SF-0.3: Crash On Volturnus
[[Init Encrypt cipher 59.50.17.57.85.70]]
Chr: 42.13.229.2154
Attn: Col. Benedict Faust, UPF, Internal
Comm: Corporal Mark DeMann, Internal
Re: Case UCUPFJ.2154-NevadaR.008
Col. Faust,
Unfortunately, the data in the case file seems very likely to be accurate. Aside from at least 24 witnessed instances of conduct unbecoming in the last 2 cycles, the psych profile of Nevada seems to fit my experience thus far to high degree of accuracy. I have not procured any proof of the smuggling charges, and I fear that any proof was destroyed in the wreckage of the Serena Dawn. Some may still be recovered, however, and I intend to locate if at all possible.
Chrono 04.10.221.2154: Boarded the Serena Dawn and was made to surrender weapons and shown to quarters. Nevada was not found to have contraband at the time of search. I was in preparation for update when shipboard power failed. I attempted several times to reestablish contact, but proved futile. I exited room and saw an injured crewman Evans and a saboteur being detained by Shloop and Nevada in hallway. I attempted to assist, but was unnecessary. Nevada suggests we split up and meet at weapon’s locker and moves toward the cargo hold. Another conduct unbecoming is to be added at his leaving an injured crewman and I took the initiative to bear this man myself. Another saboteur attempted to block my path to the intervening starboard airlock between the quarters and the weapon’s locker, easily dispatched with no harm to the injured crewman. I reached the locker and Bridge first to find systems malfunctioning and that the saboteurs had taken control. As the Serena Dawn rocked and began to lose attitude control, I proceeded to the escape pod with injured crewman.
Chrono 26.10.221.2154: Escape pod was activated with DeMann, Evans, Shloop and Nevada on board. 
Preliminary scans of Volturnus upper atmosphere proved to be correct and pod structural integrity was compromised by ionization and orbital debris impacted the hull. The status and whereabouts of Evans and Shloop are unknown. Nevada survived crash in working order and took command upon landing. It was determined that the pod fragment was leaking reactant and we departed. While not criminal, Nevada’s inability to retrieve more than one survival pack is another documented example in the long line of bad command decisions under pressure. No signs of mental instability as under stress as previously predicted.
Chrono 04.04.222.2154: To conserve resources, it was decided to travel by night. Due to upper atmosphere, I am recording these entries locally as transmission out of the upper atmosphere is impossible with this equipment. We located abandoned well house 1.08 clicks east of pod crash. Skull fetishes of local denizens found; symbolism unknown. Nevada refuses to record any significant findings of this cultural phenomenon. We leave the safety of this structure late in the day.
Chrono 44.08.223.2154: From our vantage point at the wellhouse, a range of high hills several clicks to the north might provide us cover or shelter as well as a higher point to reconnoiter the area. An uneventful night of travel finds us there safe enough and we camp roughly amongst the scree. No sign of Shloop, Evans or the remainder of the crash. Nevada has shown signs of adequate command under pressure. Wilderness survival seems one of his strong points and the errors in command judgment seem to be waning. We were alerted to an incoming craft from the west. A jet copter strafed our position. Nevada provided suppressing fire preventing a clear run at our position while I attempted to find better cover and higher ground. Nevada hits the port regulator and the craft begins to lose attitude control. It is noticed that they bear the ‘red devil’ insignia of the saboteurs. It must be assumed that they have a foothold throughout the system. A military presence will be required to secure this system. The jet copter retreated west out of visual. Nevada’s marksmanship and cool attitude under combat conditions must be noted.
Chrono 13.09.223.2154: Having found no cover and the fact that the only sign of civilization was the jet copter, 
we decide to set a trap. I use the spare skeinsuit to make a dummy in the sand. This is in hopes of provoking a landing and thus gaining access to the vehicle and hopefully its navigational information. While in preparation, a sandstorm comes in and we take cover in our emergency shelters.
Chrono 01.18.224.2154: From the vantage point above our temporary encampment, the west contains a mountain chain that is within two days march. We begin as soon as the storm abates.
Chrono 32.23.224.2154: Midway through the night, we find one of our first indigenous species. We are in a survival situation, but we monitor this scene. A dead mother lizard (3m) is being attended by two young (1m) shortly after death. We observe and record, and then Nevada does something absurd. He feeds and befriends the animals with our rations. This hot dry planet is forboding enough, but the wanton disregard for our supplies to encourage an animal of unknown threat level or potential is ill-advised at best; dereliction at worst. I have no words. These beasts continue with us until we make camp 6 clicks west of the site of the jet copter attack in a small depression utilizing the best camouflage we can improvise.
