Hallo fellow Spacers and welcome to a new Traveller solo campaign! I decided to play “Great Rift Adventure 1: Islands in the Rift” and try my best to stay as close to the original as possible. There are several ways to play published adventures using the Mythic GME and I try to solve the problem of meta-knowledge unsing the method from the Mythic GME 2nd Edition core book.
I have read the whole adventure, so I know what will happen if the adventure is played as a group with GM. Due to the nature of the adventure, it doesn’t really matter if I know what events are waiting for me. The most important premise to get the story going is the beginning, from there on it is a sandbox with a defined system to get the ship to. I make use of the Adventure Feature List to trigger different events that are essential to the adventure, the rest is filled with standard Mythic workflow.
This technical explanation out of the way: Let’s Go…
Prologue – Welcome to Amondiage
The transport ship settled into Amondiage’s starport with a muted sigh of hydraulics, its docking clamps securing it against the station’s infrastructure. Captain Johtar Milcoat, Jela Deenon, and Korbin Parry disembarked, stepping onto polished durasteel that reflected the ambient light in an unsettlingly pristine manner. The starport was indeed luxurious; a stark contrast to the grim realities they’d left behind. It felt…wrong, almost too clean for this region of space.
“Luxury isn’t exactly what I expected on Amondiage,” Parry muttered, his voice rough and laced with cynicism. “Something feels off about all this.” Milcoat merely grunted in agreement, his gaze scanning the surroundings, already assessing potential threats. Deenon, ever practical, simply stated, “Let’s not dwell on it. We have a job to do.”
Their mission was clear: locate and secure the Perfect Stranger, a clandestine Imperial Navy reconnaissance vessel rumored to be stranded on Amondiage after a catastrophic incident. The ship, known for its covert operations within the Islands Subsector, carried invaluable intelligence Milcoat needed to deliver to the Zuflucht system in the New Island Subsector. Reports indicated the crew had perished or vanished without a trace, leaving the Perfect Stranger adrift and vulnerable.
“The intel suggests the ship suffered some kind of…mishap,” Milcoat confirmed, consulting his datapad. “Engine failure, possibly compounded by something else. The reports are vague.” He paused, his expression hardening. “And we need to secure that recon data above all else.” Parry added, “Dead crew or not, that ship is carrying secrets the Imperium wants back.”
Despite the urgency of their task, Milcoat acknowledged the need for a brief respite. “Before we start poking around for a ghost ship and its secrets,” he said, gesturing towards a nearby establishment, “let’s find a bar. A stiff drink might help us clear our heads.” Deenon nodded in agreement. “A little lubricant never hurt anyone’s focus.” Parry just grunted again, but followed them nonetheless, his hand instinctively resting near the sidearm concealed beneath his worn jacket. The opulent starport felt like a gilded cage, and they were walking straight into it.
The bar was a dimly lit affair, tucked away in a corner of the starport complex. The air hung thick with the scent of cheap liquor and desperation, a familiar aroma across the fringes of Imperial space. Milcoat nursed his drink – a potent blend of something vaguely resembling whiskey – while Parry stared moodily into his own glass, and Deenon meticulously cleaned her sidearm.
“Right,” Milcoat said, breaking the silence with a decisive tone. “We need to approach this systematically.” He held up his datapad, the screen displaying a crisp Imperial Navy document. “I’ve already transmitted a formal declaration. We have authorization to take possession of the Perfect Stranger.”
He tapped on the pad, highlighting key phrases in the official text. “This should grease the wheels considerably. Station Master’s office first thing tomorrow. Bureaucracy is our friend here; it can open doors that brute force cannot.” He glanced at Parry, a flicker of something akin to amusement crossing his face. “No need for your usual…enthusiasm, Korbin. Let’s try diplomacy this time.”
Parry grunted in response, but didn’t argue. Deenon simply nodded, her expression unreadable. “Diplomacy is useful,” she said dryly. “But I’ll keep my hand close to mine.” Milcoat returned his attention to the datapad, already formulating a plan for navigating the inevitable bureaucratic hurdles that awaited them. The Perfect Stranger was out there somewhere on Amondiage, and they needed to find it – and secure its data – before anyone else did.
