Greetings Travellers and welcome to the third part of Islands in the Rift, my solo playthrough of the Traveller adventure in the Great Rift series.
In the last part the crew of the Perfect Stranger got intercepted by local authorities in the Colchis system. They have benn told to obey and follow without any explanation. Let’s see if Captain Milcoat will get some further information about their treatment in this damn system.
Scene #11 – Would you please follow us? Now!
The Perfect Stranger dutifully followed the instructions of the Colchis official, its engines humming a low thrum as it navigated the approach vectors towards Colchis Downport. Milcoat had no choice but to comply; arguing would only escalate matters and potentially jeopardize their mission. The order was clear: follow procedure, maintain a low profile, and hope for the best. He ran another diagnostic on the ship’s systems, confirming that all weapons were offline, though sensors remained active, diligently recording everything around them.
The Downport itself was a sprawling complex of reinforced concrete and utilitarian metal structures, radiating an air of grim efficiency. As the Perfect Stranger settled onto its designated landing pad, the ship’s internal comm system crackled to life with a curt announcement: “Welcome to Colchis Downport. All passengers are required to disembark immediately.”
Milcoat gave the order, and he, Jela Deenon, and Korbin Parry were off the ramp. The air was thick with the scent of recycled water and industrial lubricants – a distinctly unpleasant combination. They expected a cursory greeting, perhaps a brief security check, but what awaited them was far more imposing.
A dozen figures stood arrayed before them, clad in the dark grey uniforms of Colchis Security Forces. Each carried a pulse rifle, its muzzle glinting ominously under the harsh artificial lighting of the Downport. Their faces were impassive, their expressions betraying nothing. The sheer number of armed personnel was a clear message: they weren’t welcome guests.
“Captain Milcoat,” one of the officers, a man with a severe haircut and cold eyes, addressed him without preamble. “You are in compliance with local regulations. Your ship will be inspected.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over them all before settling back on Milcoat. “Your engineer, Jela Deenon, will accompany me for further questioning.”
The statement hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Milcoat’s hand instinctively tightened around the grip of his sidearm, though he resisted the urge to draw it. “Excuse me? What is the nature of this ‘further questioning’?”
Before Milcoat could press the issue, the officer gestured sharply towards Jela. “You,” he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. “Come with us.”
Jela looked at Milcoat, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. Her eyes widened slightly as she registered the situation – the sudden separation, the armed escort, the lack of explanation. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, the officer’s grip on her arm tightened, urging her forward.
Milcoat felt a surge of anger, quickly suppressed. This was not how things were supposed to go. “Wait,” he said, his voice carefully controlled. “This is highly irregular. We have Imperial clearance for this mission. Where are you taking her?”
The officer didn’t even bother to acknowledge Milcoat’s question. He simply motioned towards two other security personnel who stepped forward to flank Jela. They began moving down a corridor, and she hesitated for a moment longer, glancing back at Milcoat with a look of bewildered uncertainty before reluctantly following.
Korbin Parry, his ex-marine training kicking in, moved to stand beside Milcoat, his hand hovering near the weapon concealed beneath his jacket. “What in the blazes is going on here?” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.
Milcoat turned to face the remaining security personnel, attempting to maintain a semblance of calm despite the rising tension. “I demand an explanation,” he stated firmly. “Where are you taking my engineer? We have Imperial orders.”
The officer who had initially addressed them remained impassive. “You will receive all necessary information at the local Security Office,” he replied curtly, his tone suggesting that any further questioning would be met with resistance. He offered a gesture of dismissal. “You are free to proceed there now.”
“‘Free’?” Milcoat scoffed, his voice laced with thinly veiled frustration. “We demand to know where you’re taking her now.”
The officer’s expression didn’t change. “Your concerns will be addressed at the Security Office,” he repeated, a hint of steel entering his tone. “Do not impede our progress.” He gestured towards two more guards who blocked their path forward. “You may follow, but do not interfere.”
Milcoat exchanged a look with Parry. They were being deliberately stonewalled. This wasn’t just irregular; it felt like a deliberate attempt to intimidate and control them. The situation was rapidly deteriorating from an unpleasant formality into something far more concerning.
