Interdictor-Class Battleship "Mastodon"
Low-Earth Orbit

There's something magical about the smell of a freshly sanitized battleship, Captain Blaise decided, clasping his hands formally behind his back as he gazed at the majestic of the cosmos from the bridge's viewport.

"Shuttle Fractal Pterodactyl reports it has docked in our bay, sir," came the hesitant voice of his helmsman, jarring the officer from his reverie. "Shall I bring us 'round toward a new heading, or are we expecting others?"

Blaise breathed in deeply from his nostrils, holding it in for a good ten-count before exhaling in the same manner. The combination of fast-drying chemicals tinged with the metallic tang left in the air by the recirculation scrubbers creates a slightly burnt, slightly sweet odor that many naval officers came to associate with comfort and efficiency.

"Sir?"

"There's enough trouble aboard the Fractal to go around," Blaise says, perhaps more curly than he intended. His tone softens, but only slightly -- displaying too much compassion might be good for morale, but it was definitely bad for discipline. "Yes, we're moving out. We've been in Braeburn's airspace for too long. Not that they'd admit there's a point at which their airspace ends."

The rest of the crew on the bridge laugh along with him, but it's a strained sound that lacked any trace of humor.

"Set a new course, Lieutenant. I want us in Venusian orbit as soon as possible."

"Venus, aye, Captain," the helmsman says, punching coordinates into his console. "ETA 97 standard cycles. 95 if we wait a few hours to align our departure with Earth's orbital thrust."

The captain sucked air through his nostrils again, annoyed by the universe's arbitrary limits and at his inability to circumvent them. Not yet, anyway

"Put a head on that, if you can," Blaise said, nodding at the helmsman. "The bridge is yours until I return. I have guests to attend to."

With that, the captain turned and walked toward the hallways that would eventually lead him to the docking bay. Along the way, he activated his comlink to speak without breaking stride.

"Bring the asset to my private conference room," the captain said softly, confident in his system's encryptions. "And notify the ARES agent. Our away team has arrived."

***

The Fractal Pterodactyl was a standard shuttle with textbook, assembly-line specifications across the board. At least, on paper. If one were to pop the hood, however, they would quickly notice a variety of upgrades generally reserved for smugglers, bootleggers, government contractors, and other criminals.

A cursory glance at the smirk on the pilot's face when the shuttle's side hatch opened to admit him was all it took for Captain Blaise to know it was the latter which he was dealing with.

"Welcome aboard the ICB Mastodon," Blaise said, awaiting a salute that never came. He brushed away his irritation and continued, this time addressing the group of men standing behind the pilot. "I trust the accommodations will be to your liking, Hor- Battalion. If you would follow me?"

The group of men began to follow, but Blaise stops them with a raised hand.

"Only Prime is needed, if you please."

There's a groaning, but eventually a single man steps forward -- the pilot, his mischievous smirk never leaving his face.


***

The pair enter Blaise's private conference room only to find that it is already occupied by a businessman wearing a pristine suit in the latest fashion and a non-nonsense expression. He steeples his fingers from his seat at the head of the table -- Captain Blaise's seat.

"Ah, Flux. I see you've arrived. Excellent," the captain says, swallowing his objection to the seating arrangement and taking a place at the opposite head of the boardroom table. He motions for Battalion to take a chair, as well.


Moments later, the door opens to admit a confused-looking man with a short-cropped haircut and a dirty Braeburn flightsuit. His expression is glassy, and he seems to be talking to himself under his breath.

"Xander. You're late," Blaise says, eliciting a start of surprise from the newcomer. "Please, have a seat. All will be revealed in time."


An awkward silence falls as the group looks at one another -- a silence broken when the door opens for what will be the final time of the meeting. A man in a white lab coat walks in, ushering a young girl holding a doll before him.

"Have a seat, Becky," the man says. "This nice man wants to help you."
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:45, Thu 21 Aug 2014.

In reply to The Watcher (msg # 1):

"Gentlemen," Captain Blaise begins. "Lady. You have been brought here today to help us address a matter of grave importance. The risks are great, but the rewards are greater."