Chrono 53.09.225.2154: As we approached the formation where the jetcopter was last spotted, we were
suddenly met by the first intelligent indigenous aliens of Volturnus. Mounted astride the larger of the beasts Nevada had befriended their visage was somewhat unnerving. A cephalopod, adapted to the arid regions and well-colored in this desolate plain was a strange sight indeed. The polyvox would be earning its weight in this exchange. Uncharacteristically reserved and patient, Nevada again represented the Union well. We made positive contact and were asked to follow them in our chase of the pilots.
We were brought to a cavern entrance and advised to stay within the larger tunnels only. Suddenly, a cave collapse separated us from our new contacts. We proceeded into the cave complex and tried our utmost to stay within the larger portions. However, we were soon set upon by more inhabitants for which there was no precedent.
In a portion of the caverns that were not affected by the collapse, we felt a cave-in start all over again, but only injuring ourselves and with not tremor or sound. To our horror, we were actually attacked. The creatures scurried away after falling upon us from the ceiling; having clung to the living rock until such time as we were within range of the method they utilize for predation. A little bloody, but lesson learned, we moved on.
A few turns later, we were at the entrance of another chamber, this one having been hewn by machine. It was guarded by an ogre of a creature the size of a terrestrial bear. In an effort to sneak by, we were forced to run quickly, inadvertently attracting the creature’s attention. In the scurry to not be killed, we used lethal cunning and a tangler grenade, all to little effect. We were about to make a fruitless stand when fortune shined upon us in the darkness.
A small screeching and scurrying sound grew in the direction of our flight. Forced to proceed by the terror at our backs, we were shocked to find a stampede of small quadrupeds gushing toward us. In an example of quick thinking and lightning reflexes, we slid aside and let the predator behind us deal with the onslaught. The caverns yielded much less in this direction. After our previous injuries and threats, we were of a mind to find our way out before attacking the compound that might be further within.
We soon found a large grotto lake with a luminescent island at its center. Another of the Cephalopoids was staring at the island from the near shore, partially covered in a fungus or growth. In an attempt to find a way out of the complex, we cautiously approached him and attempted to communicate or needs. He made vague references to “the one” if the polyvox was to be believed. Thinking that this might refer to a leader or guide, Nevada swam the lake to the island in search. Slightly disoriented, he returned to inform me that no help was to be found there.
Following the air currents, I was able to locate another exit to the cavern and found a human sitting near a fire. Although bedraggled and semi-incoherent, I was sure it wasn’t Nevada. He was dressed in rags reminiscent of the Raider uniforms. We attempted to gather as much information as possible. We were forced to take his gear, weapon and clothing by force for use in penetrating the raiders’ defenses, if necessary at a later date.
From here, we were at the mouth of the opposite side of the caverns and came into the bright light of the long Volturnian day. We squinted to see the Cephalopoids congratulating our arrival and asking us to engage in the ritual to join their tribe. We were honor and duty bound to accept, They provided a spear to each of us and a scarecrow for misdirecting our foe, but upon sight they seemed insufficient compared to our preferred gear.
This beast was a killer of feline ferocity and fearsome proportions. While using the provided tools seemed the intended method, we were not prohibited from improvisation. While Nevada distracted the beast with random fire, I was able to coax if into chomping at my scarecrow. The Cephalopoids might not have realized that I pulled the pin on the doze grenade that was inside. When it took effect, the time was right for us to dispatch the beast with our spears and all due haste.
We are now considered members of the Ul-Mor tribe and have been assured guided passage to the Kurabandas where the raiders are said to be bivouacked.
More to follow…no word from other survivors…
DeMann
SF-0.2.5: Crash on Volturnus
Volturnus Raid: Day 11
Red Devils Flitter Patrol
We’ve found some of the fraggin’ survivors from the Serena Dawn. They would be dead if it weren’t for a lucky shot on our engine. Frag! They must have military training! This has become a drek job…frag it! At least the Kurabanda and Ul-Mor hides will fetch some credits.
Work over the Truane’s Star survivors more for more information on our new visitors. Pop one.
