P
poisonbite01
Guest
Original poster
Chapter 1: Meeting and Setting off
The Lakota was a good sized ship for a handful of crewmembers and a few passengers, with enough room for supplies and equipment to last ten years without any need to resupply, and still have space for salvage, treasures, or a few small shuttles. Normally, this sizable vessel could be found seeking out some abandoned derelict floating on the edges of the asteroid belt, or running cargo between the lunar city of Solus to the surface of Venus. But today...Today it was on the farthest outpost of colonized space: The Plutonian Orbital Array.
It was a large, saucer-shaped station almost a hundred miles across. It was big for a research-and-supply station, but smaller than most colonies were. The Lakota was docked and being loaded in the POA's massive hangar bay, with its captain Guran Hiroshi'or overseeing the operation.
He was supposed to meet his two passengers here, but instead of dressing up all formal for two ranking scientists from the United Sol Conglomeration's Science Operations division, he chose to present himself in the same sweaty t-shirt, faded army fatigues, and heavy mag-boots he'd put on when he started working on getting his ship ready for this venture.
Guran was a bulky man, shorter than most spacers born to artificial and zero-g environments but wider and more muscular than most as well. His height had to do with bad genetics, but his size had to do with the way he always kept his gravity drive a few units higher, and he made sure to stick to a strict workout regime at all times. Just because he had a big combat mech to fight in, didn't mean he wanted to be some scrappy dupe who couldn't hold his own in a brawl. His practice and his exercise had paid off quite often, and he now made it a mandatory thing for all members of his crew AND passengers to keep in peak physical condition to the best of their ability.
His hair was graying at the temples and cut short, but his eyes were steely blue with the focus and intensity of a mining laser, but they had the rather rapid movement of one who'd seen combat, and lots of it, and was making sure he was prepared for anything that went down.
There were a dozen people milling about his ship, and he shouted at all of them as they lugged the supplies and tech up the ramp and into his bay. There were a few big crates labeled "USC-SO Property, Handle with care" followed by a string of numbers, barcodes, and symbols that Guran didn't know anything about. There was also a weight stamp on it that would determine the object's overall weight in whatever gravity was currently effecting the stamp, so that anyone using mechanical loaders knew what to expect when hefting the object. Guran recalled one particularly eventful loading situation where a faulty stamp was reading at ten times its normal amount, so the loaded had picked up the box and ended up throwing it straight into the ceiling of the loading bay.
Speaking of..."Check those stamps, Gerra!"
The person in question was his mechanic, a lean and scrappy man if ever there was one, but with highly-sophisticated bionic limbs replacing his right arm and leg, as well as a metal faceplate covering that same side of his face. Gerra's mechanical eye, which was just a red dot in the center of a metal orb, rotated to look at Guron, and the mercenary's companion waved an arm non-committaly. The cyborg moved to do as bid though, scanning every object with his bionic eye and double-checking their information on a readout in his arm with his normal one.
Guran watched in silence for a bit, then hit his comm unit with a fingertip, and said "Sariva, how are they looking? Lakota ready to fly? How's Darri?"
The co-pilot, a mid-height woman with a bob-cut, dark skin, and a tattoo running up her neck and check sat in the pilot's chair on the bridge, checking, double-checking, and triple-checking every piece of information she could find. "Aye captain, readouts are good yeah? Gravity drive working fine, light warps doing great, maximum capacity at five percent. Hull integrity at one-twenty percent, and we got enough fuel, air, and food to keep us going long after the great darkening."
Guran's reply was curt but satisfied: "Good." he then turned to look around once again, glancing at the hangar doors to see if they'd open and admit his charges. He was being paid a small fortune to take them out, make sure they log everything in their little black-box thing, and bring them back, a fortune he'd received about two thirds of up-front. He and his crew could have sold the Lakota and retired on that kind of money, but then they would have been fugitives, and you did NOT steal from the USC...
The Lakota was a good sized ship for a handful of crewmembers and a few passengers, with enough room for supplies and equipment to last ten years without any need to resupply, and still have space for salvage, treasures, or a few small shuttles. Normally, this sizable vessel could be found seeking out some abandoned derelict floating on the edges of the asteroid belt, or running cargo between the lunar city of Solus to the surface of Venus. But today...Today it was on the farthest outpost of colonized space: The Plutonian Orbital Array.
It was a large, saucer-shaped station almost a hundred miles across. It was big for a research-and-supply station, but smaller than most colonies were. The Lakota was docked and being loaded in the POA's massive hangar bay, with its captain Guran Hiroshi'or overseeing the operation.
He was supposed to meet his two passengers here, but instead of dressing up all formal for two ranking scientists from the United Sol Conglomeration's Science Operations division, he chose to present himself in the same sweaty t-shirt, faded army fatigues, and heavy mag-boots he'd put on when he started working on getting his ship ready for this venture.
Guran was a bulky man, shorter than most spacers born to artificial and zero-g environments but wider and more muscular than most as well. His height had to do with bad genetics, but his size had to do with the way he always kept his gravity drive a few units higher, and he made sure to stick to a strict workout regime at all times. Just because he had a big combat mech to fight in, didn't mean he wanted to be some scrappy dupe who couldn't hold his own in a brawl. His practice and his exercise had paid off quite often, and he now made it a mandatory thing for all members of his crew AND passengers to keep in peak physical condition to the best of their ability.
His hair was graying at the temples and cut short, but his eyes were steely blue with the focus and intensity of a mining laser, but they had the rather rapid movement of one who'd seen combat, and lots of it, and was making sure he was prepared for anything that went down.
There were a dozen people milling about his ship, and he shouted at all of them as they lugged the supplies and tech up the ramp and into his bay. There were a few big crates labeled "USC-SO Property, Handle with care" followed by a string of numbers, barcodes, and symbols that Guran didn't know anything about. There was also a weight stamp on it that would determine the object's overall weight in whatever gravity was currently effecting the stamp, so that anyone using mechanical loaders knew what to expect when hefting the object. Guran recalled one particularly eventful loading situation where a faulty stamp was reading at ten times its normal amount, so the loaded had picked up the box and ended up throwing it straight into the ceiling of the loading bay.
Speaking of..."Check those stamps, Gerra!"
The person in question was his mechanic, a lean and scrappy man if ever there was one, but with highly-sophisticated bionic limbs replacing his right arm and leg, as well as a metal faceplate covering that same side of his face. Gerra's mechanical eye, which was just a red dot in the center of a metal orb, rotated to look at Guron, and the mercenary's companion waved an arm non-committaly. The cyborg moved to do as bid though, scanning every object with his bionic eye and double-checking their information on a readout in his arm with his normal one.
Guran watched in silence for a bit, then hit his comm unit with a fingertip, and said "Sariva, how are they looking? Lakota ready to fly? How's Darri?"
The co-pilot, a mid-height woman with a bob-cut, dark skin, and a tattoo running up her neck and check sat in the pilot's chair on the bridge, checking, double-checking, and triple-checking every piece of information she could find. "Aye captain, readouts are good yeah? Gravity drive working fine, light warps doing great, maximum capacity at five percent. Hull integrity at one-twenty percent, and we got enough fuel, air, and food to keep us going long after the great darkening."
Guran's reply was curt but satisfied: "Good." he then turned to look around once again, glancing at the hangar doors to see if they'd open and admit his charges. He was being paid a small fortune to take them out, make sure they log everything in their little black-box thing, and bring them back, a fortune he'd received about two thirds of up-front. He and his crew could have sold the Lakota and retired on that kind of money, but then they would have been fugitives, and you did NOT steal from the USC...