Hallo and welcome to part seven of Islands in the Rift, the first Great Rift Adventure by Mongoose Publishing. Captain Milcoat and his small crew are on Herzenslust and reached Drop Point Hotel to collect the backup data cores.
It shouldn’t take long for Milcoat, Deenon and Parry to escalate the situation in their usual manner. So, let’s see what happens next…
Scene #36 – Something well hidden
The reached an old Imperial Type R Merchant ship, its hull a patchwork of scorch marks and twisted metal. It was a grim monument to some forgotten tragedy within this graveyard of ships.
“Confirmed,” Parry announced, his voice tight over the comms. “Datapad matches the visual signature. This is it… Drop Point Hotel.”
Milcoat stared at the wreck, a knot forming in his stomach. The sheer scale of the vessel was impressive even in its ruined state – a testament to Imperial engineering, now reduced to a rusting husk adrift in the void. “Data cores,” he muttered, more to himself than to his companions. “They’ll be hidden somewhere on that thing.”
Deenon snorted softly. “Hiding something of that value on a ship sitting in a starship graveyard? That’s spectacularly stupid, even for Imperial bureaucracy.” She paused, her expression thoughtful. “Data cores themselves are valuable, regardless of the content they hold. Encryption protocols, schematics… anything like that fetches a high price on the black market.”
“So, where would someone hide something worth a fortune in a derelict ship on a ship graveyard full of scavengers?” Parry asked, his hand instinctively resting near his sidearm.
Deenon considered this for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. “For untrained salvagers not to be able to find it,” she stated finally. “Someone with knowledge of the ship’s layout would have been required to hide it properly.” She pulled out her own datapad and began scrolling through schematics.
“A standard Type R Merchant, just like the Perfect Stranger,” she murmured, bringing up a detailed blueprint of the vessel’s internal structure. Lines of text and diagrams filled the screen, illustrating the ship’s layout – cargo bays, engine rooms, crew quarters, and various support systems. She spent what felt like an eternity studying the blueprints, her fingers tracing lines on the holographic display.
“The obvious places would be checked first,” she said eventually, dismissing several areas with a flick of her wrist. “Cargo holds are too exposed. Engineering sections… likely to have been thoroughly looted.”
She paused again, zooming in on a section near the bridge. “There’s a secondary environmental control system for the Captain’s quarters and adjacent crew lounge,” she explained, pointing to a cluster of interconnected compartments. “It’s designed for independent climate regulation – crucial for long-haul voyages.”
“Why there?” Milcoat asked, his voice laced with cautious interest.
“The system utilizes several redundant cooling loops and filtration units,” Deenon replied. “They’re not part of the main ship systems, which means they’d be less likely to be disturbed during a salvage operation focused on more valuable components.” She zoomed in further, highlighting a specific compartment within the environmental control network. “This particular unit – a high-efficiency particulate filter – is designed for extremely tight tolerances and requires specialized tools to access.”
“So, someone could hide something inside that filter housing?” Parry asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Precisely,” Deenon confirmed. “It’s out of the way, relatively secure, and would require a degree of technical knowledge to even attempt accessing.” She paused again, her gaze shifting to another area on the blueprint – a series of maintenance access tunnels running beneath the ship’s main deck.
“Alternatively,” she continued, “there are these service tunnels. They’re narrow, poorly lit, and rarely used except for routine inspections. A small compartment could be fabricated within one of the larger junction boxes.” She highlighted a section near the stern. “The access panels would likely have been overlooked during initial salvaging efforts.”
Milcoat nodded slowly, absorbing the information. “Two possibilities,” he said finally. “Parry, you take point and secure the area around the environmental control system. Deenon and I will check out these service tunnels.”
Milcoat exchanged a glance with Deenon. The feeling was mutual. They moved towards the access hatch leading to the service tunnels, each step echoing eerily in the silence. The air grew colder still as they descended into the darkness, the only illumination coming from their helmet-mounted lamps. The tunnels were cramped and claustrophobic, the walls lined with pipes and conduits that hummed with residual energy.
“This is a bloody maze,” Milcoat muttered, his voice echoing in the confined space. “Are you sure this is where they’d hide it?”
Deenon consulted her datapad, comparing their current location to the blueprints. “According to my scans, there’s an unusually large junction box just ahead,” she replied. “It’s got a slightly anomalous signature.”
“This is it,” he said quietly. “Let’s see what we can find.”
Scene #37 – Six in total
The junction box yielded easily enough, a satisfying click echoing in the cramped tunnel as Milcoat forced the access panel open. Inside, nestled within protective foam cradles, were six data cores – pristine and undisturbed despite the ship’s obvious state of decay. They pulsed with a faint internal light, confirming their operational status.
“Bingo,” Deenon said quietly, carefully extracting one of the cores. “Looks like someone was very careful about where they hid these.”
Milcoat grunted in agreement. “Six cores,” he confirmed, examining another. “That’s more than we expected.” They worked quickly and efficiently, retrieving all six cores and securing them within a reinforced container Deenon carried. The process took only a few minutes, but the silence of the tunnels felt amplified by their activity.
