Hallo and welcome back to my Islands in the Rift play-through, actual play… whatever you like to call it. Last week we left Milcoat, Deenon and Parry as they faced a hefty fee of 75k credits the station master of Acadie demanded for storing and ‘maintaining’ the Perfect Stranger.
Oh one thing I forgot to mention in the last post: Quite some time ago, I replaced my Mythic oracles and meaning tables I used in obsidian with the official Mythic app on Android. (It is absolutely worth checking out) Even though it feels a bit clunky to switch screens and use the tables, the app is really fun to play with… and after a while I got used to the ui/ux.
Let’s zap back to the Acadie System in the Islands Cluster of the Reft Sector and see how the protagonists are dealing with the fee.
Scene #6 – A flying piece of scrap metal
The Perfect Stranger sat on Pad 72, a hulking silhouette against the perpetually grey sky of Acadie Downport. It looked less like a vessel capable of interstellar travel and more like a monument to neglect and deliberate destruction. Johtar Milcoat keyed in the access code provided by the Imperial Navy – a surprisingly straightforward process given the circumstances – and with a groan of protesting metal, the hatch hissed open, revealing a cavernous interior shrouded in shadow.
Milcoat led the way inside, Deenon and Parry close behind. Deenon immediately began her assessment, her movements efficient and precise as she ran a diagnostic scan across the ship’s systems.
“This is worse than we anticipated,” she stated flatly, her voice echoing in the vast space. “Significant damage throughout. Systems are offline or critically degraded.” Her scanner highlighted areas of concern with pulsing red light – severed cables hanging from the walls like grotesque vines, empty conduits where vital electronics had once resided. It was clear this wasn’t simply wear and tear; someone had systematically dismantled large portions of the ship’s infrastructure.
Milcoat moved deeper into the vessel, his gaze sweeping across the wreckage. He stopped abruptly before a reinforced safe, its door ripped from its hinges and twisted metal exposed. “Well,” he remarked grimly, running a gloved hand over the jagged edges of the torn steel. “Someone was looking for something.” He paused, then added with a cynical edge to his voice, “I’d wager they were after the data modules containing intel on the Islands subsectors. Someone clearly knew what they were doing.” The implication hung heavy in the air – someone else had been searching for the same information, and they’d gone to considerable lengths to secure it.
The oppressive darkness within the Perfect Stranger seemed to cling to Korbin Parry, swallowing him whole as he stood near the open hatch. He called out, his voice a low rasp in the cavernous space, “Captain?” The response came quickly enough – a curt acknowledgement from Johtar Milcoat, equally shrouded in shadow. Parry gestured towards a cluster of crates haphazardly stacked near Pad 72, their forms barely discernible against the gloom.
“I’ve got a feeling again,” he murmured, his voice tight with unease. “Somebody is watching. Different guys than earlier, but the same pattern. Same… feeling.” He didn’t elaborate; Parry rarely did when it came to these instincts. It was a reputation earned through years of navigating treacherous corners of space – a sixth sense honed by near misses and close calls.
Milcoat’s hand landed on Parry’s shoulder, a brief but firm gesture that acknowledged the man’s keen eye. “You always were good at spotting shadows, Parry,” he said, his voice low and steady. Just then, a shout echoed from deeper within the ship – Deenon’s sharp, clear voice cutting through the silence.
Milcoat excused himself with a nod to Parry and moved towards the sound, leaving Parry to continue his perimeter check. The man scanned the surrounding area, his gaze lingering on every shadow, every anomaly.
Inside, Jela Deenon sat hunched over an open floor panel, her face illuminated by the faint glow of her diagnostic tools. A satisfied smile played on her lips as she straightened up. She turned to address Milcoat, who had just entered the compartment.
“Captain,” she announced, her voice laced with quiet triumph. “I’ve found something they missed.” She indicated the open panel, revealing a cleverly concealed compartment built into the ship’s structure – a space that had been overlooked by whoever had ransacked the vessel before them.
Deenon reached inside and produced several plaques, their surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim light. “A secret compartment,” she explained, holding up the credit sticks for Milcoat to see. “And a rather lucrative one.” Each stick bore the Imperial Navy’s crest and indicated an accumulated value of 100,000 credits.
Milcoat stared at the plaques, his expression slowly shifting from grim determination to visible relief. The weight of their precarious situation seemed to lift slightly from his shoulders. “That’s… that’s excellent news,” he said, his voice laced with a hint of disbelief. “It means we don’t have to worry about the 75k storage fee for the Perfect Stranger.” The exorbitant fee had been looming over them since they arrived at the station master’s office of Acadie Downport, threatening to derail their entire operation.