We’ll scout the other portion of that escape pod before returning to base. Gonna have to be quick, there’s a sandstorm on the horizon and we’re not sure how long the engine will hold.
SF-0.2: Crash on Volturnus
Volturnus Mission Log: Day 1
Sigma XIII
Bravo Squad, 3rd PLT, 1/40th SF Co.
SSG Nevada, Reno D., Squad Commander (acting)
Current Location: Somewhere in fraggin outer space
So I’m standing in the open doorway. On the hallway floor is a human ashtray; a ship technician with death in his eyes, and a cindering crater for a chest. Standing above him is a real drokkhead. From the look of his shiny, red helmet, to his little space booties, to the smoking pawn shop special in his hand, I knew right away he and I were going to have our differences. So I punched him in the face. Well, at least that was the intent. What I really did was punch him in the shiny red helmet, which did little more than express my feelings for stomm-bag pirates. He swung back like the amateur he was, and got nothing for his trouble but a laugh. I tried to put a boot to his family jewels, but I gave him too much credit. That kick would’ve dropped a bigger man. I must’ve hurt his feelings though, because the bastitch shot me. Good thing his aim’s as bad as his left hook. It was just a scratch, but the hole in my jacket will be duly noted on my expense report.
But there he was, blaster raised between my baby blues. He had me dead to rights. Then he was prostrate on the ground under 150 kilos of Blob. The cavalry came, and without a second to lose. Even the old man finally woke up long enough see what all the fuss was. And for some reason he brought a table with him. Shloop had him pinned real good. I’m not sure what the blob said, but Salty Pete on the floor gave him a gob of snot for his trouble. The stupid drokkhead must have forgotten his helmet was on, because hacked a throatfull into his face shield. Where do they get these guys?
I had just enough time to pick up his blaster when the ship started to fall apart. Everything started to reel and sparks started to fly from walls and ceiling. Sparks. Just once I’d like to fly in a ship whose engineers appreciated the value of fuses. That’s it, we were out of time. I shoved the blaster in his face, and gave him one chance to save his own life, “Who are you and what are you doing here? I’m only gonna ask you once!”
His response was blatantly false accusation regarding my mother and Ganymedian slag-monkey. My response, to his response, was a laser blast to the face. The ship reeled again, knocking us to the floor.
SPC DeMann spoke up, “This guy can’t be alone! We need our gear from the weapons locker!”
“Smart man. Um, where’s the weapons locker again?”
He put down his table and pulled up the ship’s map from on his compu-tablet. “The steward told us to study the ship’s layout,” he sighed condescendingly.
“Yeah, well I was busy. Y’know, commander-type stuff an’ all”
He continued to ignore the prestige of my position. “Look! This is the most direct route. That also puts us in close proximity to the bridge to find out what’s going on.”
“Alright, meet us here at the escape pod bay, DeMann. Shloop and me are going shopping in the cargo bay for anything that can even the playing field”.
And that’s how I got DeMann out of my hair, for a little while at least.
The closest route to the cargo bay was one of the ship’s airlocks. What do we find in there, but two more slag-faced pirate drokks. One holds up a frag grenade while the other one levels a massive sonic stunner toward us. I’m only a little quicker on the draw and get a shot off with the blaster. Unfortunately, I only nick him in the arm. Damn thing shoots to the left. No wonder that other guy missed me. Shloop goes into full chop-suey mode and gives our grenade-boy a roundhouse kick to the kisser. His grenade flies out of his hand and blows the backside of the airlock to hell. No one was hurt, but the sound left everyone reeling. That’s the only explanation for how that pirate puke got off a lucky shot with his stunner. There was a flash of white noise, and then it was lights out.
The next thing I remember is the ship shaking, and ceiling panels falling from above. I see the blob standing over the prone body of his latest victim, and our stunner-wielding bastitch trying to regain his balance. Needless to say, I wasn’t overly-filled with brotherly love for the guy who put me to sleep, so I returned the favor with interest.
Okay–two more down, a blaster in my belt, and a sonic stunner under my shooting arm. That’s progress. I have taken the liberty of highlighting these successes in this report to make it easier for management to factor them into my salary bonus during the company’s annual employee review.
We enter the cargo bay and begin work immediately foraging through the inventory. Nothing but junk. All I find are punching bags and worthless beads.
“How about this?” Shloop holds up a Vrusk award statuette and a can of Vrusk body wax.
“If we were going to the Vrusk adult movie awards, that would be great, blob.”
