Setting
The Orion Spur is a small, nondescript branched arm of the Milky Way also referred to as "The Local Region". It is relatively sparse and lacking in resources.
Orion Spur
The Orion Spur is a small, nondescript branched arm of the Milky Way also referred to as "The Local Region". It is relatively sparse and lacking in resources.
Minimap
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northeast |
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east |
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| "in" to Norma Arm » | ||
| "out" to Perseus Arm » | ||
Orion Spur is a part of 
The Milky Way.
5 Places in Orion Spur:
16 Characters Here
DED [72] The Directive Enforcement Department (DED) is one of the largest and most powerful branches of CONCORD, also known as the Varden.
Aaric Arlan [72] Warden, Field Marshal, Admiral, Second in Command of the Varden Expeditionary Theater
EGO [55] A highly advanced artificial intelligence.
Vice Admiral Jenovan Grieves [49] The mysterious Vice Admiral is the commander of the Dark Rain's Agency flagship, the Devastator.
Vanessa Richard [40]
Rye Apis [32] Warden, Admiral, Second in Command of the Varden Expeditionary Fleet
Exogarden Forces [11] Remnants of an old military, known as the Apparatus, that have gone 'rogue' in the aftermath of an unknown, devastating war in the Garden.
Tetri Plume. [11]
Tael -Keeper of Daemyrus [5] Young for an Ancient, Wise for an Arsehole.
Schuyler [5]
Start Character Here »
Vehicles
Ship of Lights
The Athens II
If this message reaches beyond the Veil, it should be known that eight years ago today war erupted between the powers of the Garden - a conflict which has brought the once great civilizations of Scatter and her territories into ruin. The great emptiness of space which was once the empire of our interstellar dreams is now a barrier of vacuum and radiation. It is with a heavy heart that I chronicle this broadcast for those in the stars beyond that soon, these prosperous nations and peoples may no longer be able to reach our brethren in the Home galaxy beyond the Charybdis Veil.
The Interstellar Nations and the Supremacy have turned our magnificent Garden into a battlefield, unleashing their war-machines in the hopes of crushing one another beneath the steel boot of states and militaries that have risen to challenge even the governments they are sworn to. As of this broadcast, every major population and economic sector of the Garden has become the colosseum of generals and admirals vying not to restore peace to our fractured homes, but build a new seat of power from the ashes after they have scorched our lands and boiled our seas.
For all their once thought unassailable authority, our governments have fallen one by one. Our leaders, deafened from cannon-fire, no longer hear their peoples. Our heroes, wrenched from their pedestals and forced to clash amongst the titans of our war machines and weapons of destruction no longer embolden our peopleâs hopes and dreams.
Our villains, now unbreakable in their strength and empowered at the failures of our lords, run rampant across the Garden in the quest to remake our homeland of mankind in their image. As of the time of this broadcast, they are winning.
And as of the time it is received beyond the Veil, they have won. Or at the least, our last ramparts are falling as the galaxy turns beyond. For those in the stars beyond, this is the last voice of our civilization. For those trapped beyond the Veil, you are the remnant of our kind, whether you be Garden-born, or Terran, or another breed of life from across the universes.
You are all thatâs left of Scatterâs light.
A slow, dull humming cascaded throughout the inky darkness of the relay chamber while the last audio of the broadcast drew to a close. Stilhneerâs Ascension March, a solemn, quiet piece of a piano and violin died out while flickering lights materialized into a circle of uniformed figures. All surrounding a central node spewing forth a holograph of the galaxy, one of them reached a finger out to a glimmering icon and tapped it once.
âWhat ⊠exactly does this mean?â A womanâs voice inquired, sharpened yet cool as she drew her hand back down to the great coat stretched across thin shoulders. The figure across from her, a swarthy man draped in a peacoat, answered bluntly.
