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Two months ago, a mysterious ship appeared seemingly out of nowhere and is adrift in the reaches of the Kuiper Belt, at the outskirts of the Sol System. The only thing detected prior was an odd flux of gravitatonic mass that appeared briefly on in-system sensors before vanishing. A local SinoViet salvage team took operations to recover the derelict a week after it appeared, but never returned or reported back to corporate operations. An open call for a salvage and recovery team has been issued now to bring the derelict ship in, as well as find out what may have happened to the previous salvage crew.
Forty-five times the distance that separated the planet Terra from its mother star, Sol. That was how far this reached, deep in the reaches of the Kuiper Belt debris field. Out here were mining stations, research bases, and the last stops before breaching the heliopause and heading into truly interstellar space. The Terran Confederation stationed its first warning line of pickets and trip sensors far beyond this point, at a hundred and twenty astronomical units from Sol, with the secondary line closer inward at eighty. Nothing of importance lay in this region.
Yet something drifted through the broken pieces of would have been planetoids. Itself lifeless, floating in the near-vacuum out beyond the planets of the Sol System, yet somehow without accosting at the hands of the uncountable objects that smashed against each other in their weakly sustained orbits around the yellow star.
It is itself broken, yet it survives. To what end, only the darkness knows. There are those approaching to find out what it is, where it came from, and what purpose it served.
Post by Eliza Silvermantle on Oct 7, 2019 22:37:07 GMT
Eliza stared out at the display on the main screen, depicting the vast expanse outside the Dancing Goddess. She still found it highly irregular that a salvage mission was being outsourced as a bounty, though the details she'd received sent the Witch's mind to rather unsettling conclusions. Fortunately, her newest set of armor had been recently completed, a work of which she was quite proud.
"Eligos, we're on final approach," she announced over the ship's intercom. "Finish preppin' up and meet me in front." She shook her head as she glanced towards the woman in the co-pilot's chair, her personal assistant, Veska. Though an AI, and not even a smart AI like those of the UNSC era, her specific programming meant that discerning her behavior from an organic lifeform was virtually impossible, and as far as Eliza was concerned, she was a person in every way that really mattered. Right now, however, the android seemed oddly amused.
"Alright, woman, spit it out," Eliza muttered. "Ye've got th' biggest grin I think I've ever seen on an AI. And how th' bleedin' hell did ye convince that paranoid anarchist of a man ta ride wi us fer this mission?"
"I told you, Eliza. I can be perfectly persuasive when I find a need. I am programmed for personnel relations, after all," Veska replied, though the grin persisted.
"Ye can be..never mind, I'm sure I donna want ta know, now," the ashen-haired woman muttered as she shook her head. "Ye're terrible. Whatever, though. That's yer shite ta deal wi. Get us a deep scan on th' ship. If SinoViet's last team went dark wi no warnin' or anythin', best we have a look as best we can before we're actually aboard."
"Already on it," Veska replied, becoming all business in the blink of an eye. "If we had the capabilities, an EVA infiltration method might be better, and I keep the ship at a distance in case something goes wrong."
"Aye, that would be ideal, but it was enough gettin' th' clearance fer my armor. Imagine pullin' straight up military special operations equipment on top of that."
"Unfortunately, you have a valid point. Running scans now, standby.."
the things that you might like don't grow inside of me
Vincent didn't particularly liked space. Never had, and he never likely would. And where most people often seemed to begin their explanations of such distaste with the phrase 'there's just something about-', he knew exactly why it was. It wasn't some unnameable discomfort but rather the explicit knowledge of what awaited for him beyond the titanium shells that separated him from what would by all accounts be a quick but brutal end - not a fear of something unknowable but the knowledge that such an environment was simple, pure, unfeeling, a place inhospitable to nearly every form of life that didn't know or care if something was left adrift in the vast void between bright oasis able to harbor life. Above all, it was the knowledge Vincent had that made him wary of the void - not what he didn't.
But when did Vincent ever get what he liked?
Truthfully he had very little to complain about. The return to human controlled space had been... well, a shock, albeit more for the crew of the Anvil than the crew and others aboard. Most of them had gone into cryo expecting to return to worlds at war, but still with the possibility of returning to friends and family. To wake up centuries later, finding that virtually everyone you knew and loved were gone, even if some of the things and places still existed? Vincent didn't blame many of them for being unable to cope or needing some time to adjust. Most of them knew loss - virtually everyone who survived the previous war with the Covenant did - but few knew what that felt like, much less how to deal with it.