Scene #1 – Bureaucracy and how to circumvent it
The station master’s office was a study in sterile efficiency. Polished chrome, holographic displays shimmering with data streams, and an oppressive silence broken only by the hum of unseen machinery – it felt less like a place of business and more like a surgical theatre. McNeil, the Amondiage government official on duty, embodied that same coldness. He was a man built from sharp angles and curt expressions, his face etched with a clear displeasure at being disturbed.
“You’re wasting my time,” he stated flatly as Milcoat presented the Imperial Navy declaration. “However…” McNeil glanced at the document, his expression softening marginally. “The paperwork is in order.”
He tapped a few keys on his console, initiating a search of the Amondiage database. The holographic display flickered with lines of code and planetary maps. After a moment, he looked up, his gaze fixed on Milcoat with an almost palpable air of annoyance. “According to our records,” McNeil said, his voice devoid of inflection, “the Perfect Stranger is not currently registered within Amondiage space.”
A silence descended upon the three as they exchanged glances. The implications were clear: their search had led them down a blind alley. Parry’s face was a mask of barely concealed frustration, while Deenon simply raised an eyebrow, her expression suggesting she’d expected nothing less. Milcoat, however, maintained his composure, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed his features.
“Not on Amondiage?” he repeated slowly, testing the words. “Are you certain? There must be some record…” He trailed off, realizing the futility of arguing with bureaucracy. Where had the Perfect Stranger gone? And how were they going to find it now?
The initial frustration hung heavy in the air after McNeil’s pronouncement. The Perfect Stranger wasn’t on Amondiage, according to their records. It was a dead end, a frustrating detour in what had already been a convoluted search. Jela Deenon, however, didn’t seem particularly deterred. A flicker of something – calculation, perhaps – crossed her features as she spoke.
“I have an idea,” she announced, her voice low enough to be heard over the hum of the station’s systems. “It’s a long shot, but it might yield something.” She gestured towards a shadowed alcove just beyond the main thoroughfare. “Let’s move a few meters down there. Act natural – deep in conversation about… I don’t know, the merits of different synth-ale brands. Something mundane. While you distract anyone who wanders by, I’ll attempt to access the station’s database.”
Parry raised an eyebrow, skepticism etched on his face. “Accessing a government database? Without authorization? That’s asking for trouble, Deenon.”
“Trouble is relative,” she countered smoothly. “And right now, finding the Perfect Stranger is worth more than avoiding a little bureaucratic inconvenience.” She pulled a compact terminal from her utility belt, its surface sleek and dark. As they moved into the alcove, Jela positioned herself strategically, ensuring her actions would be obscured by the bodies of Milcoat and Parry.
The act was clumsy at first. Milcoat launched into a rambling discussion about the comparative bitterness of various synth-ales, while Korbin Parry offered sarcastic commentary. It felt forced, unnatural, but it served its purpose – drawing attention away from Jela’s focused activity. The terminal hummed softly as she worked, her fingers dancing across the surface with practiced efficiency. Lines of code scrolled across the screen, a silent ballet of digital intrusion.
The station’s security protocols were surprisingly lax, or perhaps just predictable. Deenon navigated them with ease, exploiting vulnerabilities that had likely been overlooked for years. Within minutes, she bypassed the initial layers of defense and gained access to the flight logs. A satisfied grin spread across her face as she began scanning the entries, filtering through a deluge of data – arrival times, departure vectors, cargo manifests – searching for anything related to the Perfect Stranger.
The air crackled with tension as she worked, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic tapping of her fingers and the strained conversation between Milcoat and Parry. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a match appeared on the screen – a vessel identified as Perfect Stranger, its profile matching the descriptions they had gleaned from their initial investigation. The entry indicated it had passed through this system approximately three days prior, but hadn’t remained long. It continued onward, towards a neighboring system within Acadie subsector.
“Got something,” she announced, turning to her companions with a triumphant flourish. “The Perfect Stranger came through here. But it didn’t stop. It headed for a system just over the border in Acadie.”
Johtar Milcoat’s expression shifted from frustration to cautious optimism. “Better than nothing, certainly,” he conceded. “Acadie… that puts us closer to the edge of charted space. A bit more remote, but it’s a lead.” He paused, considering their options. “We need transport.”