âIt means weâre on our own. Stuck across the Veil. Marooned.â He almost spat, drawing a gloved hand to his mouth to hide a quiet curse. âTheyâve left us in the lurch, chasing ghosts all around the Deep Stars, while theyâre choking to death on toxic atmospheres or burning up in renegaded stars.â
âWe donât know that.â Another voice chimed in, this one pressing a hand down against his starched uniform, a naval insignia pinned against his chest while he craned his chin towards the eight other officers standing before him. âWe donât know whether they completed Guarding Night and initiated Striking Dawn - â
The man in the peacoat let out a short chortle, looking to the naval officer. âIf the Dawn had come we wouldnât be hearing this. Are you listening to yourself? We knew this was coming when the Tenth Front reached Karelia. What we need to understand is that the Veil is sealed now, and thatâs a good thing.â
A fourth man spoke up, adjusting the brim of the helmet draped across his head. He seemed to be sitting at a desk, legs bent and feet propped against a board of furniture. âA good thing? Are you serious? That was our way back home, now weâre stuck on the other side with god-knows what managed to slip through before we put the Cordons in place. Youâre saying thatâs a good thing?â
The other officer stiffened, adjusting one of the breasts of his peacoat to settle it on his broad shoulders. âWhatâs happened in the Garden has happened, it was not our mission to fight that war. Weâve succeeded in preventing the worst from trickling through the Veil and -
âSucceeded?! Weâve barely scratched the surface of it! Have you been groundside to the Shore Planets? Iâve lost whole colonies to Rogues - landers full of civilians butchered and eaten, picked apart like they were thrown into the jaws of a, a - Christ, I donât even know how to describe it. And now, weâre stuck outside the walls!â The man at the desk suddenly rose himself up, practically knocking it away. Suddenly, another figure across the chamber spoke up.
âThe Colonel is right, Commander.â The form spoke, an officerâs cap pulled tight across the brow as a white-gloved hand rose up to silence the dissent. âWe can not derail the operation, contingencies were in place for losing contact with ISAAC and the Garden.â The stern words appeared to defuse the quarreling officerâs ⊠for now, at least. As the figure lowered that hand though, a visible tension returned to the officerâs faces.
âThat being said, it is clear the parameters of our mission have become broader than the scope of our abilities. We may need to discuss the option of altering our protocols.â The figure informed, while a few cautious glances were exchanged amongst the officers. The woman spoke again, turning to the obscured figure across from her.
âWhat do you mean, âaltering the protocolsâ ⊠weâve operated with strict instructions to stay away from other organizations and keep access to the Shore Planets as limited as possi - â
âI mean exactly what I said.â
Those short words drew wide eyes, and perhaps a gasp or two. The man in the peacoat clutched at the hem of his clothing, while his meaty face turned into a scowl. âYou want to bring outsiders into this? I donât believe that is a sound plan, Colonel.â He reported shortly, turning his head away. The figure didnât seem to stall however, instead raising another hand as the command flowed.
âWe have only so much time before our force concentration in the Shore Planets is overwhelmed ⊠and there are still forces across the Local Region - the Apparatus stay-behind - that we must assume command of before approaching other states about this. There was a garrison force on Terra, the 666th, a static division. Part of the Shadow Authority. We will need them. And I need all of you to prepare yourselves.â The officers gave a cautious glance amongst one another, as if the ante of a game had just been raised drastically, while the figure gave a slow, parting word that would seep through the emptiness of space with the end of that mysterious broadcast.
âThe war in the Garden might very well have ended. But ours is just beginning.â
Dogoda Station, somewhere in the Local Region
Distress signals were a fickle beast, Captain Intana thought to herself as she stood on the command deck of the CNS Agatha Rune, a 234m Atlas class Destroyer of the Exogardenâs patrol squadron as it listed quietly some six hundred thousand kilometers from the large arco-habitat. With a central habitat spanning nearly fifty kilometers in keel, Dogoda station dwarfed the Rune like an elephant and an ant.
For the nearly sixty thousand souls that called it home however, this tiny ant was their only hope of immediate rescue. It had taken the Rune almost three days to burn into the local space of Dogoda station, in which time a routine reactor cycling had gone from bad to worse. Two days ago, a power cascade had burned a six meter hole through the reactor shroud and dosed some eight hundred workers and technicians before failsafes could remedy the problem.
In nearly 72 hours, the number exposed had grown from eight hundred to nearly twelve thousand - not just reactor technicians and powerplant staff either. Now, their families were beginning to show acute radiation sickness, friends and colleagues that worked in completely different systems were now showing symptoms as well. A six meter hole in a reactor with more safeguards than a vault had poisoned thousands in the span of days.
What was even worse was that as problems compounded with the Dogoda stationâs powerplant, other station systems soon began to falter and fail. Oxy-scrubbers in the outer-habitats lagged, air slowly spoiling until the very breath was stolen from the lungs as one entered a room thought safe. A working crew of sixty had suffocated to death deep within one of Dogodaâs scrubbing chambers in this way, and another twenty hospitalized with severe hypoxia recovering the bodies of their colleagues.
