Opener (June 10th, 2002)

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"Fierce control, this is Swallow Leader. Swallow flight is currently five minutes out, request approach clearance."

"Swallow Leader, request granted, you are cleared for approach. Transmitting approach vector now. Be advised, there is a marine EVA exercise being carried out at point three by point oh four, down point two."

Lieutenant Everett A. Gunther smiles broadly behind the tinted glass of his helmet. "Vector received, thanks control. And hey... has anyone ever told you that you have a sexy voice?"

"Swallow Leader, say again?"

Gunther's grin widens. "Roger, control. Has anyone ever told you that you have a great voice? There's this slight rasp to it... it's very sexy."

Long seconds pass before the flight controller on board the Fierce responds. When she does, her tone holds an edge. "Swallow Leader, keep it professional. Just bring those birds home -- and watch for the marines."

Gunther's smile fades. "Roger that, control." Switching his comm to a local channel, he adds, "and loosen up the panties, babe."

Corporal Delilah "Dee Dee" Durst laughs out loud, her freckled nose wrinkling in amusement. She pilots Swallow Two, and is Gunther's wingman. "Mockingbird, you totally asked for that. I'll admit, she has a great voice -- but she's only been aboard like two days and you're already hitting on her because she sounds good in your helmet? You haven't even met her yet, you moron! What if she's like some troll they found living in the bottom of Joshua Station?"

Gunther chuckles as well, despite being a little rankled at how swiftly and curtly he was rebuffed by the flight controller. "No worries, Dee Dee. I'm just trying to make things a little more interesting around here -- and with a voice like that, I'm sure she's a babe." Opening his Lancer's throttle, the JAF pilot rockets ahead of his flight mate. "Now c'mon -- let's give those marines something to look at..."

Captain Lisbeth Delacroix grunts softly as she gets out of bed, feeling the artificial gravity of the Fierce's centrifuge weighing on her. It feels good. This is the first ship she's commanded that has the luxury of crew facilities on a habitat ring, and though it means the brass will expect more endurance out of the vessel and her crew, it's a good trade, the diminutive woman thinks.

"Delacroix here," she says, punching the comm button on her desk, leaning over the small screen where her executive officer's face appeared. "This better be good, Emile -- you know I need my beauty sleep."

Emile Messier's hawkish face is impassive, almost displeased. "I have Colonel Lange on the line from Geiersburg, captain. He's requested to speak with you."

Delacroix straightens her appearance slightly and sits down at her desk. "Secure the line and patch him through," she says simply.

When her friend's wise and lined face appears on the screen, Delacroix smiles. "Conrad," she says with some affection. "Miss me already? We're not yet a week out of dock..."

"I'm afraid it's not that, Lisbeth." The captain can tell immediately that this is no social call, that something has happened. Instantly her demeanor changes, as well as her posture.

"Oh?"

"There's been an accident -- on one of the Hanson sleds."

The harsh glow of the monitor is all that lights Delacroix's darkened cabin, and it plays on her face eerily. "Is it serious? Are there many injuries?"

Colonel Lange looks tired, she can now tell. "Unknown," he says simply. "It's unclear what went wrong, but when sled 2V-10 transited through the Vanguard corridor, none of the passenger or cargo pods detached. Normally they drop off the sled, and after a day or two of steady brake-thrusting, come to a stop so they can be picked up. Not this time."

"You mean they're all still aboard the sled -- which is now beginning it's journey to Newhome... clear around the sun."

"Exactly. Unless we can catch up to it, we won't see those people again for six years. They'll be long dead, obviously. Even the sleepers."

Delacroix's delicate brow knits slightly. "Catch up to it, you say... is that where we come in?"

Lange nods. "Yes. The Fierce is the only JAF ship in the area that has the vector and the steam needed to catch that sled. Lisbeth, we need you to get underway immediately if this is going to work. Are you confident in your ship's readiness? I know you just got out of the yard and have taken on some new crew..."

The Fierce's captain smiles crookedly. "Oh, she's ready, Conrad. She's a beautiful ship, and she'll do what we ask of her."

"Godspeed, then," Lange returns. Gesturing briefly to someone off screen, he adds, "We're transmitting all the data we have on the situation to the Fierce now, including the sled's last known whereabouts, vector and velocity."

"Last known whereabouts? Don't all of the Hanson sleds carry transponders?"

"It seems the transponder on this particular sled isn't working -- just like the remote flight controls." Lange's eyes soften slightly. "This may be more than a malfunction, Lisbeth. Be careful."

Delacroix's own eyes twinkled. "Not to worry. This is a capable ship, with a capable crew. We have a namesake to live up to, after all."

"Not literally, I hope," Lange says before signing off with a simple, "Good luck."

Delacroix raises the bridge. "Lieutenant Messier, bring in the patrol and ready the ship for full burn. I want to be underway in an hour, and I want to brief you, Spencer and Duran on the situation in thirty minutes. Understood?"

"Yes sir," Messier nods.

Sergeant Lonnie Dumphy frowns his best frown, then drifts closer to the massive cargo container that is the cause of his sour mood. "What the hell is this?" he asks a deck hand who's inspecting it closer.