“There are always ships coming and going,” Milcoat continued, his voice regaining some of its earlier confidence. “Freighters, transports… something will be heading that way eventually. We need to find someone willing to take us.” He scanned the bustling station concourse, assessing the potential for opportunity – and danger.
“We’ll need credits,” Korbin Parry interjected, his gaze fixed on a group of rough-looking individuals haggling over cargo rates. “And we’ll need to be discreet. Drawing attention to ourselves won’t help.”
Milcoat nodded in agreement. “Discretion is paramount. We don’t want to alert anyone that we’re looking for a ghost ship.” He began formulating a plan, his mind already calculating the odds and potential pitfalls. “Let’s start by checking the manifest boards. See what ships are scheduled to depart within the next few cycles heading towards Acadie.”
The search for passage wouldn’t be easy. The station was teeming with individuals seeking transport – merchants, laborers, refugees fleeing from some unknown hardship. Competition would be fierce, but they had a lead now, a tangible direction to pursue.
Scene #2 – Aboard The Wanderer
The initial search for passage proved frustratingly difficult. Despite Milcoat’s efforts, no vessel seemed eager to venture into the Acadie, a system controlled by Amondiage. The prevailing attitude among those at Amondiage Station was one of avoidance, a reluctance that felt… unusual. Milcoat voiced his concern, stating, “Something’s odd about that system.”
He spent the intervening days attempting to glean information about Acadie from various contacts within the station. Whispers and rumors circulated – stories of recent turmoil, an uprising brutally suppressed by Amondiage authorities, and a systematic silencing of dissenting voices. The picture painted was one of a tightly controlled environment, where any deviation from the established order was met with swift and severe consequences. It suggested a system deliberately obscured, its true nature hidden beneath layers of official pronouncements.
After several days of fruitless searching, a vessel finally presented itself – a dilapidated freighter named The Wanderer, captained by a man who seemed more interested in patching his ship than making a profit. He readily agreed to transport them to Acadie, but with a significant caveat: the ship’s systems were plagued by malfunctions. “She’s got a temperamental drive and her sensors are acting up,” the captain admitted, scratching at a patch of oil on his arm. “I need someone who knows their way around a circuit board. Someone to keep things running smoothly.” He looked pointedly at Jela Deenon.
Jela examined the ship’s diagnostics and confirmed the extent of the problems – a cascade of minor failures threatening to escalate into something more serious. It was an opportunity, albeit a risky one. After some negotiation, they reached an agreement: Jela would oversee The Wanderer’s systems throughout the journey in exchange for passage to Acadie. Two days later, after final preparations were made and credits exchanged, The Wanderer initiated its jump sequence, leaving Amondiage Station behind and plunging into the void towards the uncertain destination of the Acadie system.
The journey through jumpspace proved uneventful for Korbin Parry and Johtar Milcoat. The bulk of the work fell on Jela Deenon, who tirelessly maintained The Wanderer’s aging systems, wrestling with malfunctions that threatened to derail their transit. Each evening, the three convened in their cramped quarters aboard the freighter.
During one such meeting, Milcoat recounted information gleaned from The Wanderer’s captain – details about the situation on Acadie. “The captain mentioned something interesting,” he stated, his voice low. “Apparently, the government of Amondiage is actively trying to downplay any signs of unrest on Acadie.” He paused, considering his words. “They don’t want word getting out that things are less than stable.”
Milcoat continued, explaining that dissidents were met with swift and brutal force, a deliberate strategy designed to project an image of stability and safety for tourists and travelers visiting the system. “It’s all about appearances,” he concluded grimly. “They use whatever means necessary – force, intimidation – to keep the facade of order intact.” The implication hung heavy in the air: Acadie was not the paradise Amondiage want it to appear to be.
The evening preceding their arrival at Acadie, Johtar Milcoat announced he had completed his review of the dossier pertaining to the Islands subsectors. He gathered Korbin Parry and Jela Deenon in their usual quarters, a space perpetually smelling faintly of recycled air and burnt lubricant.
“It’s a mess,” Milcoat stated, pushing the datapad across the table. “The various governments within the Islands are practically at each other’s throats. Accusations of espionage are flying around constantly, and trust is nonexistent between them.” He paused, taking a sip from his ration flask. “That’s why the Imperial Navy has taken such an interest in the region. The Islands represent a crucial potential bridge across the Great Rift – a vital strategic location.”
