Rogue Trader - The Passage

[Injerian Praetus II]

The Astronomicon was like on of the promethium lamps that hung from the ornate posts surrounding Palais du Praetus. As a child, and then later as a young adult, Injerian Praetus would stare at them from his seventh story bedroom window, seeing them shine through the fog and ash-storms. His own home - although it was never his home - was cold and empty, but the world outside was fascinating and filled with adventure. So the lamps became symbols of the world he preferred. When he escaped from the repressive days and nights, Praetus would sit in the stone gardens and feel comforted by the swaying, golden lights.

Despite the storm, the Emperor's beacon shone strong, and the senior navigator focused on it with all his will. His body bent forward, and hunched, with sweat dripping down his furrowed brow and into his three eyes, he looked into the warp - drowning in its alien eddies and currents, but always watching His light. The one thing that would guide them to safety from the oppressive hate of the storm.

Injerian Praetus fled the Palais du Praetus when told that his father was going to accelerate the navigator gene development - which would birth his third eye and begin the inexorable slide into full-body mutation.

His father, Novator Excellian Praetus IV, found him asleep, arms wrapped around one of the promethium lampposts. A smile on his face. The last smile his father ever saw.

[Garrius Amphael]

Garrius glimpsed at the note briefly. It made enough sense. And after a long day on the bridge he felt the need for rest. He made sure that Zarkov was well settled in the bridge before making his way towards his lodgings.

Walking out of the bridge, he came across a small boy, no more than nine years of age, standing barefoot in the passageway just beyond the bridge. One of the messenger boys. Garrius stopped for a moment, dropping down to his haunches to talk to him.

"Hello Boy, what is your name?" He smiled.

"Sarrium, Lord. Sarrium Gol." He wiped his nose on his sleeve. The boy, clearly from the lower decks, was one of those children who's nose was in a constant steady flow. Garrius found himself instinctively reaching for a handkerchief and handing it to him.

"How are you doing Sarrium? My staff been treating you well?" The boy silently nodded. "This is good. Your doing good Sarrium. Every person on this ship owes you thanks. Without you we would all be deaf. Keep up the good work." He ruffled the boys hair. He could tell the storm scared the boy some, but he watched the boy smile and bravely puff out his chest, clearly happy to be so important. Garrius grabbed the attention of a passing service staff member. "See to it that this boys family receive a token of my appreciation when this is over. I'm sure the boy here can tell you what they need. If you have any trouble getting clearance or whatever, come to me."

Carrying on, Garrius made his way to his residence. He smiled at the young girl who stood awaiting messages at his front door as he entered. Walking up to his study, he passed LeVatch. "Wake me in four hours, or if anything requires my immediate attention. Oh, and make sure good food and drink is taken to the messenger girl outside. Give her my thanks and tell her the vessel is grateful for her service."

Stepping into his study, he snapped shut the locking latch. Walking behind his desk, he thumped down into the tall backed leather chair and sighed with relief. So he could finally relax. He sighed as he undid his upper buttons of his uniform. It had been quite an interesting day. And still would be, for several more no doubt. He reached down to his bottom draw, opening it and unlocking the box inside with his seal ring. It had been an exciting day indeed. He took hold of the familiar object inside the box and withdrew it.

In many ways he felt the storm was his chance to prove himself. Prove the ship. He admired the relic he had pulled from his draw. One of his most prized. He could not help but get excited at the prospect that outrunning this storm would get a mention in the family texts, that he would be remembered. Taking hold of the pistol grip, he sighted the ancient weapon towards a painting on his wall. Like many a time before he wished the old thing was operational, just to see what it felt like to fire. Instead he made do with the light weight and smooth finish of the materials, oddly warm to the touch.

He sighed and placed it back in the lock box, alongside his other treasured items, before making his way to his quarters.