"Uh... looks like a big cargo container to me," the young woman answers. With a pair of oval eyeglasses perched on the end of her nose and frizzy blonde hair that just loves microgravity, Private Maribelle Young is an amusing sight -- but the deck officer isn't in the mood to be amused.

"I can see that!" Dumphy barks, floating closer. "But what's in it? When did it arrive?"

"Couple of days ago," Young answers, squinting at the electronic manifest attached to the side of the container. "Says here it's supposed to end up here in the hangar. That it's..." The girl pauses for a moment and rapidly runs her fingers across the attached touchpad before offering an unsettled harrumph.

"What?" Dumphy presses, trying to look over the girl's shoulder at the text on the small screen. "What is it?"

"Very secure, for one thing," Young responds, adjusting her glasses and continuing to punch keys. Finally she smiles. "Aha! Got it. It's a... another Lancer pod."

Sergeant Dumphy rolls his eyes. "Oh for -- how many goddamned Lancer rigs do we need? We only run the two Lancers, and we got the bomber pods for them both last week."

Private Young scratches her head, which causes her hair to wiggle uncontrollably. "This doesn't look like a bomber pod..."

"I bet it is. I bet we took aboard an extra bomber pod. I bet this is all one big screw up!"

"No, there was no mistake. This cargo is with me."

"Eh?!" Dumphy exclaims, turning to look for the source of the new voice. He finds it, and it belongs to an attractive woman who is moving along a set of handholds, towards the hangar floor where the crate's been secured.

"And who are you?" Dumphy demands to know, his crass eye not seeing the woman's slender figure, her short but nicely-styled hair, nor her rank.

"Lieutenant Athena McGregor, Sergeant," the woman answers politely, joining the pair on the deck.

The young deck hand swallows hard and clears her throat as she salutes briefly. "Um... Private Young, ma'am. Sir. Sir Ma'am."

Dumphy is still glowering. "Sergeant Lonald Dumphy," he says simply, before patting the container beside him. "You mind telling me what this is, and why it's in the middle of my hangar?"

"It's an ATMP for an IM-09 interceptor," McGregor answers easily. Glancing at the incriminating screen in front of Private Young, she adds, "But I think the private here could have told you that much."

The lump in Private Young's throat gets larger. "I was just... we didn't know if... I was only--"

Dumphy cuts the girl off with a dismissive wave. "So what kind of pod is it? Bomber? Pilum?"

McGregor answers, "That's classified information," but is half-drowned out by a voice on the hangar's loudspeaker.

"Deck crew, stand by," the flight controller announces. "Bays three and four, Swallow flight is inbound, ETA one minute."

"Anyway," Sergeant Dumphy resumes, "I got already got exo-suits stored on the launch deck for this bay, and most of the others -- there ain't room for your pod here. Maybe back in the aft cargo area. You can take that up with Officer Duran... the marines should be back from their little EVA trip soon. Meantime, Private Young here and I gotta get things prepped." Motioning to the free-floating girl behind him, the Sergeant moves off. "C'mon, Young."

"Erm... coming!" the slightly-built private returns. "Nice meeting you, Lieutenant!"

"Form up!" Warrant Officer Jon Duran shouts into his exo-suit's microphone.

He hovers a few meters above the small asteroid he and his marines have been conducting live-fire exercises on. It's a good group, Duran thinks to himself. The Falconers are aggressive and skilled, and the Pouncers tough and hard-hitting. It's good to see. As his men fall into position, Duran bellows again. "Marines, the Fierce has just been called into action. Are you ready, marines? Are you ready for some action?"

"Sir, yes sir," they return loudly, to a person.

"That's what I want to hear, marines. I want to hear that-"

"Incoming!" Sergeant Harry Mandrake suddenly yells. Pushing two of his Pouncer squadmates back, he watches as two blurred objects strike across the stars, racing towards the marines and their asteroid at phenomenal speed.

"Swallow Flight, you are off-course for approach and coming in too fast, copy?"

"Copy that, sexy," Lieutenant Gunther says in response, winking for good measure. "Give us a minute. We'll be back on track in just another few seconds..."

"Swallow Flight, you are off-course!" the flight controller repeats emphatically. "Break off your approach! You are nearing the EVA exercise ground, Swallow Flight -- repeat, break off your approach!"

"Negative on that," Gunther says, adjusting his course slightly and smiling as Dee Dee, close beside him, does the same. "We're just going in for a closer look at our marine buddies, and will be right back safe and sound in the hangar in another sixty seconds. Give or take a minute."

"Swallow Flight, you are--"

"I know, I know, off-course," Gunther sighs as he turns off the comm. "You ready, Dee Dee?" he adds on the local channel.

A wicked grin marks Durst's pretty face. "Hooooyeah -- let's do it!"

Surprised by Mandrake's urgent actions, Warrant Officer Duran turns and is startled when a pair of Lancers blow past him at frightening speed and proximity. Off balance, he crashes his Falconer exo-suit into the asteroid heavily as his men scatter and the two fighters pull away in parallel corkscrew turns that are brightly marked by their furiously glowing engines.