He looks around the room, making eye contact with each person in turn.

"Freedom," he says, glancing at Battalion.
"Power," he says, with a nod toward Flux.
"Knowledge," he says in Xander's direction.
"Peace," he finishes, smiling at Rebecca.

"These and more are at stake, and they aren't just vague concepts. We have concrete data we're willing to share with the right group of people, in return for a cut of the profits. But it will mean going up against some of the biggest names in the game. The IDAS. Braeburn. GENOME. The list goes on."

Here, he pauses.

"Any objections so far? If you want to walk away, it's now or never."

In reply to The Watcher (msg # 2):

Walking isn't the issue, JJ says with a smirk.  He drops into a chair with a loud thump then leans back and puts his feet up on the table, hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his orange jumpsuit.  Though I avoid it when I can.

A second Batallion appears to his side.  The duplicate wanders over to the long table that runs the length of one wall of the room and pours a glass of water from a stainless decanter.  This he brings back and hands to the original before winking out of existence.  In that time, two more duplicates appear and take the seats to either side of JJ so that he effectively sits on an entire side of the table 'alone'.

JJ nods to Flux.  JJ Hooper.  Batallion.  Whatever.  He sips at the glass of water and then reclines back and locks his fingers behind his head.

When do we leave and where are my quarters?
This message was last edited by the player at 15:05, Thu 21 Aug 2014.

In reply to Batallion (msg # 3):

The girl says with a precocious tone in her voice:

The information given to us does not allow for a significant analysis of your offer to walk away.  We must know specifically what risks are to be incurred and what rewards can be reaped before a proper level of acceptance can be analyzed.  Peace is what I desire above all else but how is your quest to intersect with my own.  That is the question.

"Hard to be on time for an appointment you don't know about," the jumpsuited man mutters, though it isn't clear to whom. He stands up and walks over to the corner of the room, where the pitcher of water sits on a small table. He pours himself a glass, drains it, pours himself another, and drains it too. The third glass he brings back to his seat, into which he collapses, rubbing his temples.

He knew water was what he needed, though he wished for something quite a bit stronger. Though the look of confusion and disorientation remains - helped not at all by JJ's sudden multiplication - he looks a bit less dazed. At least, he stopped moving his lips under his breath, perhaps aware that it made him look quite crazy.

Though, all things considered, given the makeup of the room, it was far down on the list of 'unusually weird occurances.'

Sipping his third glass of water, he sits silently and awaits further explanation.

In reply to Rebecca Taylor (msg # 4):

Absentmindedly, Flux raises his hand in the direction of the water jug and glass, lazily pulling them both through the air and onto the table. With an unflinching gaze fixated on the group of misfits and miscreants assembled at his opposite, Flux pours a glass of water and drinks deeply before responding.

"Understanding is not required. Only obedience. If you find the current constraints of our proposition unacceptable, I'm sure we could return you to whatever happy life you left behind prior to joining us here today; the local Braeburn authorities would be eager to assist in your transport."

Flux pushes his chair back from table and stands to continue his address. He stands an even 7.5 Micah's tall (roughly 6 feet), cutting an imposing figure in his well tailored suit. The tight lines of the suit do nothing to hide the physique of what a brick shithouse would describe as an actual brick shithouse.

"Of course, there's no saying we can't have a little bit of fun along the way. A little bit of good. A little bit of bad. Minimum Casualties. Maximum Effectiveness. It is the motto our mission will keep at all times.

Questions?"

The look on his face makes it apparent Flux does not anticipate additional questions.

Upon the mention of the local Braeburn authorities, Xander flinches noticeably, as if slapped. An odd reaction, given the markings on his jumpsuit indicating him a member of Braeburn's R&D division.

He winces, rubbing his temples more vigorously. "We're all right here, there's no need to shout..." he murmurs. Xander looks at his now-empty glass and then at the pitcher floating near Flux longingly, though he can't seem to summon the energy to get up and retrieve it. Or at least, the energy to do so without vomiting all over the conference table.