But he did. Him, Heidi, Amanda, Opal, Zachary if he was still alive, wherever that was. And being given work to do went a long way towards that adjustment - it gave Vincent focus, something he hadn't taken for granted since the war ended. Granted, the work itself wasn't particularly interesting but as Vincent sat in the Prowler's navigation station, his jet black armor's worn appearance somewhat mitigated by a fresh coat of paint, he reflected on the fact that it was probably best it wasn't. The entire point was likely easing him back into things, to give... well. It wasn't ONI anymore, and Vincent doubted FLEETCOM oversaw special operations much less ground deployments, but he assumed the point of sending him on a search and rescue mission was with the intent of seeing how he handled it before assigning him to anything more intensive... and to be sure that he was worth the investment they'd made repairing and upgrading his armor to modern standards, whatever those were.
Speaking of "upgrades"....
"Distance to target, approximately five kilometers and closing. Beginning sensor sweep."
Vincent didn't answer as the disembodied and dispassionate voice spoke over his helmet's internal speakers, normally reserved for radio communications, and instead focused his attention on the task at hand - killing the already muffled thrusters and allowing the Winter class Prowler to simply drift for the next handful of minutes in the direction of his destination, the occasional subtle puff of an attitude thruster serving as the only course corrective measure as the small ship was nudged into a stationary position relative to the only other obvious destination among the tumbling rocks and ice. Holding out roughly two kilometers from the target, the Spartan would reach to another set of controls and activate the Prowler's autopilot with a series of mechanical clicks before finally allowing himself to stand and step away from the navigation station, hunched over to avoid smacking the ship's low ceiling but at least somewhat content in the knowledge that the vessel would remain within a set radius of the wreck ahead while hopefully avoiding other collisions in the process.
The vessel quietly waited as it drifted in the dark.
When lights projected on it, the darkened hull revealed a gunmetal coloration to the plating. Stretching from the central body were a pair of what look to be sublight engine wings, crossing over a kilometer in the span, while the seeming rear of the craft was a massive spherical unit that read at three hundred and twenty-three meters in diameter. The main unit, registering a length of eight hundred and seventeen meters, seemed to reveal some damage toward what appeared to be the front. A reach of about fifty-three meters of connection pylon terminated in a ragged and burnt blasted exposure, with various openings that revealed conduits and a concourse tunnel.
Damage was apparent in the outer layers of the hull, though little from debris was visible, while scorch marks and what looked like material fusing could been seen. Clamped to one side of the pylon was a small transport ship, about eighty meters in length, broadcasting the ID frequency of the Beatrice. It matched the ship that was last sent out to the area for this very recovery operation, but save for the ID broadcast, the Beatrice was as dark and silent as the derelict hulk it was clamped to.
As the woman's voice echoed from the intercom, the young cyborg busied himself in his quarters. He was sitting down in front of a desk, his right arm stretched across the flat surface, dark, mate black ceramic platings surrounding the table and thick cords of carbon-fibre muscle unravelled from the centre, exposing the titanium alloy that composed the bone. He was silent, eyes squinted behind a pair of protective goggles as he replaced the small parts of his joints and reattached the musculature, all damage caused by his desire to stress-test his composition against something...similar.
That freaking gynoid...he had managed to skim that her composition was similar to his own, but apparently he had downplayed the advantages her artificial core would give her...not that he would ever alter his organs. Moments where his limbs are shut off are rare and far in-between, but he dreaded to think what would happen if something a bit more vital was artificial as well. Veska...With Seeker busy playing the diplomat, he had been looking for a ride for the ghost ship job, not a popular one as he had found. But never in a million years had he expected to find the gynoid there. She had claimed coincidence but...he knew better. She was persuasive though.
With a blue-hued spark of electricity the limb suddenly flexes, Eligos slowly checking every join and motion as he was taught to before he begun to apply the armoured plating. He didn't bother answering back to the owner of the ship, instead simply hopping off the chair and moving towards his duffel bag, now reinforced with kevlar and bucky paper as per Seeker's insistence. He hated to admit it, but he kinda liked the way it ended up looking...Sure Eliza had given him a spot in the armoury, but he preferred to keep his gear nearby. Didn't fully trust the corporate goon just yet.