After sometime laying in bed, Garrius Amphael managed to fall asleep

[Lt. Commander Zarkov]

Lt. Commander Zarkov re-enters the bridge, his sleep having been constantly disturbed by both the tremors in the ship, and a sense of something shaking his mind. The First Officer relieves Lord-Captain Garrius Amphael of his station...Other crewmen shortly arrive to relieve most of the officers on the bridge. Tyor refuses to stand down from his shift, stating that he will not have the Invictus steered by a second-class helmsman until they are free of the storm.

Zarkov awoke with a start, his room suddenly unfamiliar and his eyes unfocused. He was soaked in sweat, the cold, clammy and odourless sweat of nightmare. Vision failing, he rolled off his bed and sunk to the floor, reciting an old prayer he had first learned as a child aboard the Infinite Fury.

"O Eternal Emperor,
Who alone watches us,
And rules the tides and storms,
Hear this prayer.
Be compassionate to your servants,
Preserve us from the perils of the warp,
That we may be safeguarded back to Your domain."

His tone then changed, lowering in pitch and becoming more reverent.

"Help me to defeat the powers of ruin, the xeno,
Ignorance will be my strength, my shield.
Omnissiah, help me to purge the unclean in all its forms,
Material, incorporeal and within my very soul."

Still shaken from the strange dream, Darius got to his feet and put on his uniform. He was a strong believer in omens and the importance of visions, and the dream disturbed him greatly. He resolved to consult Detronimus about it at the earliest opportunity.

He headed to the bridge, the halls of the ship still in chaos.

[Montresor]

He headed to the bridge, the halls of the ship still in chaos.

With Garrius retired to his mansion, and Zarkov in command of the bridge, there is a change in the demeanour of the staff still present. No longer under the watchful eye of the new Rogue Trader, whose reputation has slowly begun to circulate amongst the junior officers, the crew act with less deliberate measure.

Yet, Zarkov's presence, so often felt amongst the crew for good effect, now heightens the nerves of those in the command section. Alike the Senior Navigator, the Lt. Commander has an evil reputation regarding serious crises on the frigate. Nothing is said, but the shadow of the Vengeance looms in the minds of the senior staff, and no less in the Lt. Commander's.

Navigator Karis, having relieved Praetus, works with quiet focus. Relaying coordinates via messenger to Tyor, the Helmsman is able to follow directions and steer amidst the dangerous Warp currents, now churning about the Fields with fury.

Two hours into Zarkov's shift, and the Lt. Commander is accosted by one of the messenger girls who have been busy keeping the Invictus communicating on most decks.

'Sir . . . Amphael, sir' it is obvious the girl does not know who Zarkov is. Her face is thick with the oily grime found most often near the Life Sustainers. 'Amphael . . . the priest, sir . . . 'e sent me t' gets you an' t' send folks. 'e sez a crowd is growin' outside the chapel, Amphael, an' 'e . . . umm,' the girl looks a little lost, stressed that she might get the message wrong. ''e wants it ummm dis....dis...ummm 'pursed'.

With her message stated, the girl does not even wait for an answer, quickly running off the bridge, only pausing before she leaves to gape in wonder at the stain of the Warp cast upon the Fields.

Once the girl leaves, Zarkov finds himself confronted with Lieutenant Vehle. Vehle looks over Zarkov with concentration before speaking. The First Officer cannot tell if the expression is meant as an affront or not.

'Darius,' Vehle begins, deliberately uswing the officer's first name. 'Wonderful weather. Listen - I'm through playing nursemaid to these kids while my comms tower is in jeapordy. My officers are more than capable of directing the messengers. I need to get to the Auger Array and see what I can do to help. Garrius can go to the Storm for all I care - I'd rather see what you think. Can I go to the Auger Array or not?'

[Montresor]

On the hull of the ship, tech priests crawl about the crippled Auger Array, tethered to the interior of the frigate by thick cords. A dozen of the brethren of the Machine God toil away at the numerous cracks, tears, and faults inflicted by the storm.

