NationStates Jolt Archive

Two weeks ago, somewhere in the middle of the Ocean

The weather had been holding up for the third day in a row, allowing the Mist Allure to make up a little of the time that it had lost being holed up at its last port of call. They had been delayed first by the cargo; one of the crates had been stopped in customs for not having the correct paperwork, and then it was caught in the storm that battered the area for two days straight. But it was sailing now, and despite the poor start to the journey it had run into no further trouble.

Pete Masters walked down the corridor that led to the cargo hold, it was his duty to ensure that all the goods they were carrying were still in good condition and that nothing had been damaged in the loading and crossing. Bad weather could cause some of the crates to become loose, and in turn this could damage what was being hauled inside, and the one thing the shipping company did not want was to become liable for compensation, as this lowered their profit and gave them a bad name.

Entering, Pete lifted his clipboard, and one crate at a time he ticked off his list, in between tugging a few ropes and kicking the odd box, to make sure that it was sturdy enough for the journey. He continued this process for an hour, working his way along the hold, until he came turned around a pile of crates, finding himself in darkness.

He looked up towards the ceiling, and groaned audibly as he saw the dead bulb. Placing his list on one of the lower crates, he huffed loudly, and pulled himself up upon the lowest crate in the pile, slowly climbing upwards. The surface, though steady, was not designed to be stood upon, and it was as he pulled himself up to the next level, that he felt the wood beneath his feet give way, sending his foot through the packaging.

“Shit!” He muttered under his breath as he leant against a crate on his left, and began to tug his trapped foot, but his boot had wedged itself into the hole. Wriggling his foot, he felt it give slightly. His frustration began to rise, and it was with one almighty pull that he felt his foot come free of the packing case, taking a few more inches off wood with it. Unfortunately, his momentum worked against him, and his full body weight shifted against the crate he was leaning upon, sending it crashing to the floor, Pete following after it.

“Great! That’s just fucking great!” Picking himself off the ground, he dusted himself off, checking for bruising or other injuries. Happy that he had come away with little more than a few scratches, he turned his attention to the fallen crate, which he kicked with his foot, unable to see more than the basic shape in the semi-darkness, but the chinking sound coming from inside told him that the goods inside were ruined. Shaking his head, he reached for his clipboard, getting ready to write out an incident report, knowing his superiors were going to flip over this.

Suddenly a pain shot through his foot, which he at first put down to pulling out of the crate. He wriggled his toes, trying to find a comfortable position for it, but instead of easing the pain, it got worse, and spread rapidly over his body, until his whole body felt as if it were one fire. Dropping the clipboard, he began to rub his skin rapidly, trying to remove whatever it was that felt as if it was eating his flesh.

He let out a scream, as everything turned to black…

Present day, 200 miles north of Tartarus

Captain Harry Stonell stood on the bridge of HIMS Warrior’s Fist watching out of the main window upon the scene ahead. As far as the eye could see was nothing by sea, blue sky and clouds, but he knew that this would change shortly as they came across one of their compatriot ships, which was taking part in the training exercise with them. Around him, he could hear the regular chatter amongst the crew as they spoke details to each other, interspersed with the general noises that greeted him as he went about his daily routine.

He was feeling rather proud today, as travelling with them and taking part in the training, were a group from The Serene Union. He felt honoured to have been designated the responsibility of working closely with people from outside. It was not every day that Tartarus welcomed people to join in with military manoeuvres, other than as part of the NDA armed forces. He turned, as he heard the approach of one of his officers, who greeted him with a salute.

“Captain Stonell, we have picked up a ship on the radar.”

The Captain looked unsurprised at this. “Is it the Guardian’s Wrath?” He was expecting them to come into contact with the larger ship any time soon, but the look on the officer’s face soon confirmed that it was not.

“Sir, it appears to be the Mist Allure, a cargo vessel. We have tried to achieve radio contact but we are getting no reply.” The young officer looked concerned. “It’s sailing directly into our training co-ordinates.”

Stonell frowned and shook his head, this was something that they could do without. “Keep trying to contact them. It could simply be a radio malfunction, once we have visual, we’ll try sending them a signal. Keep me informed if there are any changes.” He paused for a moment. “Send word to the Guardian’s wrath that we are changing course to intercept. Inform them to begin without us. The last thing we want is to cause damage to a civilian ship.”

“Yes, Sir.” He turned briskly and headed back the way he had come.