“Fine,” Milcoat said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. “We will proceed to the Security Office. But understand this: if anything happens to Ms. Deenon, responsibility for that rests squarely on your shoulders.” He knew it was a hollow threat; they were outnumbered and outgunned. Still, he needed to make it clear that he wasn’t going down without a fight – or at least, without making his displeasure known.
Parry nodded grimly, keeping a watchful eye on the guards who had blocked their path. The air crackled with tension as Milcoat and Parry began to follow the security personnel, each step echoing ominously in the sterile corridors of Colchis Downport. They were being led into the unknown, with no guarantee that they would emerge unscathed – or with all three members of their team intact. The mission to deliver the intel about the islands subsectors felt a long way away now, overshadowed by the immediate and unsettling reality of their current predicament.
The oppressive atmosphere of the Downport seemed to intensify as they were marched through its labyrinthine corridors, each turn revealing more identical grey walls and impassive security personnel. Milcoat couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being deliberately herded, treated like livestock rather than representatives of the Imperial Navy. He scanned their surroundings, searching for any sign of escape or opportunity, but found nothing beyond the relentless presence of armed guards. Parry remained silent, his eyes constantly scanning the environment, assessing potential threats and escape routes. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic clack of boots on the polished floor and the occasional crackle of static from their comm units.
Finally, they reached a large, imposing building marked with the stark insignia of the Colchis Security Force. It was a fortress of concrete and steel, radiating an aura of cold authority. The officer who had led them here gestured towards the entrance. “The Security Office is this way,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. “You will wait here until you are instructed.”
Milcoat exchanged another glance with Parry. They were trapped, at least for now. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on him – the safety of his crew, the success of their mission, and the integrity of the Imperial Navy all rested on his shoulders.
He took a deep breath, attempting to regain control of his emotions. “We will wait,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “But we expect a full explanation for this… unusual treatment.” He knew it was unlikely to be forthcoming, but he needed to make his position clear. The silence that followed was heavy and expectant, punctuated only by the distant hum of machinery and the ever-present feeling that they were being watched.
Scene #12 – Baseless accusations
The interrogation room was sterile, oppressive in its uniformity. Grey walls, grey chairs, grey lighting – it felt designed to leach away any semblance of individuality or defiance. Captain Milcoat sat rigidly across from a man who could only be described as impeccably bureaucratic. The security officer, whose nameplate identified him as Councilor Valerius Thorne, was the picture of detached authority: perfectly tailored uniform, precisely combed hair, and an expression that suggested he’d spent years perfecting the art of conveying nothing at all.
“I demand to speak with a representative of the local government,” Milcoat stated, his voice carefully controlled despite the simmering frustration threatening to boil over. “And I require immediate contact with the Imperial Navy liaison stationed here.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “This is an unacceptable situation.”
Thorne’s response was delivered without a flicker of emotion. A slow, almost imperceptible grin stretched across his face. “Your demands are denied,” he stated flatly.
Thorne leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly as he settled deeper into it. He picked up a data device from the desk and began to manipulate its controls with an almost casual indifference. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the hum of the room’s ventilation system. Finally, Thorne looked up, holding the device aloft.
“The government of Colchis believes Ms. Deenon is implicated in several acts of sabotage within this system,” he announced, his voice devoid of inflection. “Damage to power generators, disruption of cargo shipments, and interference with local communication networks.” He paused for effect. “All events that occurred within the last six months.”
Milcoat let out a short, ironic laugh. It was a sound laced with disbelief and anger. “Baseless accusations,” he declared. “Absolutely baseless. Ms. Deenon, along with myself and Mr. Parry, have never been on Colchis before.”
Thorne didn’t react to Milcoat’s outburst. He simply continued to stare at him, his expression unchanging. “Colchis maintains a cooperative agreement with the government of Amondiage regarding shared intelligence,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The most recent database update produced information directly connecting Ms. Deenon to these events.”
Milcoat felt a cold knot forming in his stomach. He hadn’t expected this – not that they were being detained, but the sheer audacity of the accusation and the apparent ease with which Thorne presented it. “What kind of ‘information’?” he demanded, his voice tight. “Circumstantial evidence? Fabricated data?”
Thorne tapped a few more commands into the device. A holographic projection flickered to life above the desk, displaying a series of schematics and data logs. Milcoat strained to make sense of it all – complex diagrams of power grids, encrypted communication records, and timestamps that seemed to correlate with the sabotage events Thorne had mentioned.