Deenon nodded, her smile widening slightly. “And there’s more,” she added, reaching back into the compartment and retrieving a smaller data chip. “There’s enough credit left in this account to cover the spare parts I need for the repairs.” She paused, then continued with a touch of dry humor, “Apparently, someone was very generous – or perhaps just careless – when they stashed these away.”
“We just have to get her flying again,” Milcoat stated flatly, gesturing towards the ship’s visible damage. “And find those data modules.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the air. “Without them, this whole mission is worth nothing.”
Scene #7 – Unwelcomed strangers
Jela Deenon spent the ensuing days consumed by the meticulous work of repairing the Perfect Stranger. The ship groaned under her ministrations, metal protesting against the intrusion of tools and the hum of re-engaged systems. From the cockpit, she summoned Johtar Milcoat and Korbin Parry for a status report.
“The repairs are progressing,” she announced, her voice tight with fatigue but laced with a new urgency. “But I’ve uncovered something… interesting about this ship.” She paused, letting the statement hang in the air. “It’s more than just a transport.” Deenon continued, “There are concealed laser turrets at the rear of the vessel, cleverly hidden behind hull panels. They’re surprisingly potent – capable of inflicting significant damage to anything that gets too close.”
A moment later, she shifted gears. “Furthermore,” she added, her voice dropping slightly, “the ship’s log contained an entry encrypted with standard Imperial Navy protocols. It details a stop in the Herzenslust system and mentions something called ‘Drop Point Hotel.’ They stored backups of their intel data there.”
Johtar Milcoat nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “The backup,” he finally said, his voice low and measured, “might be sufficient information to consider our mission a success.”
The suddenness of Parry’s gesture shattered the tense quiet. His hand shot up, pointing towards the rear of the Perfect Stranger, and a faint sound – footsteps – drifted through the ship’s internal comm system. Instinct took over. Deenon, Milcoat, and Parry simultaneously drew their weapons, seeking whatever cover the cramped cockpit offered. Parry positioned himself directly next to the entrance, pressed against the wall as if bracing for impact.
A man appeared in the doorway, but before he could fully enter, Parry moved with surprising speed. He grabbed the man from behind, hauling him out of the corridor and rendering him unconscious with a swift maneuver. A second figure followed, attempting to press forward, but Milcoat’s light blaster barked, sending a searing beam that struck the advancing man. Deenon strained her ears, trying to discern if more intruders were present within the ship’s bulk, but only silence answered her efforts.
The task was unpleasant, but necessary. Jela Deenon grimaced as she wrestled the lifeless form of the second intruder from the cockpit. The acrid stench of burned flesh that clung to the back of her throat and stung her nostrils. It permeated everything, a stark reminder of Milcoat’s swift action. She worked efficiently, ignoring the revulsion churning in her stomach, maneuvering the body through the narrow corridors towards the ship’s airlock.
Parry, meanwhile, had secured the unconscious man he’d apprehended earlier. He worked with a practiced efficiency born from countless similar situations – securing restraints, double-checking the locks, ensuring there was no chance of escape. The metallic click of the handcuffs echoed in the confined space. “He’s secure,” Parry announced, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “No movement.”
Milcoat issued his instructions without preamble. “Deenon, dispose of the body. Somewhere discreet. We don’t want any unnecessary attention drawn to us.” He glanced at the flickering diagnostic displays showing the ongoing repairs. “And tell me you’re finished with those diagnostics yet.”
Deenon nodded curtly, her gaze fixed on the blinking lights and error codes. “The primary systems are stable, Milcoat. Jump drive is operating within acceptable parameters, though it’s still running hotter than I like. We can move.” She paused, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “Just… be prepared for some turbulence.”
Scene #8 – Hurry!
Jela Deenon hurried through the corridors of their hotel, her boots clicking on the grimy durasteel flooring. She retrieved their bags from their designated rooms – cramped spaces barely large enough for one person to stand comfortably. The recent… incident aboard the Perfect Stranger had left everyone on edge, and every shadow seemed to hold a potential threat.
Meanwhile, Captain Milcoat was wrestling with the station master, a greasy individual named Krell who clearly viewed Imperial Navy officers with a mixture of suspicion and thinly veiled contempt. “The jump permission,” Milcoat stated, his voice clipped and devoid of pleasantries, “is expedited, correct? We have… pressing matters.” Krell’s eyes narrowed. “Regulations are regulations, Captain. Storage fees are paid in full?” He gestured to the towering form of Korbin Parry, who was currently engaged in a tense conversation with a pair of burly dockworkers near the Perfect Stranger. “Parry’s seen to that,” Milcoat confirmed, his gaze flicking towards the ex-marine’s broad shoulders. “The ship is prepared and ready for departure.” Krell grunted, sliding a datapad across the counter. “Six hundred credits station fee. Jump clearance processed. Don’t cause any trouble out there.”
