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Post by Grand Moff Poobah I on Jan 5, 2016 0:58:32 GMT -5
Captain Cryseniah Seyda stared the holographic projection. She kept her bearing impeccable, and her face was an inscrutable marble slab. There was nose, there was lips, cheeks, chin, all the usual features, but absent was any suggestion of thought or emotion. If she was playing Sabacc, she would have won with a set of novelty cards held backwards. It was only internally that she was absolutely seething. If she had any tell, it was that her fists were tight balls behind her back. It was only after she repeated the usual formalities and the hologram died down that she broke the facade with a solid word.
"Frell."
Seyda looked about the communication room aft of the bridge. It was precisely the location she didn't favor. Imperial designs had too many pointless redundancies that bothered her immensely. They had hologram communications on the other side of the doors, and the only thing this afforded instead was privacy. However if they needed privacy they could simply have used an ordinary screen in her office one deck below. Instead somehow the Imperial designers had seen fit to implement an oversized room with an excessively large holoemitter, when it was really usable space for something more important. Like an actual caf-bar. Perhaps with a stock of fresh-baked goods. Doughnuts perhaps.
Then there was also the other ho-hum tedious concern that the Imperial Security Bureau would be arriving to take personal interest in their mission.
Cryseniah had been in the fleet long enough to get a feel for different organizations. Imperial Intelligence had very much evolved out of Republic Intelligence. Dangerous in a professional way, competent, interested in looking out for real problems. The ISB was different. It had grown out of COMPNOR, which instinctively resulted in an association with her ex-husband. An unpleasant association. That meant it was politically driven in a way the old Senate Bureau of Investigations couldn't begin to appreciate.
The ISB was precisely the type of organization that would ignore the majority of external threats for juicier internal ones, and wouldn't mind engineering their own internal threats simply to stay busy. If there'd been some way to shift ISB's focus and drive towards purging its own members the Empire might have been a more pleasant place.
She sighed, stepped outside the pointless comm room, and headed directly to the urn of prepared coffee, filling up her customary mug before glancing at the chronometer directly above the lift. 14:28. It was about two minutes away from the planned meeting with Major Pike. There was no sense calling him to prepare. And with issues like this, it was best to address them one on one. Lay out the plan for security as carefully as possible, and as blind as possible. She'd plan out for the ISB officer's arrival, how he was to be met, quarters arranged in advance. Methodical. Careful. Deliberate.
Too many cooks would spoil the broth. Though in this case she wasn't convinced it was an apt analogy, and nobody was concerned about pissing into a river of piss.
She waited. It was dramatically quicker than she'd anticipated.
"Captain, we're picking up a ship on our scopes. Lambda class."
Seyda's lips formed a crooked smile that was morbidly amused. The ISB certainly moved fast, notifying her of the new posting only minutes before arrival. It was, in short, typical.
"Prepare the landing bay. Send an officer to meet the occupant. We're all going to have a very busy day."
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Post by The Conman on Jan 6, 2016 22:19:58 GMT -5
Prellon Yalthik spun around in his chair for the 997428742th time.
He wasn't a fan of waiting, nor was he a fan of hyperspace travel...or being stuck in a Lambda for 3 days. The man was convinced his brain was about to leak out his ears when he heard the best news he'd heard in what he felt was his life.
"Major, we're approaching the rendezvous, just a few minutes."
Prellon wanted to jump up and start partying, but something told him that'd be a bad idea around the fuzzie-wuzzie Imperial Navy personnel. Not that he'd do it around the other ISB guys, they were far too prudish...No his excitement was basically reduced to a nod.
"Excellent, I'll get my things, let me know before we dock, I would like to remain standing this time, Lieutenant." Prellon added with a smirk. They'd dropped an officer off previously, the pilot making a mess of the docking and sending him, and nearly everything not bolted down, flying across the ship. Prellon was uninjured, but there was no way he'd let the poor Lt. live it down while he was onboard. Part of the fun of being in the ISB was seeing people shake in their boots for no apparent reason...it was as if they thought Prellon, of all people, had memorized their particular file just so he could mess with them at that particular moment. Half the time it was happening he had to bite his tongue and do his best to frown.