“According to this data,” Thorne continued, his voice monotone, “Ms. Deenon’s personal comm unit registered proximity to several locations where incidents occurred. Furthermore, her digital signature appears on a series of unauthorized access attempts into Colchis’ central power grid.”
Parry, who had been silently observing the exchange, let out a low growl. “Digital signatures can be spoofed,” he muttered. “Anyone with basic skills could plant false data.”
Thorne ignored Parry’s comment. He turned his attention back to Milcoat. “The evidence is compelling,” he stated. “Colchis has a long-standing policy of protecting its infrastructure and ensuring the stability of this system.”
“Stability?” Milcoat scoffed. “You’re accusing an Imperial Navy officer and her crew of sabotage, based on what appears to be manipulated data, all in the name of ‘stability’? This is absurd.” He leaned forward, his voice low but intense. “We are here under orders from the Imperium.”
Thorne’s expression remained impassive. “The Imperium has its own interests,” he replied smoothly. “And Colchis is not obligated to facilitate them, especially if it means jeopardizing our security.” He paused, then added with a hint of condescension, “Your presence here, and the contents of your ship, are being assessed.”
Milcoat felt a surge of anger, but he fought to keep his voice level. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned. “Do you understand what you’re doing? Interfering with an Imperial Navy mission is not something to be taken lightly.”
Thorne simply shrugged. “Colchis operates under its own laws and priorities,” he said, dismissing Milcoat’s warning with a wave of his hand. “Until we can verify the integrity of your claims and determine Ms. Deenon’s involvement, she will remain in custody.” He paused again, then added, “And you are advised to cooperate.”
The air in the room felt thick with tension. Milcoat knew he was facing a situation far more complex than he initially anticipated. The accusations against Jela were clearly designed to obstruct their mission, but the question remained: who stood to gain from it? And how deeply entangled were they within Colchis’s web of political intrigue? He glanced at Parry, whose face was grim and set in a hard line. This wasn’t just about saving Jela anymore; it felt like something far larger was at play.
Scene #13 – Enjoy your freedom, as long as you can
The directive was clear, infuriatingly so. Milcoat and Parry were confined. Not imprisoned exactly – the term felt too dramatic for the situation – but restricted. They were permitted to remain on Colchis, to move freely within its urban sprawl, but any attempt to leave the planet would be met with… unpleasantness, according to the terse message relayed by a nervous Imperial liaison officer. Every step they took, every conversation they had, was under scrutiny. The implicit threat hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating as Colchis’s tainted atmosphere.
“They want us here,” Parry muttered, his voice low and gravelly. He scanned the bustling crowds of downport with a practiced eye, the remnants of his marine training evident in his posture and movements. “Not to help, obviously. Just… contained.” Milcoat grunted in agreement. The situation felt like a carefully constructed trap. Jela’s detention was the obvious bait, but he suspected something far larger was at play.
“Let’s just get to the Imperial representative,” Milcoat said, his voice tight. “Show them we’re playing by their rules, at least for now.”
The journey through Colchis’s urban landscape was an exercise in restraint. The city itself was a sprawling network of waterways and interconnected buildings, reflecting the historical reliance on water transport detailed in the files he’d reviewed. It felt… overmanaged. A sense of bureaucratic stagnation permeated everything, from the endless lines of automated cargo carriers to the weary expressions of the citizens they passed.
They found the office of the Imperial representative – a surprisingly modest affair tucked away amongst a cluster of trade houses and shipping agencies. The building was functional rather than impressive, reflecting Colchis’s reputation as a world of mediocrities, though Milcoat knew that facade hid a complex political landscape.
Inside, the official, a man named Jordan Henderson, sat behind a polished desk piled high with datapads and reports. He was older than Milcoat had anticipated, his face etched with lines of weariness and cynicism. His gaze was sharp, assessing them from the moment they entered.
Milcoat presented their orders – the official transfer directive for the Perfect Stranger to the Zuflucht system. Henderson took the datapad, scanned it briefly, then looked up at Milcoat with an expression that was difficult to decipher.
They continued their conversation without explicitly mentioning the sensitive data the Perfect Stranger carried – the intelligence reports detailing the political instability and simmering tensions within the Islands Cluster.