The explorator Malachi directs his brothers, while working upon the damage himself. Though he feels the fatigue weighing heavily upon him - his flesh and musculature grating against his true flesh, his cyber mantle. Work is slow, and the tech priest has exhausted more than half of his oxygen supply. Though four hours of work could be reasonably carried on with the rest of the supply, it is unlikely his own limbs will stand the constant strain.

The constant tremours from the maelstrom are making repairs dangerous. On more than one occassion, an enginseer has been knocked free of the hull, rescued only by their saviour lines, and the quick wits of their brothers. Adding to these dangers, the Omnissiah's faithful can feel the predations of an unfathomable shadow upon their mind, a shadow which seems to lash at their sanity as the storm lashes at the Geller Fields.

[Malachi has succeeded in patching up one more major rupture in the Array. Many hours of work still wait, though the pace is steady]

[Malachi]

Malachi sighs heavily. He then signals all the tech-priests to cease work and meet him within the safety of the ship so he may address them.

"We all need rest, but some more than others. I, and four others will remain and work steadily on the repairs. The others will take a break."

"Split into two even groups. Those who have had their work affected most by their fatigue will be Team 0, and the others will go on Team 1. My team will keep working, while break and work cycles balance out."

He begins to sketch roughly on a dataslate, demonstrating the work/break cycle for the next couple of days:

Each letter in each bracket represents 4 hours of work time. R = Rest periods, and W = Work periods.



"Any questions?"

[Montresor]

The hab decks are still busy with activity, despite most of the on-duty ratings taking their action decks elsewhere. Men and women sit in darkness on their bunks; eyes staring into the cold halls of the Invictus. Some are curled in the corners of their beds, wrapping coarse blankets about themselves - meagre protection from the wrath of the Passage.

The ratings mopve about with quiet fright, aware that at any moment the vessel could be torn asunder. Others huddle in groups, and story tellers pronounce tales of the Emperor's Light, and of the nobility of the saints.

Drak-Kung walks down the halls, through metal stair-wells, and along quiet access points. Now and again he sees a messenger boy or girl dash by him. Two armsmen follow their chief silently.

The noise of a commotion attracts the attention of the Arch-Militant. In a side room off a major hab-deck, a group of men and women discuss in agitated tones about the peril the Invictus is in. 'This new Rogue Trader'll kill us all,' one croaking woman's voice declares.

'The Astronomicon'll guide us'.

'What o' the vox? Maybe it's dead a'cause we all are too?'

The chatter goes back and forth until the small crowd of a score of ratings become aware of the Arch-Militant. The room is ill-lit, and their faces gleam from pits of darkness.

'Chief Kung . . .' a familiar voice emerges from the crowd, and broad man in an oil-stained set of work clothes steps forward. Drak-Kung does not know the man's name, but is aware that he has seen him agitating before. 'Fortuitous you should come now. We were discussing the plight of the Invictus. This storm is taking its toll on the ratings - working at our minds. We've heard all sorts of disturbances are goin' on in the Lower Decks. We need to get a purge going, before those lowers surge up here and kill us all. Their minds won't take this stress - best to vent them into the Warp before it's too late. We could use your help'.

[Montresor]

"Any questions?"

The enginseers study the schedule, and make notes according to their group. None voice their objections. Mintues later, Malachi and his team are refitting their Void-suits and returning to their hazardous task.

[I will hold off from any more tests for repairs until more time has passed. For now, Malachi will continue according to his roster]

[Lt. Commander Zarkov]

'Sir . . . Amphael, sir' it is obvious the girl does not know who Zarkov is. Her face is thick with the oily grime found most often near the Life Sustainers. 'Amphael . . . the priest, sir . . . 'e sent me t' gets you an' t' send folks. 'e sez a crowd is growin' outside the chapel, Amphael, an' 'e . . . umm,' the girl looks a little lost, stressed that she might get the message wrong. ''e wants it ummm dis....dis...ummm 'pursed'.