The man got up, and started toward the back of the shuttle, heading for his bunk and extracting his duffle bag, and giving it a quick check. It looked good, so far as the man could tell, and he grabbed the tablet containing his orders to report to Captain Cryseniah Seyda.
He had to admit, she had literally the saddest backstory of anybody he'd looked into. Divorced, lost her kid, an eye...seemed like she was probably going to be a bit of a stick in the mud...Prel didn't want to rock the boat, this Boska situation wasn't one that'd go away soon...despite what the ONI and ISB thought of it. No, this would probably be a long, stupid, game of space cat and space mouse with a bunch of people who just wanted to be left alone. Prellon wasn't too keen on spending it with a Captain who hated him, and intended to do what he could to stay within his bounds.
The man headed towards the command deck, one hand holding the duffle over his shoulder, and sat down in one of the free seats behind the pair commanding the shuttle as it slowed from hyperspace, a Victory II rushing into view. It wasn't as impressive as the SSD's Prell had served on previously, but had a purposeful, menacing look to it, like it was pissed off it wasn't shooting at something instead of just lumbering through space, looming over the shuttle...much like some kind of henge.
"We're here ma-"
"I can see that, Son." Prel said with a chuckle, continuing.
"I'll be in the back, standing...unless you guys decide otherwise." He said with a shake of his head as he departed, having to get that final dig in just for kicks.
After a few moments, as Prel walked to the cargo bay, the conversation changed and he was pretty sure they were docking. Looking around as if he was being watched, the man put his duffle on the floor and sat on it, as a precaution, holding onto it's sides with white knuckles. Seconds turned into minutes, which then turned into eternities, the man waiting for the inevitable thud as the shuttle dropped too hard and too fast into the deck of the SD due to the pilots lack of practice. Prellon looked over his shoulder, trying to squint to see out the window, so he had some frame or reference to what was happening, to no avail. The man craned his neck more...and more, and leaned over, taking a hand off the duffle, trying to see if he could see out of the front window. Prel started to turn around and then it happened.
SLAMTHUDBANGCRASH
The man was awkwardly slammed onto his duffle, the bag absorbing most of the impact and protecting his face from the hard floor ( he'd insisted on carpet, but apparently the Empire didn't "do" carpet ), while his arms flailed around wildly trying to, and failing to, break his fall. The man's hat went flying off his head, landing some distance away. After a moment or two, he rolled over, to see the Lt. rushing from the cockpit towards him, face as red as a beet, spewing apologies.
"Sir...I'm sosorrythegroundjustrushedupivenverlandedonthistypeofshipsorrysorry-"
Prell started to pick himself up off the deck, waving a conciliatory hand towards the pilot. The ISB Agent, in a previous life, had once been a decent pilot...he knew what it was like to be new, and didn't want to rib the kid too hard. Prell put his arms out and arched his back, a loud series of cracks coming from it, then his right shoulder. The man cracked his neck, then looked over at the Kid.
"Look...kid...Please...for the sake of all of us...choose another profession, 'cause flyin' ain't for you, son." Prell said with a slight grin. He didn't mean it, he was just bugging the kid. He was totally fine, a few bumps and bruises, nothing he couldn't walk off, which, based on the size of the ship he was about to board, looked like he'd be doing. The Agent nodded to the kid and pushed the button to drop the ramp, and stepped off the Lambda Class shuttle and into the familiar black and gray landing bay he'd seen thousands of times before. The Empire was nothing if not efficient, and they reused modules between various ships...landing bays being one of those modules. The result was that you could land on the grandest Dreadnought, or a lowly Frigate, and probably see the same bay.