Milcoat continued, outlining the implications of this fractured political landscape. “They want to understand what’s happening there, gather intelligence on the power dynamics. It’s all about securing their position.” He looked at Parry and Deenon. “The Perfect Stranger,” he said grimly, referring to their current mission, “must have found itself caught between these factions, right in the middle of their schemes.”
Scene #3 – IDs please!
The approach to Acadie Downport was unremarkable, a silent glide through the void punctuated only by the hum of The Wanderer’s engines. The station itself presented as a sprawling collection of interconnected modules and docking arms, a testament to decades of incremental expansion rather than a single, cohesive design. It felt worn, functional, but lacking in any pretense of grandeur – a fitting reflection of the Islands subsectors themselves, according to Milcoat’s briefing.
As they docked at a designated berth, the automated systems ran their initial scans, confirming vessel identification and passenger manifests. The process was swift and efficient until the arrival of local authorities. Two individuals, clad in the drab grey uniforms of the Acadie Border Security Force, boarded The Wanderer. They were unremarkable in appearance – middle-aged men with weary eyes and a distinct lack of enthusiasm – but their presence immediately shifted the atmosphere within the cramped confines of the ship’s bridge.
“Welcome to Acadie,” one of them stated, his voice flat and devoid of any discernible inflection. “I am Officer Rylan, and this is Sergeant Kaelen. We’ll be conducting a standard inspection.”
The inspection itself was perfunctory, focusing primarily on the ship’s manifest and crew identification chips. Everything appeared to be in order until they reached Korbin Parry’s chip. The officer paused, his expression unchanging but his silence stretching into an uncomfortable duration.
“There appears to be a discrepancy with Mr. Parry’s identification,” Rylan finally announced, holding up the chip for scrutiny. “The registration date doesn’t match the stated birth year. Furthermore, the assigned sector code is… unusual.”
Parry, who had been leaning against the console, straightened abruptly. “It’s a clerical error,” he insisted, his voice tight. “I can provide documentation from my previous employer to verify its authenticity.”
Rylan didn’t respond immediately. He exchanged a glance with Sergeant Kaelen, then turned back to Parry. “Mr. Parry, you are required to accompany us for further questioning. You will be detained pending verification of your credentials.”
Parry opened his mouth to protest, but Rylan cut him off with a curt gesture. “No argument. Please step forward.” Two ABSF guards materialized from the corridor, flanking Parry and escorting him out of the bridge. He offered no resistance, though a muscle ticked in his jaw as he was led away.
Johtar Milcoat and Jela Deenon watched the scene unfold with a grim silence. Rylan turned to them next, his expression still impassive. “Mr. Milcoat, Ms. Deenon,” he acknowledged, barely glancing at their identification chips. “You are listed as accompanying Mr. Parry. Your credentials appear to be in order.”
“This is just a misunderstanding,” Milcoat stated calmly. “Mr. Parry’s chip has been flagged due to an administrative error. We request his immediate release.”
Rylan didn’t flinch. “We are aware of the possibility of clerical errors, Mr. Milcoat. However, standard procedure dictates that we must verify all information.” He paused again, a subtle shift in his demeanor suggesting a hint of annoyance. “For now, you will remain within the confines of Acadie Downport until this matter is resolved. You are free to move about the public areas but not permitted to leave the immediate vicinity.”
“And if Mr. Parry’s chip proves valid?” Deenon asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“Then he will be released,” Rylan replied without a trace of emotion. “Until then, your cooperation is expected.” He gestured towards the exit. “You are dismissed.”
The entire interaction was conducted with an unsettling level of professionalism. There were no raised voices, no overt threats, just a cold, bureaucratic efficiency that felt far more intimidating than any display of aggression. The ABSF officers moved with precision and purpose, their actions dictated by established protocols. It was clear they weren’t acting on personal animosity; they were simply following orders.
The tension in the air remained palpable as Milcoat and Deenon disembarked from the Perfect Stranger. They found themselves deposited into a bustling but subdued atmosphere within Acadie Downport. The facility itself was a hive of activity – traders haggling over prices, couriers rushing to meet deadlines, and various individuals going about their business with an air of cautious urgency. Yet, despite the apparent normalcy, there was an underlying current of unease, a sense that everyone was being watched.