With her message stated, the girl does not even wait for an answer, quickly running off the bridge, only pausing before she leaves to gape in wonder at the stain of the Warp cast upon the Fields.

Zarkov watched the young girl leave, then beckoned the nearest Officer. "Ensign, take a few of the bridge security and see what you can do about the situation at the chapel. It appears there is a crowd down there causing a disturbance. And no unnecessary violence, please. It would not do to have blood at the steps of our most holy shrine." Zarkov looked to the men, appraising the security staff's cold weapons and colder faces. "With that in mind, perhaps the Seneschal Majoris should join you. Report to her on the situation." Zarkov waved them away with their new orders. He managed a grim smile. He was beginning to slip back into the groove of command, and it felt right, like putting on a weathered old pair of combat boots. His mind was starting to settle, finally.

Once the girl leaves, Zarkov finds himself confronted with Lieutenant Vehle. Vehle looks over Zarkov with concentration before speaking. The First Officer cannot tell if the expression is meant as an affront or not.

'Darius,' Vehle begins, deliberately using the officer's first name. 'Wonderful weather. Listen - I'm through playing nursemaid to these kids while my comms tower is in jeapordy. My officers are more than capable of directing the messengers. I need to get to the Auger Array and see what I can do to help. Garrius can go to the Storm for all I care - I'd rather see what you think. Can I go to the Auger Array or not?'

As Vehle spoke Zarkov was hit by a wave of nausea. The feeling of deja vu was sickening, as if some fearful rift in reality had just opened beneath his feet.

"Wonderful weather, Darius..."

Images of a massive, blasphemous aquila flashed in his mind, along with glimpses of other, more disturbing visages. He blocked the images out of his mind. His vision swam, and Zarkov had to muster all his willpower to keep his discomfort from showing to Vehle and the rest of the crew. His pupils dilated and he began to sweat, but years of military conditioning meant that his facial features remained rather blank.

[ooc]^GMs discretion on this, personally i think this is nearly disturbing enough to the character to warrant a sanity check.[/ooc]

When he does speak, it is in a stilted monotone.

"The Lord-Captain ordered you to be his personal messenger, did he not? Well, since he is indisposed, and the Auger array doubly so, I suppose you have no real purpose here." He paused, absorbing Vehle's glare as he made his decision. "Very well, you may go, much good may it do you. I expect to see you back here in six hours however, ready to resume your previous duties to Garrius."

Zarkov knew the Tech-priests were doing all they could, and doubted Vehle would be of any real help. However, her words had badly shaken him, and Zarkov was glad to see the back of her. He found himself wishing he could consult Detronimus now, but the Lord-Captain needed him on the bridge. Besides, a warp storm was not the time for personal soul-searching. Zarkov imagined the preacher had his hands full as it was. Shaking his head, he returned to the business of command. Dire images still swam in his mind, full of portent and a creeping foreboding. Vehle's words; and those of the false Mechanicus, repeated over and over in his mind as he tried to concentrate.

"Darius, wonderful weather."


"Wonderful weather, Darius..."

[Drak-Kung]

"Vent them into the Warp? Consign their souls to the Chaos of the Immaterium. Why? What would...possess...you to suggest such a thing? The darkling nightmares of this realm batten upon human souls, and you would willingly feed them men who have done no wrong save be birthed as your lessers as you see such things. I think you may have forsaken the Emperor's Light." Turning to nearest messenger, "Go to the Chapel, I believe an investigation into heresy and possible demon-service is needed here." Carefully NOT looking at the assembled near-mob, "My attention is focused upon this one...I am not likely to remember clearly anyone who leaves in the next 30 seconds...but then I will be far more alert to my surroundings."

[Andrea Chan-Gauthier]

"Ensign, take a few of the bridge security and see what you can do about the situation at the chapel. It appears there is a crowd down there causing a disturbance. And no unnecessary violence, please. It would not do to have blood at the steps of our most holy shrine." Zarkov looked to the men, appraising the security staff's cold weapons and colder faces. "With that in mind, perhaps the Seneschal Majoris should join you. Report to her on the situation."