He shrugs and smushes them into the folds of skin in his abdomen.
“Are you eating those!?”
“Nope. Shloop make pockets,” he explains with a big grin.
I don’t know what the hell that meant, but for some reason it gave me the heebie jeebies.
It looked like the next cargo bay was also going to be a bust after I popped open a crate full of chocolate anchovies. But Shloop finally scored something useful. “Ta-da!” he exclaimed, holding up two brand new skein suits.
The ship lurched again, even worse this time. Shopping time was over. I get on the comm, “DeMann, I need a sit-rep!”
“The weapons locker’s completely fragged!”
“All of it?”
“All of it,” he confirmed.
I was speechless. Wynona was gone. I needed a moment of silence. But all I got was more chaos as the ship continued to fall apart around us. “Meet us in the pod bay.”
We met up in front of the open doors of only remaining escape pod in the bay. DeMann looked a little red-face, and out of breath. He was wearing a pair of shock gloves, and the shock gloves were wearing a someone’s blood. It looks like the old man took care of some business himself. He took the gloves off and handed them to Shloop, and I tossed him the blaster from my belt. Everyone seemed to feel a little more at ease with a weapon in their hands.
“The bridge is overrun with pirates. We need to get out of here. Now!”
“What about the crew?” I asked. “What’s their status?”
“I don’t know? We have to go. This ship’s falling apart, and we have a mission to complete!”
Drokk! The mission brief was still in my quarters. Now I’ll never know what we’re supposed to be doing. It felt like the last day of finals, and I forgot to study. But I had to put that on the backburner; there were pirates that needed corrective counseling. “We can’t just leave the crew! How many pirates are on the bridge?”
“Too many!”
“How many is too many?” I can’t believe I’m having this argument.
The ship was really moaning now, and it was getting hard to hear over the shriek of the alarms.
DeMann (who was still under my command, I feel obligated to note) continued to argue, “Listen to me! The crew is not our responsibility! We need to concentrate on the mission!”
“If you think for one cotton-pickin’ minute I’m going to just stand by and–“
“*BZZZZT!* Escape pod activated. Launch in 10 seconds. Please buckle up for safety. Thank you.”
What the drokk? We both turn to see Shloop inside the escape pod, waving at us, happy as you please. And the two of us just stood there, staring at him in disbelief.
The speaker chimed again, “Doors are closing in 3 seconds. Please watch your step.”
Like a mirror image of each other, DeMann and me had the same exact reaction: first we swore loudly in unison; then we both dove into the escape pod just as the doors slid shut, nearly clipping our heels. We didn’t have time to strap in before the pod jettisoned into open space. We all yelled at the top of our lungs as the g-forces pinned us to the back wall of the escape pod in a heap. Then we were all simultaneously silent at the sight of the image in the aft view-screen: the Serena Dawn transformed into a massive ball of blinding, blue light before disintegrating into the great nothing of outer space.
SF-0.1: Crash on Volturnus
Volturnus Mission Log: Day 1
Sigma XIII
Bravo Squad, 3rd PLT, 1/40th SF Co.
SSG Nevada, Reno D., Squad Commander (acting)
Current Location: Somewhere in fraggin outer space
I guess it’s time I gave this a go-round. I make no apologies to the powers-that-be for inaccuracies in the following mission log, grammatical, or factual. If y’all wanted a book, you should’ve sent Lawrence of fraggin Arabia.
This is always the best and worst part of the mission. You got days, sometimes weeks, or months, of drifting through a whole lot of nothing. Nothing to do but wait for the danger waiting for you, knowing that as soon as you get boots on the ground, you’re probably a dead man. This must be the same feeling as the boys down on Death Row, except their chow might be a tad better. But on the other hand, I’m getting a paycheck for sitting on my keister; and that, my friend is easy money.
The ship we’re hitchin’ a ride on, the Serena Dawn was advertised as a Star Liner. That may have been true back when my Grandma Lou was still wearing go-go boots, but I know a cargo ship when I see it. The ship’s captain stayed sober long enough to launch this bucket toward the Zebulon system from Star Base Sean Cassidy, at 0500 hours GST. All our ground gear was confiscated prior to take off. Please notify me if you would like me to testify at the court martial of the logistics officer who booked our passage. The steward gave us map of the ship before showing us to our digs toward the rear of the ship. I’m sure the state rooms were pretty fancy for their day, but we missed their prime by about 60 years. Being we were the only three passengers on this pleasure cruise, we opted for some alone-time by retiring to separate cabins. The last thing this low-talent group of has-beens needed was quality time in a confined, metal room.