To call this an unmitigated disaster was an incredible understatement for Captain Intana, who gripped tightly at the railing of the deck. Splashed across a large airscreen projected at the front of the bridge, Intana watched closely as a pair of techs strode along the hull of the stationâs reactor module. The Captainâs hands tightened, knuckle going white as she barked out to the sailors below in the pits of the bridge.
âCan somebody get me a god damn tight beam with station control? Those techs are standing on a fusion bomb held together with vac-tape!â Her voice carried along the bridge, comms-techs struggling to establish communications with the station after an array breakdown.
âStation comms are fried, a radiation spike hit their crystal matrix. We can reach them through code-line, but theyâre repairing a systems bus now.â An Ensign reported, turning from his command banks.
âSlave the line directly to my Focus when we do, get some drones orbiting the station. Start finding every god damn leak in that hull - and get those techs away from that reactor module!â Intana ordered, quickly issuing her orders remotely with the soft wave of a hand before she turned to the bridge lift. Intana was bound for drone control, a Lieutenant joining her with a tablet in his hand.
âCaptain, twelve hours before the reactor problems a ship flagged by the ESPF was renting a slip in the stationâs dockyards ⊠â The Ensign began, turning with the Captain to join her in the lift.
âItâs a big station, smugglers stopping by, waiting for some contraband to cool off, could be anything.â The Captain replied, folding her arms neatly along her back. The concern etched on the young officerâs face drew pause from Intana for a moment though; as he continued, her sharp grey eyes narrowed.
âIf it were that, I wouldnât have pulled the ticket - SIGINT approximated the drive plume to an OPA merchantman that had recently ported in Hadriatica.â The Ensign said, offering a satellite image picked up from an interstellar probe listing aimlessly somewhere out in the depths of the Local Region.
âSpacer militias this far from their Shore planet.â Intana remarked, bringing one hand curiously to her chin. She studied the blocky compartments and sharp metal decks of the merchant vessel, looking at the sleek white wolf painted across the keel of the Roadehkar. She looked Govolian in design, a vessel built for harsh space and trade in a realm of stars where anything was a threat.
Intana was certain she saw the launching cells for missiles, and the bowsprit magnetic break of a keel-mounted railgun. Merchants were often heavily armed in regions of space like this and in the Garden, though the Roadehkarâs 340m keel seemed to be lacking merchant containers and compartmenting.
That was something Intana always used to spot pirates. No one carried a hold full of dried snack cakes and a nuclear missile at the same time for good reason.
âThe Gidanadrome can pick up our OPA merchantman, when is the earliest a liner barge can reach the station for a mass evacuation?â Intana then inquired. A flagged cruiser leaving just prior to a catastrophic reactor malfunction was odd enough, though of the more pressing concern to Intana was the station itself.
âWe estimate a day and a half at best, the Hutatha is an old aid ship grandfathered into the Terran Navy but slow - though, theyâve dispatched all hands for a humanitarian mission.â The Ensign promptly reported, shifting while the lift began to descend softly. Putting his own hands by his side, the Ensignâs face darkened for a moment. âWeâve been unable to communicate so far with station control however, and havenât informed them of the vacuum fire: the Hutatha may be only a day out, but in twenty hours that hole will be bigger and - â
âThatâs why re-establishing comms is a top priority. My plan is to piggyback some multi-drones into a comm-line with the Runey. Hopefully Lieutenant Commander Page will have a fix for the reactor shroud in the meantime by then.â Intana stated bluntly, watching the doors then peel open into the drone control deck where a pair of Starfleet officers stood before a holographic, orbiting view of the t-shaped station.
âCaptain on deck! Disembark the first stack of multi-drones!â
Lieutenant Commander Winley Page stood with her hand fixed over a vac-helmet at her side, promptly saluting with the other hand. Nearby, a technician monitored a drone terminal, where outside the first of ten MRD drones disengaged from their coupling stations on the Runeâs hull.
At only 13 meters in length the Mors drones werenât any particularly large or well equipped craft, though their usefulness in carrying the large pod relays for comms was understated. It would take around thirty of these drones to establish an adequate audio/video comms-line - accessing station systems would take the systems deck another two and a half hours to complete - but would at least be a functioning link between the Rune and station control.
As the first stack of ten drones drifted along into the empty void between the destroyer and Dogoda station, the distress call that had cycled before station comms were fried continued to blare through the darkness.
âThis is Dogoda Station broadcasting on emergency rescue frequencies, we have suffered a catastrophic reactor malfunction and are in dire need of radiation control. If you receive this broadcast please retransmit."