The Ensign and three security men made their way down to the hab areas, looking for Lady Andrea Chan-Gauthier. They found her talking with one of the senior Immortals from the lower deck, though that one quickly moved away when he saw the bridge security force and their cold faces.

"Lady Seneschal." said the man, with a salute.

Andrea watches the Immortal stroll away, then turns to the new people. "It's not necessary to salute me, Ensign; I'm not in the chain of command. But I will choose to take that as your way of being respectful, and thank you accordingly. Now, what may I do for you?"

"Ma'am, the Lt. Commander asked me to fetch you. He's received a request from the priest at the ship's chapel. It seems there's some kind of gathering happening there, and the priest wishes it dispursed. Lt. Commander Zarkov thought you might be able to accomplish this... ah... 'without bloodshed', I believe were his words."

Andrea glanced at the three security personel behind him, "Yes. I can see why he might be concerned. Still, the ratings are just scared and perhaps are sensing some small bit of the Immaterium encroaching on their minds. It's only natural, and completely correct, that they should turn to the Emperor and his strength to help them through this. We should do our best to help them follow the right path, wouldn't you say Ensign?"

Not really waiting for an answer, she turns and begins making her way towards the ship's chapel. "Come along."

[Montresor]

[ooc]^GMs discretion on this, personally i think this is nearly disturbing enough to the character to warrant a sanity check.[/ooc]

[I agree, particularly with how you wrote this into the impact for Zarkov. I did a quick test and Zarkov had good and bad luck – he failed his Willpower check, but only gained 1 Insanity Point. Zarkov is decidedly unnerved, until further notice. The dream keeps playing through his mind]

Messengers relay their directives, while the bridge crew keep at their stations. The lack of vox comms on the deck is now having the side-effect of making the bridge a very noisy place to be. Officers shout their orders through increasingly hoarse throats, straining to be heard over all others. The constant rumbling of the storm adds to the delirious cacophony.

Tyor, evidently distracted by the din of noise about him sporadically yells for everyone to be silent. As feared as the wrath of the Helmsman is, however, necessity dictates that the barking of orders must continue.

Zarkov watches the bridge intently, issuing commands as needed. Despite the peril of the Invictus, the rumbling of the storm seems less intense than the nausea washing over him. The Lieutenant Commander feels his under-shirt clinging to his skin with sweat. His complexion has faded to a sickly pale, more so than most men born to the Void.

‘Sir?’

Zarkov barely notices that Mordia has stopped just beside him. ‘Sir? Lieutenant Commander . . . are you -’ the Duty Officer stops before voicing his doubts. A glance at the dignity and bearing of Zarkov’s naval uniform seem to be enough to instill faith in the younger man.

Mordia shows Zarkov a data slate. A long list of names, stations, and times flicker in green-light. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a shift roster for the next forty-eight hours. As the Auger-Array is currently not transmitting, I have filled some posts with Vehle’s crew, so others can get regular rest periods. If you agree, sir, I can have this system commenced immediately’.

[Zarkov is starting to regain his concentration to a lesser degree, though he has no idea how much time has passed since he despatched his messages. Scanning the data-slate, Zarkov has no idea of whether or not Mordia’s system is workable – the Lt. Commander cannot at the moment concentrate properly]

‘There’s one last thing, sir. Tyor . . . Lieutenant Tyor is refusing to allow another pilot to replace him. He says that he will not budge until we’re free of the storm. He – he doesn’t look right to me, sir. Exhausted. I-I mentioned it to him,’ Mordia is clearly agitated relating the story to Zarkov, ‘and . . . well . . . he . . . I think he whispered to me that I should get him some Stimm’. Mordia swallows hard.