Parry, having finished his inspection of the Perfect Stranger, met Milcoat at the boarding ramp. “Everything’s tight,” he reported, his voice low and gravelly. “No sign of lingering… guests. Security protocols are engaged. Just get us out of here, Captain.” The words hung in the air – a tacit acknowledgement of the brutal encounter they’d just endured. Milcoat didn’t respond verbally, simply nodded curtly and headed up the ramp, Parry following close behind.
Inside the Perfect Stranger, the hum of dormant engines was quickly replaced by a throbbing thrum as Milcoat initiated the startup sequence. The ship shuddered slightly as power flowed through its systems. “Diagnostics are green,” Jela announced from her station in engineering, her fingers flying across the console. “All critical systems nominal.” A few minutes later, after running a series of increasingly complex tests, Milcoat gave the order. “Engage thrusters. Initiate departure sequence.” The Perfect Stranger groaned as its engines kicked in, pushing it away from Hope Freeport and into orbit around the makeshift starport.
Several minutes passed, filled with the quiet hum of machinery and the tense anticipation of a jump. “Six hours to the designated jump point,” Jela confirmed, her voice steady despite the palpable tension that permeated the ship. Milcoat simply nodded, his eyes fixed on the navigation display as the Perfect Stranger steadily accelerated towards its destination. With a final surge of power, the ship vanished in a flash of distorted space, swallowed by the currents of jumpspace.
Scene #9 – The interrogation
The jump had been smooth, but the lingering tension aboard the Perfect Stranger was anything but. Captain Milcoat’s gaze remained fixed on the navigation charts, but his voice held a sharp edge when he finally addressed Korbin Parry. “Parry,” he stated without looking away from the display, “prepare our guest for questioning. He needs to be… cooperative.”
Parry nodded curtly, acknowledging the order with a brief inclination of his head. “Understood, Captain.” He turned and headed towards the ship’s section where they had secured their captured attacker – a man who had been a significant threat aboard the Perfect Stranger just hours before. The corridor was dimly lit, adding to the oppressive atmosphere that clung to the ship.
Reaching the designated area, Parry entered with a deliberate stride. He found the man still restrained, his mouth gagged and wrists secured. There was no wasted movement as he guided the captive towards one of the reinforced chairs in the small chamber. With a grunt of effort, Parry slammed the man into the chair, the sudden impact eliciting a muffled groan from beneath the gag.
The interrogation of Stefan Richter continued, a grim dance between coercion and reluctant confession. Milcoat pressed him relentlessly, his voice a low rumble that barely masked the underlying threat. Richter, visibly shaken and bleeding from earlier treatment, finally began to spill more than just fragmented details.
“It’s… it was worse than we thought,” Richter admitted, his voice raspy with exhaustion. “The intelligence service in Neubayern… they… we… suspected the Perfect Stranger wasn’t what she seemed.” He paused, swallowing hard. “They believed she was a covert operation, linked to one of the sectors powers – something about moving assets and influence.”
Parry, standing silently beside Milcoat, shifted his weight, a subtle indication of his growing interest. Jela Deenon remained impassive, her gaze fixed on Richter with an unsettling intensity.
Richter continued, “They’d been tracking the Perfect Stranger for months, analyzing her jump patterns, trying to determine her purpose.” He spat onto the deck plating. “And they figured out where she was headed – Acadie.” A tremor ran through him. “The order came down from High Command: lure her into an ambush on Acadie. It was supposed to be a clean operation, just disable her, deal with the crew and secure the intel.”
He looked away, avoiding Milcoat’s gaze. He hesitated again, then blurted out, “The data storage containers. We moved them – all of them – to the Neubayern System. They’re being held secure.”
Milcoat’s expression remained unreadable, but a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Any further orders?” he prompted, his voice dangerously calm.
“To monitor the situation,” Richter replied quickly. “To keep an eye on the Perfect Stranger and anyone attempting to recover her or the data. High Command wants to know who’s interested in that intel…and what they’ll do with it.” He finished with a defeated sigh, “It was supposed to be simple. It never is.”
Milcoat addressed Stefan Richter, who was still visibly shaken from his interrogation. “Once we’re in Colchis,” Milcoat stated flatly, “you’ll be handed over to the local authorities.”