* * * * *

Captain watched as the ship drew closer. Following an hour of trying to get into contact with the ship, with no success, he stood scratching his head as to what could be stopping the other from returning their radio signal. In fact, inspection of the ship showed no signs of life at all. It was with this in mind that he turned towards his second in command.

“Send out a crew, we’ll have to get our people on board.” He did not sound very happy at having to take this course of action. “A party of six should do it. Once they find out what is happening, they can contact us and rejoin the ship.” He let out a long drawn out sigh. “Speak to the Kaeneians, see if they wish to observe and assist.”

“Yes, Sir.” The first officer stood silently for a moment. “What about the training exercise?”

The Captain thought for a moment. “We should only be delayed for thirty minutes, maximum. Inform the Wrath what we are undertaking and let Captain Jameson know we will continue on our course once the party is dispatched.”

* * * * *

Lieutenant Thomas Latham stood on the deck of the ship overlooking the organisation of the party that would join him on the helicopter. There were to be airlifted over to the Mist Allure on a reconnaissance mission, to find out if anything was seriously wrong with the ship. It had been travelling by its own steam, but there was something odd about its behaviour, almost as if it was sailing itself.

His crew had been made up of eight, including himself, one of whom had some medical knowledge in case there were any injured on board. The party also consisted of a number of Kaeneians, who had kindly offered to assist in the rescue mission, which was how Thomas was already imagining this to be. Making sure that the necessary equipment was on board, he waited for the crew to climb in, ready for the off. As he made himself comfortable, he wondered what lay ahead.

Coordinator Fenras observed the rolling waves from his lofty vantage point atop the decking of the Tartarus naval vessel Warrior’s Fist, as she cut dutifully through the veritable aquatic conflagration which sought at every turn not simply to overturn the ship but consign it to the depths beneath from which there could be no return. Pale fingers clenched tightly about the handrail which acted as the sole barrier between himself and what would be a quick end indeed, his gaze remained fixed upon the apparently stricken transport to starboard.

“It shall be beneficial at least, to observe the crew in an unexpected capacity.” Came the musing, and with it announcement of the presence of only the second of three Kaeneians aboard the Warrior’s Fist. Joining his colleague at the very limit of the decking, he too stared towards the silent ship and made ponderings audible.

Nodding to acknowledge his presence, but making no other physical gesture, Fenras responded. “You are correct, Commander Eionesse. Whilst much can be gleamed from studying textbook and protocol and direct observation, as we are, one cannot truly know a crew until they have been handed the unexpected and prevailed.”

“Have you spoken with Defence-Adept Mirriaov?”

Fenras shook his head slightly, adjusting his weight as once more the Warrior’s Fist listed almost imperceptibly; the balance temporarily disturbed until the ingenuity of technology compensated. “Not since this Sunrise, I believe she is reviewing tactical procedure with the onboard security officer—a task she has been pursuing for almost eight hours.”

Eionesse did not have a moment to respond, as the polite interjection of a member of the ship’s crew seeking to bring relevant information quickly steered the course of the conversation towards altogether more curious machinations. An offer extended to the Kaeneians to accompany the Tartarus expedition to what seemed a stricken vessel, and a moment to converse between the two senior officers of the Defence Terra and Defence Solarri respectfully brought the affirmative. Breaking apart, the Kaeneians would seek time to continue their idle observations at a later date—fate sought random action this day and would not tolerate such idleness.


Mirriaov secured the straps against her chest, pausing only to ensure her own stomach was at least partially settled within the pit of her abdomen. Despite the pure fallacy of travel sickness, particularly in an age that saw vessels of tonnage gross negate the pull of Earth in an instant or a starship cross a solar system in an the blink of any mortal eye able to observe a simple helicopter jaunt was hardly worth such fuss. Unfortunately her digestive system lacked the pure and valid reasoning of her mind and did not pause to ponder such foolishness, even as her superiors hauled themselves aboard.

“You are prepared Defence-Adept?” Questioned Fenras, as adjacent to him Commander Eionesse began the simple task of readying his harness for travel.

Mirriaov nodded, deciding against attempting the vocal affirmative.

With an audible increase in wailing, the powerful and sweeping rotors succeeded in defeating the demand of Mother Nature to adhere to the law of gravity, lifting the bulky craft from the shifting decking of the Warrior’s Fist and ever upward. Piercing shafts of brilliant white light burst forth from fore-mounted searchlights as the helicopter chassis rotated, and nose dipped, indicating the commencement of motion forwards.