Milcoat surveyed the scene, his gaze sweeping across the faces in the crowd. He noticed the subtle glances directed their way, the hushed whispers and averted eyes. They were clearly marked as outsiders, individuals under scrutiny.
“They’re keeping us contained,” he murmured to Deenon, his voice low. “This isn’t just about Parry’s chip.”
Deenon nodded in agreement. “It’s a power play. A demonstration of authority.” She scanned the crowd, her eyes narrowed. “And a warning, I suspect.”
They were directed to a designated waiting area near the Downport entrance – a small, sparsely furnished room with a single viewport overlooking the sprawling orbital facility. The view was unremarkable: a panorama of docking arms, cargo bays, and maintenance drones, all operating with mechanical precision. But for Milcoat and Deenon, it felt like a cage.
The hours that followed were an exercise in enforced patience. The ABSF maintained a discreet presence nearby, ensuring they didn’t stray beyond the designated area. Every attempt at conversation with other passengers or merchants was met with polite but distant responses. It was clear: they were being isolated, monitored, and effectively silenced.
Scene #4 – Get out of jail free!
The situation within the ABSF office remained tense, though the outward display of authority hadn’t shifted significantly. Officer Rylan sat behind his desk, meticulously reviewing the documents Milcoat had presented – a crisp, official order from the Imperial Navy confirming their mission status. It was a document that should have cleared any obstacle, but Rylan’s expression remained stubbornly neutral.
“This is… unusual,” he finally stated, his voice still flat. “A direct order of this nature is rarely issued for civilian vessels.” He glanced at the paperwork again, then back at Milcoat. “And yet, here it is.”
He didn’t immediately grant permission. Instead, he activated a commlink and spoke in clipped tones to someone out of earshot. The conversation was brief, but Milcoat could sense the subtle shift in Rylan’s demeanor as he listened to the response. When the officer returned his attention to them, there was a flicker of something that might have been resignation – or perhaps just annoyance – crossing his face.
“Very well,” Rylan conceded, pushing the order back across the desk. “You are cleared to depart. There appears to have been a… misunderstanding regarding Mr. Parry’s identification. An error, apparently.” He paused, then added with a dismissive shrug, “These things happen. The system is prone to glitches.”
Sergeant Kaelen grunted in agreement, his expression unchanged. “Just be sure you stick to the designated routes and avoid any unnecessary… complications,” he advised, his tone suggesting that “complications” were anything beyond routine travel.
Milcoat didn’t respond immediately. He wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation. The speed with which Rylan had secured approval from his superior suggested a higher level of intervention than a simple clerical error could explain. Was this genuine relief, or a calculated maneuver to maintain appearances?
“We appreciate the clarification,” Milcoat replied curtly, gathering the documents and signaling for Deenon and Parry to follow him out of the office. The three emerged from the ABSF facility into the bustling chaos of Acadie Downport, the air thick with the scent of recycled oxygen and desperation.
As they stepped outside, a sense of unease lingered in Milcoat’s mind. Was this a genuine resolution, or merely a temporary reprieve? The unrest plaguing Acadie – a system known for its volatile politics and constant skirmishes between government troops and dissidents – hung heavy in the air. He couldn’t shake the feeling that their departure wasn’t being celebrated but rather tolerated, perhaps even viewed with suspicion.
“They’re watching us,” he murmured to Deenon as they navigated through the crowded thoroughfare. “I don’t think this was a well-meant piece of advice.”
Deenon nodded grimly. “It felt more like a warning than an assurance.”
Their immediate priority, however, was securing lodging for the night. They approached the first available hotel – a grimy establishment called “The Rift’s Rest” – hoping for a room with minimal scrutiny. “We need three rooms,” Milcoat stated to the bored-looking clerk behind the counter.
The clerk barely glanced up from his datapad. “Rooms are scarce tonight. Unrest in the sector, you know. Prices have tripled.” Milcoat raised an eyebrow. It was exorbitant, even considering the circumstances. Still, security was paramount. “We’ll take it,” he replied, handing over the credits.