As he walked off the ramp, a Lieutenant, using the naval ranks, so a Captain to him, approached.
"Orders, Sir." He said curtly, the man's immaculately manicured mustache captivating Prellon's stare. It was like a perfect caterpillar, perched just above his lip. The Agent had half a mind to enquire to how he achieved such results, only being able to achieve a patchy mess himself. That, however, would have probably annoyed him, and Prell wasn't down for that...yet. He'd get there, eventually, apparently the ship had a bit of a reputation as a dumping ground for misfits and dead end officers.
Which basically meant all the people who'd be fun.
Though, he'd have to ease into that, even misfits would probably be, sadly, on their best behavior around and ISB Major.
"The Captain is on the Bridge, Sir. She awaits your arrival-" the Lieutenant continued, holding out the tablet containing Prel's orders. He took them.
"- Good day, Sir." he said, gesturing towards the door out of the hangar, which prell, after sinching up his duffle, strode off towards.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= 20 Minutes later =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
That fucking stormie...he gave me bad directions... Prell thought, as he was being instructed how to get to the bridge by the Chief Engineer. Being unfamiliar with the Vic II variant he was currently on, and having figured it'd be the same as all the other ones, he'd downloaded a generic deck plan and used it. As it'd turned out, that deck plan was wrong, and he'd gotten lost. The man asked a Stormtrooper for directions, and was now standing in engineering.
"Thanks, Commander, I'll head there now." Prell said to the man, turning and heading towards the turbolifts a few hallways and turns away. On the way he'd dropped his duffle off with the quarter master, that he'd found ok, so hopefully, pranks notwithstanding, his gear would find it's way to his quarters...wherever they were....despite spending an appreciable portion of his professional life on starships, the man was still awful with directions and memorizing their layouts. They'd all had some kind of custom work and their designs all varied slightly, be it because of the contractor who'd constructed the ship, or repaired battle damage, or some other reason, each ship was to a certain extent unique.
The man turned left and saw the turbolifts, and sighed a sigh of relief. He'd be late, but hopefully not so late as to anger the Captain.
A few minutes later, the doors whooshed open and he stepped out, passing an overly large and complicated looking communications room to his left. Why the Empire installed those things, on literally every capital ship, was beyond the man, the space could have been used for so many other things...like a foosball table...He shook his head, and, taking a quick glance at his tablet, confirmed who the Captain actually was, and strode over.
"Captain, Prellon Yalthik, reporting as ordered." He said with a neutral tone, snapping off a quick, almost lazy, salute. The ISB wasn't nearly as militaristic as the Navy, though he'd learned that the CO's liked it when you showed some level of respect in a way they understood.
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Mr. Slender
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Poster of the first Non-Admin Character
Posts: 290
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Post by Mr. Slender on Feb 8, 2016 23:04:43 GMT -5
Major Pike had been told before that he had the disposition to become a really great teacher, but after seeing the faces of his new pilots day after day, he was starting to wonder if the conveyor had been trying to be snarky. Still, behind the thousand yard stares, obvious sleep deprivation and generally twitchy nature, the men under his command were shaping up to be a fine unit.
The daily breaking of their minds and will via training simulator was doing wonders to whip them into shape. Plus, it was fun.
The setup was simple: his two squadrons were now required to spend at least a few hours practicing in the simulators, either in the morning or in the evening. Each shift consisted of twelve pilots against their CO, with his choice of environment and craft. Ryland's favorite set up so far was asteroid belt with a Z-95 Headhunter.
Sadly, of the twenty two men and two women pilots, not many showed potential in the beginning. They were adequate by the standards of the imperial naval academy, but seemed to lack the the imagination or intuition that made an ace. Tired, bland, formations was just a quick way to get yourself killed in real combat. The major had been preparing the curriculum for the afternoon class when his datapad had chimed a warning about his meeting with the captain.