Indeed, if any of the Human crew aboard the thundering chopper pondered themselves the myriad possibilities that could be held responsible for the mundane malfunction of the “ghost ship”; they were joined likewise by the Kaeneian delegation. Futile in the extreme however, would premature guessing be to the combined forces at large until they were better able to assess the situation.

The odds of fate handing a joker card to those at the table was virtually assured impossible.

The whirr of the rotor mingled with the roaring of the sea below, made taking in the helicopter a little difficult, but with slightly raised voices conversation could be had, not that there was much talking as most sat in silence, silently speculating as to why the ship had failed to respond, not just through radio but visibly too. From their location on board the Warrior’s Fist the Mist Allure was devoid of life, while at the same time maintaining a course.

Lieutenant Thomas Latham let his gaze wander over his companions as they made the short hop to the stricken ship. His eyes fell first on Petty Officer Rod Harker, who seemed to me more interested in the buttons on his jacket than anything happening around them. Beside him sat one of the Able Seamen, Jack Philips who was busily talking to his companion Andrew Morris, the two being the youngest men on board, from Tartarus at least.

Behind them sat four marines, led by Lance Corporal James Anderson, who was having a briefing with his men, as he checked over his weapons, making sure they were ready in case things on board the ship turned out to be something sinister. It was always safer to assume that someone was going to greet you at your destination with guns blazing than with a smile and a hello – that would just be a bonus.

Thomas continued to move his attention around the interior of the helicopter, his attention falling upon the three personnel from Kaenei. His eyes moved quickly over to the two men, but lingered longer than was polite on the third. He still had trouble with the thought of women on board ships, in old tradition it was considered bad luck to have a lady on board. Still, he knew it would be something he had to come to terms with as Tartarus opened its male dominated professions to everyone at the request of the Empress.

He gave her a slight smile, and let his gaze finally settle on the window, as he watched the distance between the chopper and the ship grow shorter, until they were hovering over the deck, giving it a sweep over before landing. As the vehicle hit the ground with a slight jolt, he pulled open the door fully, and stepped down onto the deck, moving out of the way, as the others filed out quickly.

He signalled to the pilot once the group had disembarked, and watched as it lifted off heading back to the Warrior’s Fist to continue with the training exercise, while remaining a quick call away. Pulling his radio to his mouth, he reported their arrival on the Mist Allure to the Captain, who requested regular updates from his officer.

Finishing his conversation, he turned, running his gaze around the exterior of the ship, looking for signs of life. He frowned, feeling a strange feeling of emptiness as his eyes returned to the boarding party.

“Our first priority is to get to the Bridge, see if we can find someone in charge, who can tell us what’s going on.” He once more looked around him. “We’ll split up, as we can cover more ground that way. I’ll take the Bridge. One of you, come with me.” He pointed to one of the Tartarians then addressed the Kaeneians. “Would one of you care to accompany us?” As he waited for a reply, he turned to the others. “The rest of you, split into teams and start combing the ship. Start on the deck and work your way down.”

Fenras efficiently negated the restraining nature of the harness upon his shoulders, and departed the craft whilst his gaze drifted and noted the absurdity of an ocean robbed of the thunderous groan of restless waves. Unable to peak the incessant droning of the idle helicopter’s continually motivated rotors, the ocean beneath seemed decidedly more eerie; swelling mounds of near black water, plunging into temperatures of truly freezing depths, stripped of that most vital of indicators in sound.

Joined moments later by Commander Eionesse and Defence-Adept Mirriaov and bolstered to three, Fenras lead the Kaeneians forwards, as the Tartarus expedition lead ahead. Despite the keen attentions of all concerned, whether Human or not so, no signs of habitation, movement or functionality were detectable. The military grey steel of the transport ship was as unmoving as it was uninteresting and unwilling to assist those concerned with it unravel the oddness which passed as this silence.

With the question raised by the Tartarus military officer Thomas, Fenras delegated. “Defence-Adept Mirriaov will accompany the party intent on reaching the Bridge. I recommend myself, Commander Eionesse and perhaps a number of your own men might join in heading downwards, to the engineering levels. Whilst it is unlikely any crewmembers of seniority might be found there this vessel’s forward motion must cease, as well as a full analysis on the state of the mechanical systems be carried out immediately.”