I do like to blow stuff up, that’s no secret. In fact, I take a great deal of pride of just how good I am at that particular facet of my trade. I have never, on the other hand, claimed to possess any leadership skills. As a matter of fact, I’m quite proficient at avoiding any position of actual responsibility whatsoever. That’s how a man of my experience and skill has been able to maintain such a low pay grade after so many years in service of king, country and CEO. When I’m on a mission, I don’t want to be responsible for anyone but me and Wynona. Yessir, sergeant stripes for life; stars and bars are for suckers.
So tell me, why the hell am I commander of a squad of yea-hoos, headed for who-knows-where, to do who-knows-what. If I didn’t know better, all three of us are in the dog house, and someone wants us to stay there. I’ve been racking my hat-holder trying to figure out why the three of us were chosen for this snipe hunt, and the best I could come up with was that I needed another beer.
I can hear the holo-vid playing twentieth century, chop-suey movies in the living-compartment next door. The blob is mighty peculiar, to say the least. Raised by trees, from what I hear, and thinks he’s Bruce Lee, or Chuck Norris, or Tommy Chong, or Bk’tang Gleeek’lun, or something like that. The briefing said he was immediately recruited by Sigma after he saved the president’s daughter. Must have either been the president of the wrong company, or maybe it was the red-headed step-daughter nobody liked, if all he got for his trouble was a five-dollar medal and a one-way ticket on this boat. But the blob follows orders, has a mean right cross, mellows out just fine in front of the tube, and likes Chuck Norris, so I have feeling him and me are going to get along just fine.
Now that grouchy old fart in the next room over might be a different story. That old boy has a face like a catcher’s mitt, and a personality to match. He’s got me beat by two stripes down, and twenty years up, in the low career expectations department. Someone must’ve put him in an engine room thirty years ago, and then thrown away the key. He’s supposed to be smart, and a hard worker to boot, so he must have punched out the wrong officer to still be mopping proverbial floors for duty assignments. But, he’s the only science guy we have, so I reckon I got to put on the nice. Plus there’s the fact I don’t want to be on the wrong end of one of those hams he uses for fists. The coot’s built like a brick wall, in spite of being older than my Aunt Fannie. Rumor has it, he got re-classed as a field agent after fighting off a horde of alien baddies with a fraggin’ wrench. As far as know, this is his first time out of the boiler room. For all our sakes, I hope he brought that wrench with him.
Again, why the three of us? Was there something that tied us together? My last mission had me taking out a munitions factory on Sirius 9. What does that have to do with kidnappers with a penchant for prom queens? Or with engine room gremlins on science vessels? Is there any connection, or am I just over-thinking things? That’d be a first. I need another beer.
The mission is clear as mud. I hope someone was paying better attention than me during the briefing. I might have been a little hung over. I remember something about missing surveyors, Volturnus, cartographers, blah, blah, blah. I’ve always found mission briefings to be an excellent opportunity to catch up on my sleep. But then again, I ain’t even been in charge of a mission before. So here I am: on a cargo ship headed to some unchartered hell-hole, with the only two members of Sigma XIII with even less ambition than me, looking crossed-eyed at a mission briefing that might as well be written in Yazirian.
I’m about half a page into the brief, when I feel the itch. This itch has been growing worse every minute since they confiscated Wynona, and locked her into the weapons locker when we boarded; her and all my beautiful grenades (except the frag I may, or may not, have palmed). This is enough to make any self-respecting, testosterone-fueled, soldier-of-fortune itch to get his hands on something that goes “boom”. No wonder I can’t concentrate; a fella can only go naked so long before his tender parts start to get chilly. So I grab last beer from the refrig-o-matic, and start foraging for components that might combine into something explosive enough to make me whole again.
I was about halfway through dissecting the comm-unit by the door when I heard the what-for in the hallway. I didn’t know what it could have been; it could’ve been a fight, it could’ve been a pick-up game of astro-bowling, it could have been my Aunt Fannie (bless her heart) causing the crew to riot by showing the boys her Rocky Jones tattoo. I just knew I was out of beer, and it sounded a hell of a lot more interesting then these four walls. Personally, and no offense to Aunt Fannie, I was hoping for a fight.
Tales of Legend 