When the turbolift doors parted on the bridge Major Pike strode out proudly, breathing finally returned to normal after all the running he'd had to manage to get to the proper junctions. The full flight suit and gear he'd put on before the reminder popped up hadn't done him any favors either. The major only hoped the suit would hold in the inevitable smell of sweat that was brewing.
"Captain.." He led out, slightly relaxing in her presence as he approached, as per the agreement. "I hope I'm not late."
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Post by Grand Moff Poobah I on Feb 10, 2016 0:24:14 GMT -5
Seyda waited considerably longer than she'd expected after docking. That was also not a huge surprise. Punctuality meant little to the ISB unless it was your own timeline being held up for inspection. Their own organizational flaws were expected to be completely ignored. Foolishness. Political foolishness, as only the Empire could manage. It had inherited the worst frivolities of the Republic without any of the benefit.
She had plenty of time for another cup of caf, leisurely sipped while staring out at the still starfield. No doubt the ISB Major was conducting inspections, interrogating random crewmen. Finding the nearest janitor and tying him up in a broom closet and slipping him truth serum in the hopes he'd describe whether floor maintenance was done to proper specifications and free of dissidence. Or, she mused, something vaguely like that.
The pale, dark-haired Captain walked in measured steps towards the caf dispenser, returning her customary mug, and then caught the flash of white in her eye. They did, she mused, have very attractive uniforms. Filled them out well too, as a rule. Something about humanocentrists, they felt the need to pick stoic chiseled-jaw types, with sparkling eyes. People who, ironically enough, seemed somehow different from your standard garden variety human. He certainly did well. Or at least well enough to make her wonder how she'd fare with one of those uniforms and a mirror.
He saluted. She returned it.
"Welcome aboard Major Yalthik," She said evenly. "Your arrival was short notice. I'll dispense with the pleasant formalities, tell me what accommodations you need and which roles you plan on taking for yourself here. Your organization can be either politically busy, or focused on operational knowledge. Which is your chief concern?"
The question hung in the air tensely, and while it dangled, Major Pike strolled in, clad in full TIE equipment. Well, save for the helmet. Apparently he'd been far from idle. Now that was commendable, their fighter wing had always been small compared to their escort ships, and it would be a major asset if they were better-skilled to compensate. Introductions would have to be made.
"Major Pike, thank you for coming. This is Major Yalthik of the Imperial Security Bureau. He's been posted to us for the anti-Boska operation."
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Post by The Conman on Feb 11, 2016 23:44:29 GMT -5
Prellon nodded to the man.
"Major."
He said, turning back to the Captain. Her comment about the short notice was one Prellon did want to address. He'd only been told about his posting a few hours before being sent, and the ISB, lately, had been especially paranoid. Apparently somebody on Shili had managed to dupe an imperial officer and the ISB had caught wind of it, so they were taking "special precautions" whenever orders, or people, were involved. The man didn't blame anybody in particular, he'd come to expect paranoia from the ISB, it was basically, so far as Prel could estimate, their job.
Quirks of the job, his little corner, the Office of Unaligned Military Groups, was part of the ISB mainly because the ONI had lateraled it to the Police, who'd then lateraled it to the ISB, the Bureau, through some political wrangling beyond Prellon's knowledge, had accepted it and he'd been posted to it. The man was about as politically motivated as a burger joint on Klatooine.
"Operational knowledge, ma'am, I'm no political plant, that's Ensign Zira over there-" Prell said, pointing to a now terrified looking blonde and blue young woman behind the captain, the colour rapidly draining from the poor woman's face.
"- She's one of your spooks, by the way-" Prellon continued in his accented voice, implying she was a Naval Intelligence plant to spy on the Captain.
"-Quite honestly, you guys could be doing one big song and dance about how much you hate the empire and I really wouldn't care, not why I'm here. I'll need a private quarters with a desk, and a bunk, I'll need access upto my clearance level to the ship's sensor logs and computer systems, as well." The Major finished.
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