The bucky paper holster is wrapped around his stomach, his automatics firmly secured to the back, one on top of the other, each facing an opposite direction for ease of fit, a newly machined steel casing scratched with their tell-tale names for Scream and Shout. Their new sibling however was next, a thick monster of a handgun, with two sets of chromed tubes rising from beneath at each side and coming to rest near the top, right in front of the oversized barrel, the surface covered in a thick, slick metal plate, spray-painted with all manners of words, most of them insults, neon colours on pitch black. Mayhem. After his encounter with the thick-shelled aliens, he had decided to craft something capable of breaking through armoured targets and allow him to keep his distance...that acid was no joke. Seeker still rants about it if reminded of the incident.
Holstering the heavy gun to his right leg and clipping the duffel back to the left of his belt, he clipped the small rainbow-hued titanium air-supply tank, spiked with his own little blend of...enhancements, to the back of his belt, and connected the tubing to the steel skull-mask that dangled around his neck. His headset would be next, placed upon his head, a small beat playing on it, even if the volume is kept low for now. Ok, he was set. Cybernetics repaired, guns loaded and holstered, air-supply dealt with, communications/entertainment online and a good ol duffel-bag filled with explosives and a plethora of technological paraphernalia. And his cigarette and lighter in his pocket. All set.
With a click of his fingers he would exit his quarters, moving along to meet the mistress of the house...
Post by Eliza Silvermantle on Oct 9, 2019 23:17:07 GMT
Moments stretched on in relative silence as Eliza observed the derelict's frame on the viewscreen. The overall design seemed vaguely akin to the old interplanetary ships of centuries past, though she couldn't even begin to guess the manufacturer, or if it was even in fact of Terran origin. If it had been of Terran origin, as well, why would an industrial giant like SinoViet even bother with an old derelict? Riddles amassed, and the ashen-haired woman meant to get answers.
"Hmm..well this is odd," Veska remarked, breaking the silence after several minutes. "The ship design doesn't appear in any records we have access to, nor can I find a point of origin. The ship is nonresponsive, it seems, and the life signs aboard are..Well, I suppose anomalous would work. It doesn't appear the crew of the derelict or the Beatrice are alive, however, nor can I yet determine a likely cause as to why that is the case."
Eliza frowned heavily at the news, not at all pleased with the vague, yet ominous report. That there were things about the galaxy that most chose to simply not dwell on in order to avoid being paralyzed by fear was no secret, and she silently contemplated whether they might be looking at the handiwork of one of those cosmic horrors. Perhaps a particularly virulent disease had broken out, or more of those things they'd found on TX611.. "Open a channel ta SinoViet's salvage liaison. If they lost th' last group, best they get a live feed fer this run."
"On it. Anything else before we try docking?" the AI questioned.
"Aye. Once we've gotten a feed established, I want ta try hailin' th' Beatrice ta verify if there's survivors or no." Eliza wasn't sure she trusted such a hope, given this ought to have been a simple salvage operation, but the more they knew before they went into the corpse of a ship, the better. "I'm sure ye can manage the situation up here fer a few minutes, so I'm gettin' my armor. If ye get an answer fram SinoViet before I return, explain th' situation and that I'll be in direct contact shortly."
Ship scanners would find little to confirm any life signs, only trace readings that did not centralize in any one area. No records existed of the derelict's silhouette, even as far back as the earliest days of SinoViet's records. Whatever this vessel was, it did not exist in any known public ship record databases.
Secondary scans of the vessel revealed no active life support, frozen temperatures, and no discernable active power. The Beatrice and its AI subroutines, however, would return with minimal active power levels, and enough atmospheric air storage and filter processing for three weeks.
A pair of small fragments of rock and ice crashed against each other, shattering in the distance and showering particle bits of frozen debris. Despite the silence of space, it would be easy to imagine the muffled sounds of smash and spray of the remains of the crashing leftovers of stellar system formation.
The black dark of space gave way only to the projected light beams of the approaching vessels, threatening to reclaim the derelict and the adjoined salvage vessel whenever those lights moved away. Attempts to hail the Beatrice met only with silence, not even an automated beacon in reply.
the things that you might like don't grow inside of me
"Sweep is still in progress, but preliminary scans confirm that the Beatrice is present, docked with an unidentified derelict vessel. The design exists within no existing archives, although construction patterns suggest Terran origin, likely 22nd century. The Beatrice is intact and shows no signs of damage or sabotage, although the larger vessel seems to have lost an indeterminate portion of anterior hull - patterns at the forward terminus are consistent with high yield shaped charges."