“The transfer to Zuflucht is critical,” Milcoat stated carefully. “It’s vital for maintaining stability in that sector.” He deliberately avoided any mention of why it was vital.
Henderson steepled his fingers, a gesture of contemplation. “Colchis has its own concerns regarding stability,” he replied, his voice measured.
“The Imperium’s interests align with regional stability,” Milcoat countered, carefully choosing his words. “This transfer is part of that effort.”
Henderson sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years spent navigating bureaucratic labyrinths. “Authorization means little in these parts,” he said dryly. “Colchis operates under its own… peculiarities.” He paused again, then added with a hint of resignation, “I will attempt to mediate on your behalf. I can speak to the planetary governor and explain the situation. Perhaps we can reach an agreement regarding Ms. Deenon’s release.”
Milcoat felt a flicker of hope, though he remained cautious. Henderson’s offer was a lifeline, but it also highlighted the precariousness of their position. They were at the mercy of Colchis’s political machinations, pawns in a game they didn’t fully understand.
“We appreciate your assistance,” Milcoat said, keeping his tone neutral. “The sooner we can resolve this, the better.”
Henderson nodded slowly. “I will do what I can,” he promised. “But be warned: Colchis is not easily swayed.” He looked at them both with a knowing expression. “And every step you take here will be watched.”
Scene #14 – Meanwhile on Sochi One
The tremor hit first. A low rumble that vibrated through the skeletal framework of the Sochi One gas-skimming facility, followed by a sharp, earsplitting detonation. Then came the cascade – a hail of debris and twisted metal as automated shuttles, their routines disrupted, plummeted from the upper atmosphere towards the refineries below.
“Report!” barked a voice over the comms system, crackling with static. It was Vitalij Oleksandrovych Sereda, the facility supervisor, his usual calm demeanor clearly frayed. “What in the Void just happened?”
The response was immediate and grim. “Multiple shuttle failures, Supervisor! Impact confirmed on Refinery Delta-7 and Echo-9. We’re seeing…significant damage.” A pause, then a choked gasp. “Casualties reported. At least ten confirmed dead, dozens injured. Medics are overwhelmed.”
Sereda swore under his breath – a string of curses that would have made a dockworker blush. The automated shuttles were supposed to be foolproof, their routines meticulously programmed for decades. A malfunction on this scale was unheard of. He ran a diagnostic check himself, the data scrolling across his screen in a chaotic jumble of error codes.
“Seal off Delta-7 and Echo-9,” he ordered, his voice tight with urgency. “Activate emergency protocols. And get me a full report on those shuttle logs – I want to know exactly what went wrong.” The air hung thick with the smell of burning petrochemical-rich gases and fear as the facility struggled to contain the chaos.
Scene #15 – Assassins!
The rain slicked the streets, a greasy sheen reflecting the neon signs advertising questionable entertainment and even more questionable food. Captain Johtar Milcoat pushed his way through the throng of bodies – spacers fresh off the transport ships, hustlers trying to make a quick credit, and locals just trying to survive another day in this festering corner of the Islands Subsector. Beside him, Korbin Parry scanned the crowd with the practiced eye of an ex-Marine, his hand never far from the pulse rifle strapped across his back. They were headed for the Stardust Rest, a hotel known more for its questionable hygiene than its comfort, but it was cheap and close to the transit hub.
“Smells like desperation and recycled synth-noodles in here,” Parry muttered, pulling his collar higher against the damp air. Milcoat grunted in agreement without pausing. “Just get us to the room, Parry. I need a hot shower and something that isn’t vaguely green.”
“Captain,” Parry said quietly, his voice low enough not to draw attention. “We’re being followed by a woman some meters behind us.” Milcoat didn’t bother to look back. He’d noticed the persistent presence himself, a subtle shift in the flow of the crowd that indicated someone was deliberately maintaining a distance but staying within visual range.
The sudden crack of a blaster shot shattered the uneasy quiet of the square. A searing pain erupted in the air, followed by a sharp cry. The crowd surged back, a wave of panicked limbs and shouted curses. Milcoat spun around just as the woman stumbled, clutching her arm. She was pale, with short-cropped dark hair and eyes that darted nervously between the dispersing crowd and the two men.
“Lucky graze,” Milcoat said, his voice calm despite the adrenaline coursing through him. He moved quickly, reaching the woman before anyone else could. Her arm bled sluggishly from a superficial wound. “Let me see.”