Thomas nodded, and whilst he was hardly enamoured by the prospect of a women accompanying his team directly, his professionalism was beyond doubt. “A good suggestion Coordinator, and we’ve also tuned our communication devices to similar bands—if anything comes up, make us aware.”



Fenras felt his auditory abilities begin to come to the fore as the terrible screeching generated by the helicopter faded into partial insignificance, the hatchway duly closed though not locked behind them and allowing the thrum of not-so-distant engines to resonate. The corridors were noticeably lesser in width and height than those above deck, and where the afore mentioned were painted aesthetically bright duly and well lit, the engineering corridors were decorated only by the bundles of piping upon the walls and brightly painted red conduits suspended from the roof.

“The drive system is clearly running far below even average exertion.” He commented, continuing forwards with the illumination beacon mounted upon his wrist sweeping considerable arcs of light ahead.

Eionesse nodded, forced to stand behind for the room within the corridor was at such premium as to deny the chance to stand two abreast. “This could be due to damage, or deliberate wastefulness on the part of the crew. I do not however see any indications of damage.”

The pair quickly came upon an internal door, ajar and allowing the Kaeneians visibility ahead many metres until a sharp corner robbed them of foresight. The door itself was unremarkable, bare metal decorated with only the sterile warning to ensure closure when not in active use, mounted above the central wheel used to disengage the lock. The fact said door was indeed open did not forebode well, as well as an obvious fault with the internal lighting beyond that haphazardly bathed the corridor in flickering blackness for indeterminable periods of time.

“Perhaps we are dealing with a malfunction,” added Eionesse as he stepped through the doorway.


Mirriaov allowed the beam of her search beacon to lower slightly, as she accepted the proffered door by the Human male ahead. She had studied somewhat the society of Tartarus and was fully aware of the subservient role played by women before the rise to power and somewhat infamy of the Empress Gehenna, whose sweeping reforms had allowed her likewise kind to assume other positions of power. As a Kaeneian, these concerns were non-existent; respect, acceptance and power were available and given to her and in turn she reciprocated. Even if each of the males of Tartarus gathered around saw her as beneath them, she cared little for their acceptance was hardly vital to the purpose of her being here.

As a corner was rounded, her communication pod erupted mounted upon almost the very pinnacle of her left shoulder erupted into life. “Report your status, Defence-Adept Mirriaov.”

Rotating said shoulder and craning her neck she responded efficiently, “We have penetrated the forward section, and are closing on the bridge Commander. As yet we have located none of the Human crew and have come upon nothing of consequence, baffling in the extreme.”

“Acknowledged,” came the curt response as silence reigned once more.

Continuing onward, Mirriaov’s head snapped to the right as her eyes unconsciously tracked what seemed the tiniest flurry of movement. Instantly illuminating said target, she realised it to be nothing more consequential than a common insect, perhaps a fly. Chastising herself at being so easily distracted the Kaeneian passed forwards, failing to categorise the odd markings upon the abdomen of the supposedly generic creature which though almost black under torch-enabled duress, flickered with an odd violet hue in the natural darkness enveloping. Unwilling to entertain the stinging light of further viewing, invisible muscle tissue raised smooth body panels and allowed the unfurling thin if stretched wings. As quickly as it had appeared the odd creature disappeared once more into the bowels of the silent, unwilling and mute cargo vessel.

The Tartarians split up into three groups. One group heading for the bridge, one remaining on the deck level and one moving into the bowels of the ship as suggested but the Kaeneians. This way they would be able to get to the bottom of the mystery quicker, or at least, that was the plan. Going off in their ways the four groups parted company, connected only by radio.

Lt. Corporal James Anderson led the group that headed down to the lower levels. A marine for more years than he cared to admit to, he did not feel easy with the task that they before them, but he did not voice his concerns. Neither would he until he had firm reason to do so. He flicked on his torch as he entered the door, his footfalls echoing around him as he walked through the metal corridor, his eyes flicking around him instinctively, looking for trouble.

The three members of the group walked along in silence, listening for sounds of life. Their eyes moved around, flash lights highlighting the spot. Not that it was dark inside the ship, the low lighting was still enough to give those on board a view, but they were looking for evidence or people, they needed to make sure they saw everything.