Moving towards the rear hatch leading out of the small Prowler's bridge, Vincent remained silent as he simply listened to the voice in his ear, cataloging the information as it rolled in. While he was no stranger to working with artificial intelligence as it just sort of came with working for the Office of Naval Intelligence, there was a big difference where methodology was concerned. Most of his experiences were far more akin to his time aboard the Infinity as a member of Crimson. Namely, while AI support was always on hand when it had been needed, it had been remote - Roland had been aboard the Infinity itself, and most every Spartan III team that had been made to work with AI previously had dealt with similar arrangements. While MJOLNIR had been fully capable of housing fully operational smart AI that normally required an entire facility or warship to work, it wasn't something he'd personally dealt with up until Confed saw fit to assign him a "macro", at they called it, for this assignment. Far from a smart AI, but still incredibly useful and towards the high end of what dumb AI could do - virtually indistinguishable within their programmed fields of expertise, and that was something which would prove invaluable this far away from help.
Having it inside his head, however, wasn't something Vincent had necessarily been okay with.
"Curious. Heat readings are minimal, too low to support life, although trace biometrics are present but too indistinct for anything conclusive."
That made Vincent pause, midway through shifting his massive bulk through a door meant for someone half his size. Inconclusive? That wasn't how living things worked. Not if the derelict was too cold to maintain water in a liquid state let alone hold a breathable atmosphere, but that hesitation lasted only for a fraction of a second before he was moving again with purpose, climbing down a short ladder into a small ready bay. Back in the Winter class' heyday during the post-war period it would've routinely been used for transporting sensitive cargo or entire strike teams to covert insertion points. But now? The bay was littered with cases, many of the sealed with various warning labels, others simply containing provisions, engineering equipment or raw materials and parts that could be repurposed for a variety of uses. Considering the abruptness with which the salvage team had gone missing Vincent had requisitioned a wide variety of gear and materials for virtually every possible scenario he could think of, be it a simple mechanical malfunction aboard the Beatrice to the Kromus getting far too ballsy for their own good - the latter potential possibility being one of the big reasons he'd requested the use of a Prowler over a simple tug, even if the ship was a heavily outdated model.
The lack of damage to the SinoViet vessel and any obvious cause for the team's MIA status had Vincent's gaze lingering over several of the crates with more dangerous looking labels on them for several seconds in idle contemplation before proceeding to another set and cracking them open to sift through their contents instead, pulling several items free and setting them aside as the macro's voice spoke into his ear again.
"We're not alone."
"Clarify." Wheras the earlier exposition with the AI had failed to get much if any reaction from Vincent before, those three words finally did as the Spartan's hard but calm voice answered, curt and to the point as he halted what he was doing to reach over to another case next to the one he had been working out of, cracking it open to begin assembling the R97 submachine gun from the parts inside. Vincent hadn't been expecting trouble beyond the usual mechanical issues this close to Sol, but it paid to be prepared, even if it was only light armaments.
"Transmission from nearby within the Belt, encryption suggests a private or corporate entity. Intended recipient unknown. The vessel seems similar in design and size to a number of Prowler configurations, earlier scanning had dismissed its sensor profile as merely another piece of debris or part of the derelict before breaking radio silence. Current course has it inbound for the derelict."
That... no. It didn't complicate things. Not really. It was unexpected but not unreasonable to assume the SinoViet might've contacted bounty hunters or other private entities to investigate the disappearance of their people - it wasn't on their behalf per se that Vincent was there but rather Confed's as the disappearance of professionals so close to home within "civilized" space was highly unusual. All it meant was he wouldn't be quite as alone out there as originally planned, and as Vincent finished assembling the SMG he would clip the weapon to his armor's chestplate, stowing a handful of magazines before returning to his earlier work. Flash sealant, field patch kits, shaped charges, medkit, his datapad that had been rescued from the Anvil's storage and returned after AMDC had their way with its contents - but most importantly, still loaded with every dirty trick and tactic ONI had ever developed for an enterprising field operative, and chock full of Vincent's own improvements and personal touches.
"Private vessel has hailed the Beatrice, they have identified themselves as the Dancing Goddess. Privately owned and operated by one Eliza Lockheed. No response from the derelict or the SinoViet vessel. Shall I open a channel?"