He examined her injury, confirming it was indeed just a graze. “It’s alright,” he assured her, though his eyes were already scanning the square for any sign of the shooter. “Just a bit of luck.”
The woman nodded, her face tight with suppressed anger and confusion. She clenched her teeth, fighting back a grimace. Milcoat gently helped her to her feet. “We need to move,” he said, steering her towards a narrow alleyway choked with overflowing bins and discarded crates. “Let’s find somewhere more private.”
Parry followed them into the alley, his blaster held at the ready. He scanned the square again, trying to pinpoint the origin of the shot. “North-east direction,” he reported quietly. “Somewhere up on that raised platform overlooking the square. Couldn’t make out a face, too many bodies in the way.”
He paused, then added, “The shot wasn’t meant for you or me, Captain. It was aimed squarely at her.”
Milcoat grunted, his attention focused on the woman he had led into the shadows of the alley. She turned to him, a puzzled expression etched on her face. “My name is Fabienne Bain, Colchis Secret Service” she said, her voice tight with controlled emotion. “And I am… quite perplexed.”
She looked from Milcoat to Parry and back again. “Someone clearly tried to kill me,” she deduced, her eyes narrowing. “To make it look like you two were responsible.”
Milcoat raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “A convenient frame-up,” he said dryly. “And who do you think would want to frame us for attempted assassination of an local agent?”
Bain considered the question for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the grimy alley walls. “Someone who wants to see the Perfect Stranger and its crew stay lost,” she replied finally. She paused again, then added with a touch of bitterness, “And someone who clearly has a very poor aim.”
Scene #16 – A troubling development
Milcoat and Parry carefully maneuvered Fabienne Bain through the crowded corridors of the local hospital. The facility was a grim affair, all chipped plascrete and flickering fluorescent lights, reflecting the general state of decay prevalent throughout the Islands Subsector. Bain, pale but conscious, leaned heavily on Parry’s arm as they reached a small, private room secured for her use.
“Get her settled,” Milcoat instructed, his voice low and clipped. “And keep an eye on her. I don’t trust this place any further than I can throw it.”
Parry nodded, efficiently assisting Bain into the room and ensuring she was as comfortable as possible before returning to Milcoat. They waited a few minutes, the silence punctuated only by the rhythmic drip of water from a leaky pipe somewhere nearby. Then, the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor, followed by the sharp click of security seals disengaging.
A contingent of Colchis security officers, clad in drab grey uniforms and carrying pulse rifles, filled the doorway. Leading them was Councilor Valerius Thorne. He surveyed the scene with an expression that suggested he found the entire situation deeply inconvenient.
“Captain Milcoat,” Thorne acknowledged, his voice devoid of warmth. “Mr. Parry. I received word of… an incident.”
Fabienne Bain spoke first, her voice still weak but gaining strength. “Councilor Thorne, these men saved my life. Someone attempted to assassinate me.” She gestured towards Milcoat and Parry with a grateful nod. “They intervened before another shot could be fatal.”
Thorne’s expression didn’t change. “An unfortunate occurrence,” he stated flatly. “And you believe this was an attempt to frame them?”
“That is my assumption,” Bain confirmed, her gaze fixed on Thorne. “The assassin clearly intended for it to appear as though Captain Milcoat and Mr. Parry were responsible.”
Parry stepped forward, his voice a low rumble. “If the graze wound is analyzed, the energy signature will likely match an Imperial blaster. A standard issue weapon.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “Someone is attempting to make it look like we were involved.”
Thorne’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. It wasn’t quite friendliness, more an acknowledgement of a piece of information that shifted the situation. He didn’t offer any immediate response to Parry’s observation, instead focusing on Milcoat and Bain.
“A troubling development,” Thorne finally conceded, his tone measured and precise. He turned his gaze back to Milcoat and Parry, his expression remaining impassive. “I expect both of you in my office tomorrow morning at precisely 0800 hours. Do not be late.”
He gave a curt nod to the security officers, who moved forward to escort Bain further into the room. Thorne waited for a moment longer, his eyes lingering on Milcoat with an unsettling intensity before turning and departing.
To be continued…
That’s it for today! I hope you liked the adventure so far and I would be happy to welcome you next week to Islands in the Rift #4.