Flashing his light around, Lt Anderson brought his light to bear on an opening in the corridor wall. “Here are the stairs that’ll take us to the cargo area.” He turned and looked at his two companions, one of whom he had worked closely with before. He spoke to Private Stuart Grant, another marine. “You cover the rear, I’ll take the lead.” His eyes and attention flicked over to Able Seaman Andrew Morris. “Let’s keep our ears and eyes open, gentlemen. If you hear or see anything, give the word and we’ll check it out. We don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”

Getting an acknowledgement from both, he turned back to the opening that led down to the lower levels. With footfalls echoing all around them, they made their way towards the cargo bay.

* * * * *

It was not hard for the three that remained on deck to run their eyes around the visible parts of the ship to see that the place was deserted. Where there should have been people checking and carrying out the general running of the ship, there was no one. It was truly a ghost ship. Petty Officer Rod Harker imagined how quickly this would be adopted into sea folklore, unless there was some simple solution.

He wandered over the deck, surprised to see that all the life boats save one was still in its crib. The other was still attached to the ship, but it appeared to have had some attempt to launch it, if unsuccessfully. He moved over for a closer look, his eyes scanning the area for signs of a reason why. Of course, he had seen people become irrational following long terms at sea. He could imagine someone trying to set off in a boat, and being restrained by their colleagues, but that did not explain the emptiness of the ship.

He turned and faced away from the boat, looking over at his two companions. “Wise! Phillips! Get over here!” His attention was moved back to the boat as he waited for the others to join him. “We need to get the boat back up. Wise, you get your weapon ready. Phillips, you start the winch. Let’s see if the life boat will tell us anything.”

The two men moved quickly to their tasks, the Able Seaman moving toward the life boat controls, while the marine readied his weapon, covering the opposite angle to Harker. With an order from the Petty Officer, Phillips began to bring the boat up the side of the ship. The only sound other than the breathing of the three was the whirring of the motor as the winch carried out its job.

Guns at the ready, the two armed men, watched as the top of the lifeboat became visible, the tarpaulin covering had been semi-flung back, revealing the inside of the boat, but other than that, there appeared to be nothing suspicious or anyone inside. Harker turned to Phillips. “Bring it down on the deck. Slowly.”

Nodding his head, Phillips manoeuvred the boat, bringing it down past its cradle, as the two other men moved apart, allowing the vessel to land between them. Once the winch was no longer in action, the noise of the hull hitting the deck his signal, Phillips moved around to where boat rested, and moved closer, his hand gripping the tarpaulin.

“On three!” Harker’s voice called out. “One, two, three.”

The two guns were raised, but did not fire as Phillips pulled back the covering, revealing the interior of the boat. Seeing nothing inside, the two men lowered their weapons, as the three moved in for a closer look.

* * * * *

Lt. Latham moved forward, leading the group towards the bridge. Following him was Mirriaov and taking up the rear was Greg Bates, a Tartarian marine. He had not been happy about having a woman on board, not that he did not think that she was capable of the job, he was just not used to seeing a woman on board the ship. He had been somewhat pleased when she had been volunteered to join him on the way to the bridge.

Flashing his light around, he was oddly surprised that the lights were so dim despite the movement of the ship. It appeared that they were sailing under emergency lighting conditions; this in itself did not bode well, but could at least explain what had happened to the crew. Yet at the same time, he had to assume that as the vessel was still running it had not sent out a mayday, nor had any other ships intercepted it before them.

He moved forward, his flashlight flicking around, highlighting his surroundings, bringing up no solution to the desertion of the ship. He turned around as he heard the voice of the Kaeneian filling the corridor as she spoke to her compatriot. Of course, he did not understand a word she said, but he assumed they were updating her of their findings. Once he reached the bridge, he would check in with the rest of the landing party.

“We’ll head up now.” Latham spoke. “I’m not sure what we are going to find up there, if anything. We’ll make our first priority the ship’s log. If the captain did his job he should have noted any problems they’d experienced.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s hope he followed protocol.”

Unlike Mirriaov, he did not see the insect that had caught her attention. And without another word, he headed up the stair towards the bridge, hoping that the others were having more luck at finding some of the crew than they so far had.

With an echoing thud that reverberated around the cavernous engine room, the door exiting said chamber closed, as Fenras adjusted his stance to now illuminate the path ahead. Both himself and Eionesse stood upon a gantry of steel suspended several stories above the very lower deck, which slowly spiralled around the considerable mass of the ship’s primary engine; titanic pistons and stretching radiator baffles dwarfing the pathway the Kaeneians found themselves upon.