"No." Vincent responded, loading the assorted items he'd been selecting into a portable hardcase which was then hoisted over his head with a single arm and locked onto a magclamp on the back of his armor. Retrieving the sidearm that the AMDC had issued him - suspiciously reminiscent of the old M6 series - and locking it to another magclamp holster, the Spartan wouldn't speak again as the AI likewise fell silent. Moving to the Prowler's cockpit again, Vincent would make his final preparations as he set an automated distress beacon on a timer, just in case, before retreating back to the bay and sealing the rest of the ship behind him. Moving towards the rear door, Vincent would reach for a control panel and wait as a low hiss echoed through the small space as the bay began to depressurize.
The door opened as the the cybernetically-enhanced human finally made his way to meet the owner of the ship, and her robotic assistant.
"So, have you figured out our point of entry into that tin can, or are we going to have to drill our way in?"
He casually shouted as he approached, dark brown eyes shifting towards the gynoid to offer her a cheeky wink before he came to rest next to Eliza, his gaze shifting over to the main viewing screen, pupils twitching as he silently took in the information. Unknown design, out of parts unknown, o answers, no hails, no logs...and the last crew, a simple salvage crew, had gone up and vanished as well...
"I swear to fuck if its those damn acid-blooded fucks again..."
He cursed, fishing into his pockets to retrieve the sleek black electric cigarette before bringing it to his lips, his split tongue poking past his lips to grasp the butt of it, dragging it into his mouth, before the metallic cap of his electric lighter is flicked, a spark of electricity fling towards it, activating it with a bright red light.
"If they hired you...the company is probably expecting to find experimental tech. Honestly that's kinda why I took the job, I want to get a first look and whatever it might be....But you know the deal with experimental tech. Sometimes it goes wrong.."
He went silent for a while longer, taking another long drag of his cigarette, multi-hued smoke and vapour rising from his nostrils before dispersing into the air, his pupils dilating sharply as the various chemicals enter his blood-stream.
"...I would avoid a physical dock with either the derelict or the other salvage ship. Who knows what its inside and as far as we know it could infect your ship systems...heh, just saying that makes me want to tape over my head-jack. Fuck, I might actually do it now..."
Post by Eliza Silvermantle on Oct 11, 2019 19:03:17 GMT
By the time Eligos had made it to the command room, Eliza had returned from the armory, such as they had aboard the Dancing Goddess, now clad in something like a slimmed down version of the ÆSIR armor used by the supersoldiers of the Terran Confederation. She hadn't yet selected the specific loadout she meant to carry onto the derelict, and so only carried the pair of MARS on her thigh holsters.
"Still plannin' that bit out, actually," she replied as she glanced towards the cybernetically-enhanced man. "Looks like th' derelict's got nothin' fer atmosphere or life support, big surprise wi th' massive gapin' hole in th' front. No lifesigns, and na so much as an automated response fram th' Beatrice, though. Minimal power, and a few AI subroutines are runnin', but that's about it. I'm leanin' towards storin' extra air, pop over fer long enough ta get an idea of the condition of th' ship, no more than an hour, and jump back over. Oh, and I do mean jump. Ye raise a valid point wi th' infection bit."
"You could send me. I have no biology to infect," Veska offered, drawing an immediate frown from the Witch.
"No. There's shite out there that can infect AI, too, if some of th' stories I've heard have any truth ta them. We'll gan full biozard, I reckon, and stay fer only as long as it takes ta have a general look at the interior, though I expect our best shot at ingress is that massive breach on th' front of th' derelict. Oh, and Eligos, Veska's got some port plugs if ye're that bloody concerned. That'll take up th' slot, and be more secure than a bit of tape."
"I'll get one now, then. Eligos, if you wouldn't mind?" the gynoid prodded, extending one of her hands towards Eligos to lead him back to her quarters.
"Good. Any questions, lad? A fair warnin'..I suspect ye may learn a bit more than ye planned on about me this time around. Try na ta gawk if ye do."
Entry into the derelict would be simple enough, as one end of the extended pylon was exposed to reveal the tunnelway inside. Outside of a hard docking clamp, the exposed tunnel would appear to be the simplest way into both the derelict and the Beatrice.
The inside of the pylon tunnel was dark, long exposed to vacuum and the natural zero-gravity forces of deep space. Only the lights from any portable projectors pierce the inky black, revealing corrosion and more burn damage and fused patches. Outside this, it seems to be unremarkable.