“Alright, let’s move,” Milcoat ordered, gesturing towards the tunnel entrance. “Parry, you there?”
“Yeah, Captain,” Parry responded over the comms. “Just about to head back.” As they began maneuvering back through the narrow service tunnels, Parry’s voice crackled with a new urgency.
“Captain, hold up,” he said, his tone tight. “I saw movement out there.”
Milcoat swore under his breath, a string of curses that would have made a spacer blush. The frustration had been building for weeks, but this – this was the final straw. “Movement? What kind of movement?”
“Hard to say,” Parry replied. “Just… something moving on the hull. Could be debris, could be something else.”
Milcoat slammed his fist against the tunnel wall. “This whole damn cluster!” he spat. “I’m done with this place. Done with these paranoid governments and their constant surveillance. We can’t take two steps without being watched.” He paused, taking a deep breath to control his temper.
Deenon didn’t bother responding to Milcoat’s outburst. She was already focused on the task at hand. “Forget about it for now,” she said sharply. “We have the cores. Let’s get them to the Perfect Stranger as quickly as possible. Whatever’s out there, we don’t want to give them a reason to pay more attention.”
She started moving again, navigating the labyrinthine tunnels with practiced efficiency. Milcoat followed, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface, but overridden by the immediate need to secure their prize and escape this increasingly hostile environment. The six data cores felt heavy in their container – not just physically, but with the weight of the political situation they represented, and the ever-present feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching their every move.
Scene #38 – Showdown on Herzenslust
Milcoat, Deenon, and Parry finally cleared the wreckage of the Type R. Before they could even fully assess their surroundings, four figures materialized from the shadows clinging to the debris field. They weren’t soldiers, not in any recognizable sense of the word. These were thugs – lean and hard-eyed, clad in mismatched armor scavenged from who knew where, each gripping a blaster with unsettling familiarity. Their faces were grim masks, etched with a predatory intensity that sent a shiver down Milcoat’s spine.
“Well now,” one of them drawled, his voice raspy and laced with menace. He was the apparent leader, judging by the way the others deferred to him. “Looks like we got ourselves some visitors. The Perfect Stranger has been causing quite a bit of trouble for the local authorities of the Islands Cluster lately. Too much attention.”
He paused, letting the threat hang in the air. “We’re here to collect a delivery. Hand over the container you’re carrying, and nobody gets hurt.”
Milcoat spat on the deck, a gesture of defiance more than anything else. “You can go kiss my aft,” he snarled. “This isn’t going anywhere.” The words were barely out when the first shot cracked through the air – a searing beam of crimson energy that narrowly missed Milcoat’s head.
The firefight erupted with brutal suddenness. The thin, wiry thug who had been doing the talking was the first to fall. A burst from Parry’s pulse rifle found its mark, tearing through his armor and sending him sprawling into a pile of twisted metal. Deenon reacted instantly, grabbing the container holding the data cores and diving behind a section of salvaged hull plating. The metallic clang of her blaster echoed as she secured the cores before returning fire.
“Cover me!” Milcoat roared, unleashing a volley of his own shots. He was a veteran, but these thugs were surprisingly adept at using cover. Parry answered with controlled bursts, targeting the remaining two attackers.
“Jela, move!” Milcoat yelled, the words lost in the cacophony of laser fire and the groaning of stressed metal. Deenon didn’t wait for confirmation; she fired a short burst without taking proper aim, just to pin down the attackers advance. The shots ripped through the air, forcing the thugs to seek cover behind debris.
A sharp groan cut through the noise. Parry stumbled, clutching at his leg. “Took a shot… standard projectile,” he grunted, his face contorted in pain. A crimson stain was blooming on his trousers. Milcoat cursed under his breath – another complication they didn’t need.
The fight continued for what felt like an eternity, though it was likely only two minutes of frantic chaos. The thugs were tough, but their lack of training and the combined firepower of the trio proved too much. One by one, they fell, their bodies slumped amongst the wreckage.
Silence descended abruptly, broken only by Parry’s labored breathing and the hiss of cooling blasters. Milcoat surveyed the scene – four dead thugs, a wrecked ship, and a mission that was rapidly spiraling out of control.
Parry limped from behind a piece of cover, his face pale but resolute. “Just a scratch,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Can keep moving.” Deenon secured the container again, her expression grim.
“You need support?” she asked, her voice tight with concern. “We can patch you up here, at least.”
Parry shook his head, pushing himself to stand straighter. “Negative. Just a little… uncomfortable. Let’s move.”
Scene #39 – Cobbled together
The Perfect Stranger felt less like a sanctuary after the encounter with the thugs, more like a wounded beast. Deenon immediately set about repairing the damage sustained during their last legs on their journey.
Milcoat, meanwhile, focused his attention on Parry. The ex-marine was propped up in a makeshift medical bay cobbled together from salvaged equipment. The projectile that had struck his leg hadn’t been fatal, but it was deep and painful. Milcoat worked with practiced efficiency, cleaning the wound, applying pressure bandages, and administering what little pain relief they had on hand.