The clerk shrugged, already turning his attention to another potential customer. Milcoat exchanged a look with Deenon and Parry – a silent acknowledgment of the precariousness of their situation. They had secured lodging, but the feeling that they were being watched intensified as they made their way up the dimly lit corridors of The Rift’s Rest.
Scene #5 – Under surveillance
The morning after securing their rooms at The Rift’s Rest dawned grey and oppressive, mirroring the general atmosphere of Acadie Downport. Johtar Milcoat, Jela Deenon, and Korbin Parry moved with a deliberate caution through the crowded corridors towards the station master’s office.
Milcoat led the way, his broad shoulders tense as he scanned their surroundings. Deenon followed close behind, her movements fluid and silent despite the coverall she wore. Parry brought up the rear, his gaze constantly darting from one face to another, absorbing every detail. It was Parry who first noticed something amiss.
“I’m getting a feeling,” he murmured, barely audible above the hum of the downport’s machinery. “We’re being watched.”
Milcoat stopped abruptly, signaling for Deenon to halt as well. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowed, and surveyed the throng of spacers and laborers milling about. “Explain,” he commanded, his voice low and clipped.
“Two individuals,” Parry replied, keeping his voice down. “About ten meters behind us, moving in sync. They’re trying to be subtle, but their movements are too coordinated.” He paused, then added, “They’ve been on our tail since we left The Rift’s Rest.”
Milcoat exchanged a glance with Deenon, a silent acknowledgment of the precariousness of their situation. Security was paramount, and being followed suggested someone knew they were looking for the Perfect Stranger. “Stay alert,” he instructed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Watch for any other signs. Parry, you have eyes on them.”
They continued their trek towards the station master’s office, Milcoat subtly adjusting their route to test their pursuers. The two individuals maintained their distance, but their presence was undeniable – a constant pressure at the edge of their awareness.
The station master’s office was a cramped space overflowing with paperwork and the stale odor of bureaucratic indifference. A man named Krell sat behind a cluttered desk, his face etched with weariness. He barely looked up as they entered.
“We’re here to inquire about the Perfect Stranger,” Milcoat stated, keeping his voice neutral.
Krell finally raised his head, and a flicker of something that might have been relief crossed his features. “The Perfect Stranger, eh? Finally! Someone’s interested in that rust bucket.” He leaned back in his chair, a sigh escaping his lips. “Been sitting here for months, bleeding credits.”
“Its location?” Deenon prompted, her voice precise and devoid of emotion.
“Sector B,” Krell replied with a shrug. “Pad 72. It’s been there so long the dust is starting to form its own ecosystem.” He paused, then added with a cynical grin, “Of course, there’s a small matter of outstanding fees.”
Milcoat exchanged a look with Parry and Deenon – a silent communication that conveyed their shared shock. “Fees?” he asked, his voice carefully controlled.
“Seventy-five thousand credits,” Krell stated matter-of-factly. “And they’ve been accruing interest daily. It’s now closer to eighty.”
The silence in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Seventy-five thousand credits? That was an astronomical sum, far beyond anything they had anticipated. Milcoat hadn’t expected this level of expense.
“That’s… considerable,” Milcoat finally managed, his voice betraying a hint of disbelief. “Where are we supposed to acquire that kind of capital?”
Krell shrugged again, seemingly unconcerned by their predicament. “Not my problem. The ship’s owner vanished long ago. I can’t just give it away.” He paused, then added with a surprising degree of practicality, “However… there is an option.”
He leaned forward slightly. “The ship’s in rough shape. Needs a lot of work. You’re welcome to perform the necessary repairs and maintenance yourself. Get her spaceworthy, and you can fly off with her after paying the fee.” He gestured dismissively.
The prospect of working on the ship before paying was a lifeline, albeit a precarious one. It would buy them time, but they needed to assess the Perfect Stranger’s condition and determine if it was even salvageable. The sheer cost involved suggested that the vessel had been abandoned for good reason. Still, it was their only option at this point.
Milcoat nodded slowly. “We’ll take you up on that offer.” He looked again at Parry and Deenon, a grim determination settling over his features. They were now inextricably linked to the Perfect Stranger, whether they liked it or not.
To be continued…
Thank you for reading the first session of this adventure. I hope you had fun and that you return next week for the second part of Islands in the Rift.