Without waiting for a response, Milcoat turned to Korbin Parry. “Parry,” he ordered, his voice clipped and efficient. “Take Richter. Lock him into one of the unused crew cabins – cabin seven should do. Ensure he receives adequate food and water. I don’t want any complaints about mistreatment… or escapes.” He added with a cold edge to his tone, “Keep an eye on him. This isn’t a holiday.”
Parry nodded curtly, already moving towards Richter, the ex-marine’s presence radiating a quiet intensity that further unnerved the captive informant. Jela Deenon observed the exchange with her usual impassivity, her focus already shifting back to the navigation charts and the impending arrival at Colchis in two weeks time.
Scene #10 – Colchis Prime
The Perfect Stranger shuddered as it exited jumpspace, the familiar disorientation settling into a tense stillness. Two weeks of travel had bled together – endless shifts, strained conversations, and the constant hum of the ship’s engines. Now, they were approaching Colchis Prime.
Before they could fully appreciate the view of the system—a yellow-white dwarf orbited by a smaller red companion star—their comms crackled to life with an official voice. “Unidentified vessel,” it stated, laced with a formality that felt oddly unsettling, “You are currently operating within restricted airspace. Remain stationary and await further instructions.”
Milcoat’s expression didn’t change. He glanced at Jela and Korbin, a curt nod the only indication of his acknowledgement. “Cut engines,” he ordered, his voice low and steady. The ship slowed, halting midway between their exit point from jumpspace and the planet itself.
A vessel materialized behind them—a sleek, utilitarian craft that clearly wasn’t a merchant hauler. “Unidentified vessel,” the voice repeated, now sharper and more insistent, “Lower shields and prepare for boarding. Failure to comply will be met with force.”
Milcoat responded without hesitation. “Acknowledged,” he replied, his tone devoid of any inflection. The order was given, and the Perfect Stranger’s shields dropped, a visible shimmer fading from around the hull as they waited for the inevitable arrival of the boarding party.
The boarding party moved with practiced efficiency, their boots echoing on the Perfect Stranger’s deck plates. Captain Milcoat met them at the bridge, a picture of Imperial Navy formality—crisp uniform, ramrod posture, and an expression that suggested he’d faced down worse than a handful of local system security officers.
“You are welcome aboard,” Milcoat stated, his voice clipped and precise. “I am Captain Johtar Milcoat, commanding this vessel. This is Engineer Jela Deenon and Security Officer Korbin Parry.” He gestured to each in turn. “We are tasked with the transfer of the Perfect Stranger by direct order of the Imperial Navy. We carry documentation confirming our authority.”
He produced a datapad, displaying a series of encrypted manifests and directives—the kind that carried weight within Imperial circles. The officials scrutinized the documents, their initial suspicion evident in their posture. Jela stood silently beside Milcoat, her hands clasped behind her back, while Parry remained a stoic presence near the doorway, his hand resting casually on the sidearm at his hip.
As they reviewed the papers, the officers’ demeanor shifted subtly. The harshness faded from their faces, replaced by something closer to professional acknowledgement. “The paperwork checks out,” one of them finally conceded, his voice losing some of its earlier edge. “Everything appears to be in order.”
Milcoat continued without missing a beat. “Furthermore,” he added, “we apprehended an individual operating as a spy for Neubayern while en route here. We believe this man poses a threat to Colchis and we wish to consign him to your authorities.” He paused, allowing the statement to hang in the air. “We have him secured below decks, awaiting transfer.”
The official from Colchis frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. “We’re not taking possession of this… spy,” he stated, carefully choosing his words. “But the Perfect Stranger will need to proceed to Colchis Downport for processing. Standard procedure.” He paused, seemingly wanting to avoid further complications. “I’ll inform my supervisor of this situation.”
Milcoat nodded curtly, accepting the offer without argument. “Understood,” he replied, his voice devoid of inflection. The boarding crew began their departure from the Perfect Stranger, but a quick scan revealed that their weapon systems remained active—a silent declaration of continued security measures. It was a subtle display, but one that underscored the precariousness of their situation and the inherent dangers of operating within this sector.
As the Colchis officials led the way towards Downport, the Perfect Stranger followed at a respectful distance, its sensors diligently scanning the surroundings.
To be continued…
Thank you very much for reading and I hope you had fun! As I said, from now on everything is a complete Sandbox where Mythic GME and the oracle takes the lead. I have no clue why the official from Colchis isn’t interrested in such a valuable gift in form of a foreign spy to get the upper hand in this power play. Probably he is an idiot… or there is something else going on?!
Let’s find out next week!