“We should be unable to hear even our own thoughts within these walls,” Fenras said aloud.

Eionesse nodded, “Indeed, were this engine at even two-thirds output the noise would be quite deafening, yet it seems merely a hollow rumble of discontent rather than the thrashing of combustion we should expect.”

The ruddy red glow of the emergency lighting failed to provide true illumination, merely acting to accentuate the features of recessed areas; piping traversing first the roof then wall, cooling grilles capping creaking ventilation ducts and sealed doorways. The occasional hiss of steam and accompanying burst drifted upwards from the twisting mass of piping surrounding the fuel intake lines at the very bottom of the structure, still to be reached by the Kaeneians.

Pausing at a bank of controls mounted upon a wall before them, Fenras mused at the information contained upon the monitors. Deactivating his wrist-mounted torch so that he might better glimpse the data, he turned to his colleague even as his hands manipulated the controls deftly.

“This monitor informs us that the fuel tanks of this vessel are intact and functional, yet the engine has consumed far more fuel than projections claim should have been the case. This leaves us with a likely scenario that this vessel has been at sea longer than was envisioned. I cannot find a command entry to throttle back speed—this may indicate that a malfunction has reduced engine power output.”

Eionesse retrieved his radio, and depressed the button necessary. “We have reached the engine room and confirm no crewmen yet encountered, whilst an analysis of the fuel tanks indicates the ship has spent more than the course charted expected. Advise the Tartarus captain of our findings, Eionesse out.”

Continuing downwards, Fenras failed to notice the leap of an insect from a ledge into the air, and towards the monitor he had previously been attendant at. The curious creature landed upon the screen, and began to oscillate in colour, the abdomen becoming a muted flurry of cycling light which went unnoticed by the Kaeneians now focused on matters more puzzling than an infestation of what were surely common insects.

Mirriaov was not granted the opportunity to acknowledge the radio transmission before her superior ended the one-sided conversation, returning her bridge entry to silence as she replaced the radio on her utility clip. Turning, she came up to the side of the Human Captain of the expedition, dutifully repeating the discovery, or rather, the lack of discovery by the Kaeneians within the engine room. She was familiar with the difficulty the men of Tartarus felt at women in positions of authority, and despite this changing she felt unease in their conversation.

Petty Officer Harker let out an audible sigh, which was merely a sign of the confusion he felt. He moved forward, like his two companions and scanned his eyes over the interior of the boat, his mind whizzing with the various scenarios that were racing through his head. He looked at Wise and Phillips, their expressions matching his to some extent. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the boat, his eyes scanning for any clue that would lead them to understand the series of events that led to the lifeboat being half lowered.

Deep in thought, it took Able Seaman Phillips three attempts to attract his attention. “Sir, there seems to be a bullet hole in the side of the boat.” The man leant forward to get a closer look, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “It looks like it was fired downward, possibly by someone on deck.” He turned to his superior officer. “Why would anyone shoot out the lifeboat?”

Harker shook his head. “I don’t know.” He moved around the boat and gave the hole a closer inspection, hoping that it had been made by something other than a bullet as predicted by Phillips. “Someone must have gone crazy, trying to escape. Whoever was on deck must have thought the best way was to fire at the guy.” He ran his hand over the top of the hole, his eye being caught by a mass of black dots on the bottom of the boat.

As Harker was engrossed, Wise spoke up. “But why leave the boat dangling on the side of the boat? And where is the rest of the crew?” His voice sounded strained, as if the thought was too much for him. “I don’t like this. I don’t like this one bit.”

The Petty Officer climbed into the boat, finding it the only way to get a closer look at the boat. The other two men watched from their vantage point on the deck, continuing their discussion, informing each other about their fears and sharing their opinion of what had happened on board theMist Allure.

“They seem to have had some insect infestation. This boat has several dead examples of flying bugs, unfortunately that seems to be the only sign of life – ableit deceased – that there is on board this vessel.” Harker stood up and brushed his fingers down his trousers, and climbed back out of the boat. “Damn, this is crazy as hell. There is no one around, and no sign of anyone. If it wasn’t for the fact that the boats are all accounted for, I’d have sworn they’d jumped ship.”

His boots resounded on the deck, as he jumped out of the boat. “I don’t think there is anything here.” Harker indicated the rest of the ship. “Let’s keep looking.”