“They knew we were carrying something valuable,” Milcoat muttered, more to himself than to Parry. “And they weren’t just any thugs. Too coordinated, too well-equipped for random scavengers.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “I suspect this was a hired job. Local authorities, or Neubayern most likely. They didn’t want the mess of openly seizing the data cores.”
Parry grunted in response, wincing as Milcoat tightened the bandages around his leg. “Figures,” he said, his voice strained. “Someone doesn’t want that intel getting to Zuflucht.” He nodded slowly, acknowledging Milcoat’s assessment. The unspoken understanding hung heavy between them – they were operating in a hostile environment, and every move was being watched.
The following days settled into a pattern of heightened vigilance. Sleep schedules were disrupted, with Milcoat or Parry taking constant watch shifts while Deenon worked tirelessly on the ship’s repairs. Security systems were activated at their highest settings, casting long shadows across the cramped corridors. Every creak and groan of the Perfect Stranger was scrutinized for any sign of intrusion. The air crackled with a nervous energy, fueled by the knowledge that they were likely being tracked.
“We’re not going the scenic route,” Milcoat declared during a brief meeting in the ship’s cramped bridge. “Forget the route via Besancon, Elysee, and the Serendip Belt. We head directly for Gloire.” The suggestion was met with immediate agreement.
Four days crawled by, each one punctuated by the rhythmic hum of Deenon’s tools and the ever-present feeling of being watched. Finally, she straightened up, wiping grease from her hands with a rag. “Alright,” she announced, her voice laced with exhaustion but also a hint of satisfaction. “The repairs are done. Hull integrity is at ninety percent, jump drives are stable. I think we have a good chance of making the five jumps to Gloire and even the last three to Zuflucht in one piece.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the bridge. The prospect of leaving the Islands subsectors felt like a tangible goal within reach. Milcoat headed down to the station master’s office, a small, utilitarian space filled with bureaucratic paperwork and the faint smell of recycled air.
The station master, a man named Hanson with perpetually weary eyes and a network of wrinkles etched into his face, greeted them with a perfunctory nod. “Departure arrangements?” he asked, without much enthusiasm.
“Yes, as soon as possible please,” Milcoat stated, keeping his voice neutral. “We’re ready when you are.”
Hanson processed the request with an unsettling lack of urgency. The paperwork was shuffled, the calculations were made, and a departure slot was assigned. As Milcoat turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the distinct impression that Hanson was… relieved. Relieved to see the Perfect Stranger gone.
Milcoat caught the station master’s gaze for a fleeting moment before turning away. He didn’t need confirmation; the man’s expression spoke volumes. Someone in this system wanted them out of here, and they were more than happy to facilitate their departure – regardless of how much it cost.
Scene #40 – Jumpspace
The transition into jumpspace within the Herzenslust system was unremarkable, a familiar shudder followed by the disorienting sensation of reality folding in on itself. The Perfect Stranger had officially begun its five-jump trek towards the Gloire system, carrying its precious cargo of intelligence and hope for a return to Imperial order.
The intervening days proved unexpectedly restorative. Parry’s leg responded remarkably well to rest and what little medical attention Deenon could provide with her limited supplies. By the third jump, he declared himself fit for duty, though Milcoat insisted on keeping him at reduced activity until they reached Gloire. The extended periods between jumps afforded everyone a rare opportunity for genuine sleep – something precious in their line of work. Even Milcoat admitted to feeling refreshed, the constant tension that had been gripping him slowly easing its hold.
Five weeks crawled by within the iridescent bubble of jumpspace. It was an unsettling eternity of quiet and stillness, punctuated only by the hum of the ship’s systems and the occasional conversation. The monotony was a welcome change from the dangers they’d faced in the Islands Cluster.
Then, without warning, it ended and the Perfect Stranger lurched violently as it fell back into normal space with a resounding bang that rattled every bulkhead. “Systems nominal,” she announced cheerfully, her voice echoing through the bridge. “No damage sustained from the long journey. Jump drives are stable, life support is functioning perfectly.” A genuine smile spread across her face, a rare sight after weeks of grim determination. “We made it… welcome to Gloire!”
Milcoat exhaled slowly, relief washing over him. The five jumps had been fraught with potential for disaster – navigational errors, equipment failure, or even hostile encounters within jumpspace itself. They’d managed to avoid them all.
He turned his attention to the comms panel. “Send a standard message to Gloire,” he instructed, his voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline. “Requesting permission to land and formal introduction of Captain Johtar Milcoat, aboard the vessel Perfect Stranger, bearing Imperial Navy credentials.”
He waited, listening for a response. The silence stretched out, thick and expectant. Finally, a crackle from the speaker. “Perfect Stranger, this is Gloire Control. You are cleared to land at designated port Alpha-Seven. Awaiting your arrival. Welcome to Gloire.”
To be continued…
The Perfect Stranger reached the last system before Zuflucht, where the crew of Captain Milcoat should bring the ship and the data cores to.
I hope to see you next week then the Perfect Stranger lands on the main world of the Gloire system.