[Stimm, btw, is a drug used to reinvigorate the person. In many areas of the Imperium, it is completely illegal. It is, however, very effective]

[Montresor]

"My attention is focused upon this one...I am not likely to remember clearly anyone who leaves in the next 30 seconds...but then I will be far more alert to my surroundings."

[Drak-Kung maintains his focus on the lead agitator]

The small crowd in the darkened room begins to shift and thin, leaving a cadre of men and women to stand alone under the gaze of the Arch-Militant. While Drak-Kung speaks, the agitator listens – at first with indignant surprise; then with noted disquiet.

The man starts to speak, but his voice comes out dry and inaudible. He clears his throat, unknowingly taking a step or two back into the darkness. ‘You – You’ve got it all wrong . . . you calling me a heretic? Iss them lowers down there that you should be watchin’. Who d’ you thinks gonna buckle in the mind a first when the Warp starts gnawing at us?’

He looks from side to side for support, but already people are slipping through side doors, putting as much distance between themselves and any place where allegations of heresy are being voiced.

‘Listen,’ the agitator reaches forward, trying to look conciliatory, ‘let’s forget all ‘bout this, yeah? I mean, it won’t do if you go stirring up trouble down here, Chief. Hey? What say you?’

[Montresor]

Not really waiting for an answer, she turns and begins making her way towards the ship's chapel. "Come along."

The decks of the Invictus swell with agitation and activity. Carelessness combined with the malefic churning of the maelstrom has caused a few small fires to erupt in isolated places, where candles were not properly secured. The ship’s damage control teams are ably manned and equipped to deal with the incidents, though traffic on the frigate is becoming tortuous in places. The constant running about of the messenger children is only adding to this. The children even appear content to invent messages to relay to one another, pretending they are directives from the great Rogue Trader himself, so as to make their tasks seem all the more worthy.

Consequently, Andrea and her small delegation take many minutes longer to reach the commotion at the Chapel. Once there, she surveys the situation. The Great Chapel doors remain closed, and the hallowed stone stairs beneath them are clogged with at least two hundred ratings and a few junior officers. Some security staff are amongst them, as are a few of the technical crew of the Alid-Yuril Consortium. Whether most of these people are here in their rest time is not clear.

The crowd is nervous; their animus is directed at a junior brother who stands before the Chapel doors, flanked by five Armsmen. Another five Armsmen stand at the base of the crowd. Furious shouting from the mob drowns out the proclamations of the priest. From where Andrea stands, she cannot make out what is being said; nor could she possibly press through the crowd without violence.

[As of yet, Andrea has only been noticed by a few people on the periphery of the mob. She knows, from making her way here, that more people are headed this way]

[Andrea Chan-Gauthier]

The crowd is nervous; their animus is directed at a junior brother who stands before the Chapel doors, flanked by five Armsmen. Another five Armsmen stand at the base of the crowd. Furious shouting from the mob drowns out the proclamations of the priest. From where Andrea stands, she cannot make out what is being said; nor could she possibly press through the crowd without violence.

[As of yet, Andrea has only been noticed by a few people on the periphery of the mob. She knows, from making her way here, that more people are headed this way]

The Seneschal stops at the rear of the crowd, still in one of the corridors leading to the entrance of the ship's chapel. She turns to one of the guardsmen following her and speaks, but the noise of the crowd is too loud. With an exasperated sigh, she leans in to the man's ear and shouts "Can you fire off a shot or two, to get their attention? Don't hurt anybody, please."

The man nods, pumps the shotgun he was carrying, and shoots a blast at an angle into the floor. (The ricochet should bounce into the wall further away, then into the ceiling yet still further away, and then lose the power to be damaging.)

In the moment of startled silence that follows, the young noble raises a hand and calls out, "May I have your attention, please?"

The crowd all turns to face her, some of the more angry taking steps towards her. The junior brother on the steps is already crouching behind the guardsman to his left. Of the guardsmen, two of them have their sidearms drawn, and the rest are reaching for them already. When they spot Andrea in her synthskin suit, surrounded by a bridge officer and three guardsmen, they lower their weapons but otherwise stay attentive.