At one end, the tunnel was blown open, giving way to deep space and a bare twinkle light of Sol itself in the seemingly infinite distance. Now and then, small flecks of rock would drift into the tunnel, floating about and impacting against the reinforced walls. Opposite the ragged exposure, fifty-three meters down, was the primary entryway. Upon approach, a barely lit series of lights could been seen in the key panel beside the door. Its faint, but there would appear to be power.
the things that you might like don't grow inside of me
Silence would fall as the next several minutes passed, and as the cargo bay was slowly subjected to decompression eventually the only sounds Vincent would hear would be his own slow and steady breathing and whatever muffled vibrations carried through the deck and into his feet. As the light on the control panel finally shifted from red to green Vincent would reach for it again - first, to disable the compartment's artificial gravity, his mag locked boots adhering him to the floor as the familiar feeling of his stomach giving out signaled the shift to a microgravity environment. Second... to open the bay door.
As the interior lighting dimmed to a very dim red and the rear entry ramp lowered to reveal the expanse beyond, a darkened emptiness illuminated only by distant starlight and whatever reflected off the dust and ice of the Belt itself, the Spartan would pause to reach back and lightly tug another prepared case off the floor. Unlike the one locked to the back of his armor, this one was nearly as big as he was, although in the near zero gravity it only took the lightest of touches to start moving it in the direction he wanted it to go. Guiding the crate along with him to the exit, Vincent would barely hesitate as he took one final step into the void and clear of his own vessel, a passing touch to another control setting the ramp to close and seal shut behind him as the Spartan drifted free of the Prowler, one hand locked around the crate's handle.
For a moment, Vincent took no further action as he was left with only the sound of his breath and the dim glow of his helmet's heads up display, the only things within his field of view the slow and endless tumble of ice and rock in the dark. When he did move, however, it was slow and methodical, every action as small as possible and made with the upmost care as it was all too easy to lose control of yourself without gravity in play. The smallest tap of his armor's thrusters to turn himself about in the direction of the derelict, another to stop, and another series of micro adjustments to move himself clear of the Prowler and begin slowly drifting in the direction of his goal. Between his armor's passive stealth systems and the jet black coloration of both himself and the crate he had in tow Vincent wasn't all that concerned about the slim possibility of someone spotting him on approach... but all the same, old habits died hard a moment's concentration would all but eliminate that possibility altogether as his armor's active camouflage was brought into play.
If nothing else that peace of mind gave Vincent time to focus on other, more important things, and another moment later the visual display within in helmet would suddenly shift, brought alive as the HUD pulsed and the darkness was illuminated by green silhouettes. One of the benefits to being on ONI's leash - you got the best toys, and VISR was no different. Versions 4.09 and 4.08 in particular were a bitch if you didn't have the expertise to calibrate and utilize them properly, but Vincent was oh so very glad he did for situations like this - the system was never meant to work in deep space until 4.08, and they never seemed to get around to streamlining it for rank and file use. It was worth the trouble, though, as every bit of debris a few millimeters or larger would be cloaked in a green silhouette, movement patterns tracked, and the otherwise near zero visibility that his own augmentations didn't account for corrected by the system's low light enhancements.
Patch - the name given to his assigned AI by its previous user - was right. This place was a mess, and Vincent found himself frowning as he eyes were drawn to the hasty demolitions job at the front "end" of the craft. Because that's exactly what it was. It was impossible to be one hundred percent certain at a little under a kilometer out, but Vincent had always had a knack for explosives and after so many years spent working with them he knew what he was looking at. There was too little damage to the rest of the thin superstructure connecting what would have been the engineering portion to what Vincent had to assume was a command deck of some sort at the front. It was the only way he could make sense of the design otherwise, although the design itself was...
Well, bizarre. Horribly impractical. The moment the vessel made a sharp turn or attempted a similar maneuver the tension and g-forces at play would have snapped it in two anyways, so the ship clearly wasn't made for combat. At the same time, though, it couldn't have been a colony ship. As far as he could tell there was no benefit to such a design bar one - whatever you were doing with the ship, you wanted to make sure that the command deck was separated or could be separated from engineering with minimal difficulty, and that single design point trumped all further concerns for whatever reason.