* * * * *

Lt Latham nodded his head as Mirriaov came to the end of the message, a frown etching its way over his brow. He, like the rest of his team, was feeling more than a little uncomfortable walking around the ship. He had hoped that by now someone would have come across one member of the missing crew. The longer their searching went on, the more certain he was becoming that they would not find anyone on board. But that did not answer his niggling question of what happened to them.

He gave Mirriaov a smile. “I guess no news is good news.” He wished he felt as confident as he sounded. “Okay, let’s pull up the ship log, and get some idea of what is going on.” He moved over to the captain’s chair, resting his hand on the back. His fingers slid over the leather, which felt oddly clammy. He brushed the though aside quickly, as materials, if older, seemed to feel different in the climate that was often afforded by the ocean.

As the Lieutenant spoke to the Kaeneian, their companion wandered aimlessly around the bridge, which seemed strangely deathlike without its crew compliment. Marine Greg Bates took in a deep breath, convinced that he could smell the lingering odour of death in the air. He shook himself, banishing the thought to the back of his mind, as he headed off to the door to get a quick intake of fresh air. He let his gaze move around him, looking back down the length of the ship, which appeared even emptier from this new view point.

Stepping back inside, he moved over to the other two, his eyes flicking between the two. “This ship shouldn’t be moving. There is no one steering, there is no one running the engines.” He shook his head, his voice conveying his disbelief. “If we hadn’t run upon it, I’d hate to think where the damn thing would have ended up.”

Lt Latham looked up from his task and nodded. “I guess it was our lucky day.” He turned to Mirriaov and pointed at the log. “I think we are going to have to go through this and see if there are any incidents that could lead to a plausible reason for no one being on board. Like I said earlier, if we are lucky the captain will have left a full account and we can be off this bucket before too long.” He let out a long sigh. “Are you all feeling lucky today?” He grimaced as he realised he was feeling far from it.

* * * * *

Lt Corporal Anderson led his team down into the bowels of the ship, their feet clanking on the metal stairs that they descended. Torchlight flicked all around them, the three beams making out and highlighting all the nooks and crannies. As they moved down, the three began to lose all faith in their search, as they saw or heard no signs of life coming around them, other than the whining of the ship itself.

He finally reached the bottom of the steps; all around him were corridors leading off down the length of the ship. He raised his hand, his fellow companions falling instantly silent as they listened. Their ears strained, trying to pick out any clue as to which would be the best way to go, eventually it was down to Anderson to make a decision. And knowing that the Kaeneians were heading towards the engine room, they were left with the cargo bays.

Flicking his gaze around, he pointed off in a direction, and without uttering a word, the three men moved forward aiming for the nearest cargo bay. As they neared the door, they stopped and pulled out their weapons, just in case they should come across something or someone unexpected, and the last thing the three wanted was to be caught unawares.

Weapons at the ready, Anderson pulled open the door, the other men, Morris and Grant, moved forward ready to attack anything that seemed a threat. But the sound of their footsteps echoed around the room, empty of anything other than the cargo the ship had been commissioned to carry. As the three men stopped just inside the door, they flashed their lights around the interior.

“Okay, let’s split up.” Anderson pointed first to the left and then the right, calling out each of their names as he did so. “Morris, Grant.” They nodded and began to move apart. “I’ll take the middle. If you see anything, holler.” Without another word, the three started on their search.

The bridge was considerably more spacious than Mirriaov’s experience had previously comforted her to accept; military constructs demanding a usage of space with efficiency civilian design could not only ignore, but altogether distort to provide such an alien concept as aesthetics. A pleasantly bright paint applied liberally to the walls and surrounding structure would have at one time improved the atmosphere palpably.

Yet such times had passed, and no longer was this control centre so mundane -- Virtually every facet of its function manipulated by the circumstances of its discovery into unsettling and odd forms. Even the observation windows allowing one to gaze outwards to the bulk of the ship stretching ahead beneath bore unsettling reminders of prior habitation; scratches originating from the harsh scrubbing motion of the wipers mounted above as they dutifully cleaned the glass of rain, or snow, stopping only in the curved corners where such mechanical intervention could not reach.

The virtually scrubbed-worn flooring, long bereft of original finishing found inanimate revenge against the cleaning agents by hoarding dirt and debris within the very corners of consoles and doorframes -- Where the lazy or unmotivated did not care to pursue and upon a civilian craft would go unnoticed and likewise unpunished.