He remains seated.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:37, Thu 21 Aug 2014.

In reply to Xander (msg # 7):

JJ raises his hand.

Question: great motto, but can we leave the obedience part out of it?  Never had much use for it, or people demanding it.

In reply to Batallion (msg # 8):

Flux smiles deeply and genuinely, tenting his fingers as he ponders Batallion's question.

"Demand? Demand implies an inquiry or request has been made. No demands are being made of you.

Should you choose to not indulge in the basic expectations of this expedition, you are free to return to the proper authorities now, or the emptiness of space via the closest airlock I can shove you into.

We believe in freedom of choice here at ARES, but that doesn't mean we're above stacking the deck. I would think a man of your proclivities would appreciate such a distinction."

Xander elects to remain silent until such a time as the universe decides to start making the least little bit of goddamn sense.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:48, Thu 21 Aug 2014.

In reply to Xander (msg # 10):

As in all walks of life, I'll assume your silence implies consent.

Proceed Uninterrupted, Captain.

In reply to Flux (msg # 11):

JJ raises one brow to express his incredulousness but remains quiet for the time being.

Yup, I got your number fancy-pants.

In reply to Batallion (msg # 12):

"I can see why you came so highly recommended," Captain Blaise says, favoring Flux with a nod of approval before returning his gaze to the others.

"As I was saying, what we aim to do is no small matter, and will earn us a great many enemies in the process. But, as ARES is fond of saying, enmity is just another word for winning."

He activates the holo controls, which are built into the table itself. In response to his gesture, a timeline of sorts materializes above the group.

"This chart represents to rate at which Braeburn has expanded relative to the rate at which Braeburn has released technological advances. Note the enormous upticks present in three specific areas: when they deployed the Archive, when they established their Lunar colony, and most recently, when they established their Titanic colony."

The chart dissolves and is replaced by a graph depicting the company's revenue stream and rate of government contract acquisition.

"It shouldn't surprise you to hear that Braeburn hasn't lost a military contract it's bid on for years -- nobody's in a hurry to piss off the solar system's only high-fidelity data transmission provider, especially when said provider is also a leading player in the world of military contracting and consumer electronics."

This image is replaced by another, this one representing Braeburn's R&D budget and various science/tech grants.

"We've seen Braeburn's R&D grow by 15% or more every year since the establishment of their base on Titan, which would make more sense if it didn't coincide with their complete apathy for bidding on recent scientific development grants. As you can see, most of the money is being funneled to the Society of Aeronautic and Galactic Explorers."

The captain's voice becomes more serious.

"S.A.G.E., being a nonprofit, is bound to publish its findings to the Archive... but we suspect there's some collusion going on, wherein some of the choicest tidbits are passed directly to Braeburn's R&D instead, in exchange for S.A.G.E.'s near-monopolization of grant money in those fields of research."

The slide fades, replaced by an image of Saturn's largest moon: Titan.

"That may account for what we've seen, though we have other suspicions that merit follow-up as well. This may sound crazy, but I'm deadly serious: there's a chance that Braeburn may have made first contact with an advanced civilization."

He waits for that to sink in, then continues.

"We don't know if that means they have aliens slaving away at schematics in a dungeon somewhere or if that means they have a holo-based card game every other week with some big brain light-years away. Either way, if it's true, I want in."

The next slide is a very detailed diagram of Venus, animated to show a large pinprick of light suspended in the thick atmosphere.

"But that's a digression for another day. The matter at hand. This is Venus," he says unnecessarily. "And that blip of light is S.A.G.E's main research facility. They have many others -- most notably, the one on Ceres -- but this one's proximity to Earth makes it essentially their headquarters installation."

The pinprick of light zooms in, showing a very detailed schematic of the facility and a chart showing estimated populations of scientists, guards, drones, and other defenses.

"We have reason to believe S.A.G.E. is on the cusp of announcing a scientific advance that will revolutionize everything we know about space travel. Our intel is spotty on exactly what the discovery involves, but we're pretty sure it has something to do with sentient AI, faster-than-light travel, or something equally profound."