"Goddammit!" Duran growls as he gets to his feet. "Those goddamn flyboys just about flew straight into us! Those reckless bastards!"

His eyes on the rapidly disappearing fighters, Sergeant Mandrake watches to make sure the Lancers aren't coming for another pass. "They're just showing off," he says flatly. "Looks like they're going in for a landing now."

Alone on the observation deck, Lieutenant Vice Valkurie watches silently as a pair of Lancers roll over and hit their burners, gracefully sliding into line with the axis of the Fierce, obviously coming in for a landing. As he loses sight of the fighters, something burns at the back of his mind. A wound, still open, still festering.

Did Gunther know? Likely not. Valkurie had transferred onto the ship three days prior, but hadn't had a chance to meet the rest of the squadron yet, having been busy with... other matters.

Running a hand through his short, stylish black hair (which was touched with red highlights in some light), the handsome exo pilot turns to head for the hangar. It was time to make his presence known.

The flight decks are abuzz with activity as the half-platoon of marines, recently back from their EVA exercise, rapidly change into their shipboard uniforms and work on stowing their exo-suits. Duran had been summoned away by the Fierce's XO as soon as he'd set foot on the deck, and the Warrant Officer had left Sergeant Mandrake in charge.

Corporal Kerin La Rue, a tall, powerfully built woman with short blonde hair, an impressive figure and an equally impressive temper, finishes getting into her suit first. "Are we dismissed?" she asks. "Because I'm going to go straight down to the hanger and kick those pilots' balls up around their ears."

"You are not dismissed, and nor will you 'kick those pilots' balls up around their ears.' Least of all because one of them is a woman," Mandrake half-smiles. An observant man, the Sergeant had known who was in the Lancers the moment he saw them coming, despite only having been aboard the Fierce a few days.

"I can still try," La Rue growls, forcing a few laughs from her fellow marines.

Private Noah Brinks, a nineteen year-old kid with more brawn than brains, joins by the woman's side. Thumping his fist into his palm, he adds, "Yeah! We should go kick their asses! C'mon, sarge!"

Mandrake raises his voice to be heard above the rising calls for retribution. "No, we're to report to our acceleration stations after securing the exo-suits -- the ship is going to be underway shortly, and we need to be out of the way so the crew can do their job."

La Rue is about to argue the point when Sergeant Nora Tucker -- the other squad leader, in addition to Mandrake and Duran, the senior officer -- speaks up. A burly, thickly built woman with an honest face, Tucker isn't one to mince words. "Can it, Corporal. Sergeant Mandrake just gave you an order. It doesn't matter if you don't like it, or if you're too stupid to even realize that it was an order." Turning to Mandrake as the tall marine backs down but continues to glare, she adds, "Gotta smack these kids in the head sometimes to remind them what's what."

Mandrake nods, and feels all eyes on him. "Right. You heard the lady, and you heard me. Let's get this done."

Senior Lieutenant Messier raises an eyebrow. "What's wrong? What do you mean?" he asks.

Private Arianna Cyan lifts her hands in exasperation. "This course... it sucks. I can get us up to speed way quicker than this."

Corporal Orr looks over from his navigation station. "Huh? What do you mean?!"

"I mean this looks like someone in a frilly dress punched it up."

"WHAT?!"

Cyan sighs. "It's totally weenie, the big broad vector you have us on, not to mention the lame acceleration chart. This isn't some old tub, it's a--"

"That's enough," Messier warns, his brow furrowing. A noise behind him makes him turn, and he sees Captain Delacroix enter the bridge.

"What's this about acceleration, lieutenant?" she asks.

"Private Cyan here has declared our plotted course too conservative," Messier answers.

"Oh?" Delacroix says, looking down at the helmsman's station, where Cyan is seated.

"Um -- yeah. I know this is some kind of emergency, with us getting ready to move out on such short notice and all... and I was just thinking that I can get us where we're going a little faster than this," she points at the screen in front of her. "Maybe a lot faster, actually."

"Really," the captain says pointedly.

"Yup."

"I suppose... maybe I was a little too conservative exiting our current orbit..." Orr offers meekly.

"I'm sure it was a fine plot," Delacroix declares. Then, without looking at Cyan, the captain turns and moves off in the microgravity. "Messier, you're with me. Lindy, you've got the bridge. Cyan, work your magic. I'll expect a more... expeditious plot when I get back."

"Yes, ma'am," Cyan says with a grin.

End Opener (June 10, 2002)

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ALL SYSTEMS GO is set in Dream Pod 9's Jovian Chronicles universe. Jovian Chronicles, the Jovian Chronicles logo and Silhouette are trademarks of Dream Pod 9, Inc. Exo-armor, Jovian Confederation, CEGA, Silhouette and all other names, logos and specific game terms are (c)1993, 2002; all Jovian Chronicles art and designs are Copyright (c)1994-2002 Dream Pod 9, Inc. No challenge to these copyrights and trademarks is intended.

Except where noted, all original content is copyright 2002 John Guilfoyle, Alistair Gillies, Chris Schaller, Robb Neumann, Dennis Kirkpatrick and Bryan Lee. Page last updated on September 30th, 2002.