[Pay special attention to the guardsmen and junior officers in the crowd. Memorize faces, or get their names, if possible.]

[Montresor]

There is a surge of vehement energy, and a handful of furious ratings take steps forward. Something is thrown, clanging harmlessly against the wall, but inciting fervour from the mob. An armsmen steps in front of the Seneschal Majoris, to shield her from potential violence, while another guard points his shotgun directly in the face of an enraged rating.

The air is electric with tension, and at least a few score of the mob seem ready to erupt in violence. Jeers and curses mingle with pleas to the Emperor. If the crowd were to spill over into actual violence, there is little doubt that they would triumph in a few moments.

[at this stage, Andrea is unable to pinpoint faces in the crowd, the situation is hardly ideal for concentration]

[Lt. Commander Zarkov]

His mind still in turmoil, Zarkov paced the bridge, pausing occasionally to glance at the vaulted glass at the Geller fields. The Auger array was still down, but Zarkov continued to patrol to the communications array and check the blank screens out of habit. The bridge crew worked tirelessly, while Tyor steered the ship with grim determination.

Zarkov looked at the Lord-Captain's throne, resplendent upon its raised platform. He had never deigned to sit upon it, not even after Laurent's death when he had assumed full command. It had a gaudy, garish feel to it, and Zarkov felt it was an eyesore on an otherwise functional combat bridge. Besides, he was never the true Captain, and it felt wrong to command from the highly placed throne without holding that title.

Instead Zarkov liked to be among the men. He moved from station to station, first to the Auger array, then to the Helm, and finally settling at the gunner's array, directly in front of the vaulted glass. Warrant Officer Sturshyi gave him a clipped salute from the gunners pit, then resumed running second-tier contingency tests. Zarkov looked out onto the Invictus' prow, the Geller fields illuminating it a strange purple colour that shifted and phased with malign urgency. His eye narrowed as he thought of the floating hulk from his dream.

A red mist intruded upon his vision, and Zarkov was momentarily back on the blasted rock, floating aimlessly in the void. The red turned a sickly crimson, and the imagined touch of fabric, as from a cape or robe, made him flinch imperceptibly. The red warning light on the bridge stopped flashing, and Zarkov felt himself pulled back from the abyssal grasp of waking nightmare. He blinked several times with his one human eye, while the lenses of his bionic eye clicked and whirred, trying to focus on the immaterium kept at bay by the fields. His bionic eye picked up more than it should have. Turning away from the glass, he went to resume his rounds, but was intercepted.

‘Sir?’

Mordia was standing beside him, an earnest look on his face.

‘Sir? Lieutenant Commander . . . are you -’ the Duty Officer stops before voicing his doubts. A glance at the dignity and bearing of Zarkov’s naval uniform seem to be enough to instill faith in the younger man.

Mordia shows Zarkov a data slate. A long list of names, stations, and times flicker in green-light. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a shift roster for the next forty-eight hours. As the Auger-Array is currently not transmitting, I have filled some posts with Vehle’s crew, so others can get regular rest periods. If you agree, sir, I can have this system commenced immediately’.

Zarkov grimaced, unable to make sense of the data-slate. "Run it past Sub-lieutenant Bohn, Mordia. I have no time for this at the moment."

‘There’s one last thing, sir. Tyor . . . Lieutenant Tyor is refusing to allow another pilot to replace him. He says that he will not budge until we’re free of the storm. He – he doesn’t look right to me, sir. Exhausted. I-I mentioned it to him,’ Mordia is clearly agitated relating the story to Zarkov, ‘and . . . well . . . he . . . I think he whispered to me that I should get him some Stimm’. Mordia swallows hard.