The schematic zooms in even further, revealing a dotted-line path that laces through the facility, into several rooms, and back again.

"Whatever it is, our sources indicate that it's stored in this data hub. And that's where you come in."

The slides fade entirely, and the captain addresses the group both formally and matter-of-factly.

"Your mission is to break into the S.A.G.E. research facility, access the data hub, retrieve whatever's there, and bring it back here. WITHOUT alerting the authorities, if at all possible. Mastodon will be standing by to assist, and the IDA fleet will be months away -- far too slow to stop us."

He smiles nonchalantly.

"Any questions?"
This message was last edited by the player at 14:30, Fri 22 Aug 2014.

Typical Smash and Grab. Emphasis on the Grab, minimization on the smash.

Do we have any idea of the anticipated military resistance capacity available at the base? I'd like to know what sort of weaponry and training we're facing.

While I'm certainly familiar with the business anlytics you've presented, I'm not expert in the procurement of interstellar research data. I assume one of the lovely chaps here is somewhat savvy with computers?

Flux sighs heavily before turning toward Batallion

"And I suppose you're my SME on the breaking and entering?"

In reply to Flux (msg # 14):

JJ shakes his head dismissively.

Nope, sorry, not me, not anymore.  Strictly legit these days I'm afraid.  Fully reformed and all that.  Straight and narrow, like an arrow.

While he speaks, a duplicate of Batallion wearing a tuxedo appears and walks over to the table holding the water pitcher.  He searches around for some time then winks out.

JJ sighs and looks disappointed.

Though, metaphorically speaking of course, I'd kill for a danish or something.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:49, Fri 22 Aug 2014.

"Questions? Yes. I have a few. Namely, who the fuck are you? Where the fuck am I, how the *FUCK* did I get here, and how the..." Xander blinks, interrupting his own tirade when he remembered the presence of the child in the room. He continues in a lower, slightly more calm tone of voice. "How do you even know my name?"

He blinks. "Also, Sentient AI?" he asks in a completely different, non-confrontational tone of voice.

Upon JJ's mention of a danish, Xander's stomach churns audibly. He suddenly realizes he is famished. "I second that," he says weakly. "I haven't eaten in...God, what time is it? What day is it?"
This message was lightly edited by the player at 14:55, Fri 22 Aug 2014.

In reply to Xander (msg # 16):

"Manners," the captain says, looking distastefully at Xander. "I am Captain Blaise. You are aboard the ICB Mastodon -- where you docked of your own volition, you'll recall, as a stowaway. We've allowed you wander around a bit since then."

"Generally food can be found in the mess, but my private conference room does have some ameneties worth mentioning."

A placemat-sized chunk of the table slips aside in front of each of the people present (minus the various duplicates), revealing a data pad.

"Feel free to type in whatever you want, and our fabricators will do their best to accommodate you."

He turns to Flux.

"Detailed military and security countermeasures will be made available when we get closer -- our current estimates may be out of date. I don't expect it to be more than a few dozen sentients and a handful of battlesuits, though."

A map of the Mastodon materializes above the table, as well.

"Each of you have been assigned to a personal quarters, located here. You have the run of the ship, but do meet here once a day at the appointed time to mingle and discuss tactics. I've adjusted your chronos accordingly."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:10, Fri 22 Aug 2014.

"No, I do *not* recall," Xander replies testily, "otherwise I wouldn't be asking."

He swipes through the various menus on the datapad, settling on requesting bacon, eggs, hashbrowns, and black coffee. If I can't figure out what time of day it is, then breakfast seems the only logical choice.

His stomach rumbled again. He sits waiting for his food to appear, rubbing his temples. "Alright then, Captain Blaise," he says in a much calmer voice. "My question was more, 'whom do you work for?' I don't recognize your uniform. If I'm going to be bound up in this venture, I'd at least like to know who is holding my leash."

He's clearly not Braeburn, so that's good news, at least...

In reply to Xander (msg # 18):

JJ leans forward and engrosses himself in the food menu.

A leash... he comments idly, implies a dog at the other end.

