overhear conversations.)*
* **Sanjaval Recon Drone (Level 1, 100cr)** – A **silent micro-drone** upgraded with:
* **Magnetic tracking beacon** *(Attaches to vehicles or metal surfaces.)*
* **Lightning dispersion plating** *(Safe from Dirindi static surges.)*
* **Passive flight mode** *(Hovers and observes for 15 minutes.)*
Assured that everything is in working order, the Solarian puts on his mean face, as his Stellar Mote crackles with electricity, forming into his weapon as he walks....
Zephyr also smurfs into his new gear ... (I just wanted to change my pic)
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
As everyone gets situated to enter, a message chimes on the ship's comm as well as your individual units.
{Your shuttle sensors indicate that you have docked. It may have gotten moved by the technicians, but an Observer-class drone was placed in storage locker three to help with recording evidence of the arbitration. Please retrieve and activate the drone before entering the Acreon. ~Ambassador Nor}
The docking tether lights that indicate the secure connection to the Acreon also have a red indicator light signaling vacuum on the other side of the tether. Normally, if this was the only connection that was vented to space, that indicator would be the green of a stable atmosphere from the Hippocampus' connection. As the scan did not indicate any damage, one of the other access points had to be open.
15-0-10 will make certain the recording drone is active before the airlock opens.
"The vacuum will not be a problem for me, and I trust the rest of you have charged your armor's life support?" The SRO's voice this time is a confident contralto.
Sparks takes a moment to attune his solarian mote up to full energy mode. Then he gives a thumbs up that he is ready to head for the Acreon's open air lock, trying not to think of various moves about monsters on derelict spaceships.