There was a lot to mull over, and while the Beatrice itself would appear more or less as expected - that was to say, functional and intact - Vincent would spend the next several minutes in quiet thought and contemplation before the final leg of his approach began. Only a mere dozens of meters out the Spartan would again use minute, surgical bursts of his armor's thrusters to slow and eventually turn about to have his boots facing towards the ship, only allowing himself a brief moment to relax as he felt pressure under his feet once more - secure and not about to go anywhere as they magnetically locked to the hull. While he was still several meters away from the ragged and torn entry point it was exactly where Vincent wanted to be. Giving a light tug to the crate he was still pulling along, Vincent would bring it down to contact the hull before thumbing a switch near the handle he had a hold of... and much like his feet, the crate would lock down and adhere to the hull. Relatively secure in the knowledge that it wasn't about to go anywhere without him, the Spartan would turn and begin moving along the outside of the derelict's hull towards the Beatrice.
Remained leaning against the console for a while longer, the two feminine voices of his female companions droning in the background, his pupils twitching across the screen. He was no spaceship expert, heck he couldn't even fly one...But he had a feeling. A gut feeling. That vessel held something...different. Something interesting. That's why he took a so-called salvage job with such a strange and vague description. He liked taking missions he had gut feelings about. They were usually profitable..or deadly. Kind of a toss up there, but he was ready to flip that coin.
"Hmm? Oh yes, a plug would wonderful actually. Kinda feel dumb for not investing into one already now that you mention it."
The cyborg finally spoke as he looked towards the gynoid, his split tongue gripping the cigarette and adjusting its position as a faint aurora of shimmering colours rose from the smoke that billowed from his lips, the air around him gaining the fragrance of spices. He would extend his hand to grasp Veska's, almost absent-mindedly, allowing her to lead him away as he spoke over his shoulder towards Eliza
"Only question is when we are leaving. I'm down for a free leap, actually upgraded my gas mask for air-supply. Got like an hour for it. As for your so called secrets..." he turned around, still holding the gynoid's hand as he began to walk backwards, flashing the woman a cocky smile "...luckily for you, no one will believe the crazy drugged up anarchist, huh?"
Post by Eliza Silvermantle on Oct 14, 2019 21:11:07 GMT
Eliza rolled her eyes as she set the ship to maneuver to the blasted front of the derelict, then stood up to head towards the armory to assemble their supply kit. "We're leavin' once ye're sorted and I've got our loadouts sorted. Veska's ta be our pickup, sorta like that mess last time, and maintainin' th' feed back ta SinoViet. Wi any luck, we'll have scouted out enough ta answer questions fer them and sort out th' next course of action. Honestly, looks ta me like if they mean ta do proper salvage, they'll need a tug ta bring this hulk ta Saturn at th' least, coz th' Dancin' Goddess donna have th' capacity ta haul somethin' that size along. Mind, that's assumin' this thing's na a lost cause, but that's part of th' job. Meet ye by th' airlock, though, and try na ta take too long," Eliza added before darting off to the armory. A plasma cutter would be likely needed, as she doubted her saber would be up to the task of cutting through starship hull and bulkheads. A comprehensive first aid kit also seemed prudent, given the potentially dangerous environment. She briefly considered taking her rifle, but decided against it, believing the narrow and enclosed spaces of the ship to be less than helpful for using such a comparatively bulky weapon, and the scans hadn't picked up anything of note..Breaching charges that had gone unused in the ill-fated mission to TX611. Perhaps not the best choice, but recalling those erratic life signs, she didn't want to risk having only her twin MARS to fend off Sheba only knew what. At least the mission wouldn't be long. Eligos's air supply was only good for an hour, and hers was rated for three, which hardly mattered if her partner in this mission needed to leave beforehand. Eliza packed a hacking kit and a few blank data cartridges into the hardcase their supply kit was going inside, then slung it onto the magnetic clamp on the back of her armor and headed out to await the other two by the airlock door.
"Huh. That's certainly interesting," Veska remarked as she led Eligos to her quarters. "Either she truly believes no one will give the slightest bit of credence to anything you might say of her, or Eliza actually trusts you. I don't think she's ever mentioned to anyone outside a handful of people, most of whom are no longer alive, that she's something other than what she appears to be. I suppose she wants you to be prepared so you don't freeze up if she throws a fireball or something, though," she guessed as she turned away to go through a small drawer. "Oh, Eligos, what size threads does your jack take? I'd hate to give you a plug to big for your hole," she explained in a neutral tone, though the AI's expression suggested quite strongly that she was perfectly aware of what she'd said.