JJ puts in a request for ten danishes but continues to flip idly through the menu.

I think I know who here is... accustomed to leash holding but as for dogs well...

JJ does not address this to anyone, in fact he doesn't even look up, allowing the comment to do as it will.

]

In reply to Batallion (msg # 19):

If the quip was meant for Flux, he doesn't look up from his recently materialized steak long enough to notice.

"Well at least they've got spunk, and they'll likely be receptive to some of the mission's potential fringe benefits"

In reply to Flux (msg # 20):

The briefing quickly becomes dinner, after which the group is left to its own devices.


OOC: Let me know what, if anything, you want to do in the immediate future and over the next three months or so of transit. There's nothing special about the transit period, but you should be interacting a little bit at least to get to know each other better. Unless you specifically decide you don't want to do that, I suppose.
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:50, Fri 22 Aug 2014.

In reply to The Watcher (msg # 21):

The very first thing you notice about the small girl sitting infront of you with her feet swinging off of the chair and wearing a hospital gown is that she is very pale... too pale... a closer look to find she is an albino, down to her reddish-pink eyes.  Eyes that don't seem to blink quite often enough for your taste.

When you hear mention Braeburns potential extraterrestial contact she has absolutely zero reaction.  Though she seems to not react to much, period.

Rebecca flips through the menu options and orders a giant ice cream sundae, with lots of whipped cream, and chocolate chip pancakes.

When the food appears she sits and watches everyone else eat.  She sets the doll behind the sundae and says quietly

Eat Percy.

The doll slumps limp face first into the sundae

The girl hums to herself while looking at each of you.

She fixes her unblinking eyes on captain Blaise

You know you talk like a member of Braeburn middle management.

She adopts a mock serious tone

We have increased our R&D budget by 15% year over year.  *She pauses for a minute*

Please tell me that you are not planning to stop there?  You show me pictures of Titan, tell me about Braeburn contact with extraterrestials and then ask me to steal a... thing from SAGE on the other side of the solar system like a petty criminal?  Then what?  Where do we go from there?  Congratulations we are now all fugitives.  How does that get us any closer to your alien card table considering you don't even know what blockbuster their releasing?


Even though you never saw her eat, part of the sundae appears to be missing as you leave.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:28, Sat 23 Aug 2014.

In reply to Rebecca Taylor (msg # 22):

Batallion, once it's clear the captain is done talking, hoists himself up and ambles lazily from the conference room along with nine duplicates, each eating a danish.

He doesn't head anywhere in particular, just wandering until he stumbles upon his quarters.

After finishing what he declares to be breakfast, actual chronological time notwithstanding, Xander wanders out into the corridor in search of his quarters, a shower, a shave, and a change of clothes.

In all future meetings in the conference room, Xander is precisely on time, prompt by even military standards, usually arriving within a few seconds of Flux. Gone is his dirty Braeburn uniform, replaced by an impeccably immaculate but nondescript crimson jumpsuit. He speaks little during the briefings. When he does, it is typically to offer advice on military hardware, or corporate cyber-security protocol.

In general, Xander keeps to himself. After his acclimation the first day, he is much more even-keeled. Though he doesn't go out of his way to make conversation, when engaged he is polite and friendly. Most of his time is spent down in obscure part of the tertiary hangar bay. Anybody who happened to follow him down would notice him rigging up a complex looking series of tubes, pipes, and re-purposed stainless steel fuel drums.

The purpose of the contraption becomes clear about a month into the voyage. One day Xander shows up at the daily briefing lugging a large auxiliary fuel drum behind him. Pulling it into the corner of the conference room, he begins dispensing a a heady amber beer for all interested.

"Hefe-weizen," he says with a faint grin. "Brewed properly. None of this replicator swill. I figured if we have three months to our first mission, I might as well use the time wisely." He shrugs. "It's five o'clock when we say it is, after all."

Future meetings have variants of different pale ales and stouts (and soon after Xander managed to jury-rig a refrigeration unit, lagers), on tap.
This message was last edited by the player at 02:27, Mon 25 Aug 2014.