Zarkov glared at Mordia. "Stimm?! In the middle of a warp storm?" Zarkov stalked to the helm, addressing Tyor in an authoritory tone usually reserved for NCO's. "Lieutenant Tyor, you are clearly exhausted. You need to take a depressant and get some sleep. You may ride out the remainder of this shift-cycle, but I will be replacing you at the Helm in..." Zarkov checked his timepiece "...one hour. You may resume your duties once you are properly rested." Zarkov caught the look on Tyor's face. "That's an order, Lieutenant!"

[Montresor]

"Lieutenant Tyor, you are clearly exhausted. You need to take a depressant and get some sleep. You may ride out the remainder of this shift-cycle, but I will be replacing you at the Helm in..." Zarkov checked his timepiece "...one hour. You may resume your duties once you are properly rested." Zarkov caught the look on Tyor's face. "That's an order, Lieutenant!"

Years of service on the bridge of the Invictus had united these two officers. Tyor was not a man to make friends, nor one to seek any. He respected hard work and duty alone; and took no pity on derelicts and the faithless. Yet, rumours on the vessel had long been in circulation that the Helmsman was a man of a cruel vice - the infliction of harm upon those subordinate to him. Certainly, he was not known to imbibe, drinking only on ceremony; nor did the Lieutenant ever return from shore leave looking worse for wear.

That Tyor respected Zarkov had never been said, though it was in little question to the crew that the Lieutenant Commander was the only man whom the former Guard officer would defer to without reluctance. Even so, there was something near rage beneath the Helmsman's stare as he listened to Zarkov. His eyes are ringed with lines of stress and exhaustion, but his determination glares through.

'Sir,' Tyor whispered through tightly fixed lips, 'we are in the grip of a more serious storm than I have known the Invictus to pass through in all my years of service. To surrender the helm to a lesser pilot - no offense - when alternatives remain would be a dereliction of my duty. I respectfully refuse the order, and wish this to be noted in the ship's log'.

[I have made a preliminary Command roll for Zarkov. Despite serious penalties to this roll, Zarkov has succeeded. Should you chose to keep your orders as is, you will succeed - but be mindful that there may be repercussions]

[Lt. Commander Zarkov]

Zarkov's voice lowered, and one eye appraised Tyor suspiciously. "What alternatives do you speak of, Tyor? Stimm? And what of the potential side-effects, in a warp storm no less?" He lowered his voice still further. "We may be in this storm for days, even weeks. It has happened before. How do you intend to remain at the helm the entire time? Not even the most jacked up stimm-addict could remain awake for so long. The fact you ask such outlandish things can only be excused by your exhausted state." He raised his voice again. "Your refusal is noted, Tyor, and respect must be shown to your determination. You have been at the helm for nearly 3 whole shift cycles straight. Your endurance is strained, however, to the point where a lesser pilot is better than a shell of an expert." He paused. "Take one cycle to sleep and then you may resume your duties. My orders stand."

[ooc]I have assumed one bridge shift-cycle equals 6 hours. Therefore, Tyor has been at the helm nearly 18 hours straight, 10 of those battling the warp storm. In one hour he will begin his rest period for 6, and then return.[ooc/]

[Andrea Chan-Gauthier]

...another guard points his shotgun directly in the face of an enraged rating.

Andrea places a hand on the shoulder of the guardsman who shielded her as she moved around to the front of him again. Moving past him, she steps between the raised shotgun of the other guardsman and the enraged rating, still facing the crowd.

Holding her hands up to signal silence doing her best to exude calm to those around her, she calls out to the crowd. "Please, I'm sure this can all be sorted out, if we can stop shouting at each other long enough for me to figure out what's going on. I just need a few moment of calm discussion with you all."

[Perception check to see if there's a single ringleader to the mob]

She beckons the ringleader (if there is one) over to talk. (If there isn't a clear ringleader, then use the enraged rating directly in front of me.) "Would you care to be sensible and talk this over? I'll do everything in my power to resolve this quickly, I assure you."

[Charm check against the ringleader / enraged rating. Can I do a charm check against the whole crowd? ]