Approaching such a unit, the Kaeneian paused as her vision focused upon the bulging dome of the radar station; a green shadow that waxed and waned upon her clothing as the signals were processed and dutifully reported the only disturbance, the echo of the ship they had arrived upon anchored but a long leap away.

The green and mottled imprint against her was however incomplete -- The source of the partial blockage being alarmingly, the trail of crimson left coating portions of the dome and absorbing all light cast forth. Examining the ichors of life closely, it seemed blatantly old in its decay and sported a darkness that betrayed the long period it had spent forcefully liberated from its warm and caring home of flesh, and bone.

“I believe we have collated our first evidence that something malicious is afoot,” She announced, sharply enough to gain attention.


The thrum, labelled such only in condition of convenience and not in lieu of any considerable sound being generated, lessened to virtual silence as the colossal engine housing lost what little motivation it had once held to continue the forward motion of the vessel -- pipes emanating from the combustion chamber stopping their subtle vibrations as throttle fell sharply and all motive energy ceased.

“Engine shut down completed.”

Fenras nodded, as he crossed to join his compatriot whilst illuminating the way via the considerably powerful beam of light cast forth from his wrist-mounted device. Examining the readouts to ascertain the silence for himself, the senior Kaeneian addressed the assembly surrounded by almost insufficient guardrails.

“It appears there is now insufficient fuel reserve remaining to allow a return to port under own power; considering the speeds set and haphazard course, I can only deduce this vessel has been adrift for some time, and was not abandoned in the immediate past."

Eionesse nodded, “There is no evidence to suggest, at least in our preliminary investigation of the engineering levels that anything bordering foul-intent occurred. Perhaps we should continue onwards, and ascend to the habitation quarters? It is possible further clues will present themselves there.”

Stepping back from the titanic machine of metal and purpose, Fenras assumed the path his subordinate created, and pressed further into the depths of this mystery. Unusually it seemed as though no purpose precipitated this conundrum; no blatant wrong, or scarcely concealed horror that could account for the suspension of normalcy I such a total and all-encompassing fashion. Nothing of note remained to explain the desolate scenes before them -- Frustratingly, whatever lay at cause eluded them with the same ease that had seen it strike so harshly previously upon this ship and its crew.

Lt Latham turned as the woman spoke, and walked over to where she was standing, his gaze focused on the object of interest. He gave the mark a quick inspection, agreeing instantly with Mirriaov’s assessment. Letting his eyes move quickly around the area, looking for further signs of struggle, finding nothing else that seemed to indicate what could have happened. Not at first glance anyway.

“It definitely looks like something happened in here, but there doesn’t seem to be enough evidence to suggest what.” He frowned. “Whatever did occur, the owner of that blood must have lost it as the crew disappeared, otherwise someone would have cleaned up around here.” He shook his head, feeling frustrated that nothing seemed to be revealing itself at a satisfactory pace. “I believe our only hope rests in the hands of the ship’s captain. I hope he was doing his job properly.”

Moving away from the radar, his eyes lingering on the streak of blood as if it would speak to him and reveal how it got there, Lt Latham walked around the bridge, once more scanning for other signs. He saw this companion lift what appeared to be a book from its place holding place, and wandered over to where he stood.

“Is that the log?” He asked expectantly.

* * * * *

Petty Officer Harker, looked around the deck, other than the bugs and the feeling that things happened quickly, he felt frustrated. Across the deck, items that looked like they had been in use had just been dumped where they were, almost as if something had crept over the ship making each of the crew disappear on the spot. There were traces of struggle…or more so a rush to escape, the lifeboat being one of the prime examples. But he would not understand what they had been running from.

There was no sign of gunshots, no indication that the ship had been under attack from another party. It really did not make any sense to the man who stood in the centre of the deck, looking around him at a ghost ship. He picked up his radio.

“Lieutenant Latham, Harker here.” He paused for a moment. “There is nothing here, and I mean nothing. The deck is empty. There is no sign of life on this rust bucket.”

A voice came through his radio. “Is there anything that could indicate that these people had been killed or forced off the vessel?”

“Nothing. If these people left, they jumped ship while it was running.” Harker shook his head, feeling a sinking feeling in his chest. “I say we get off and call a team out to haul her back to dock.”

The radio crackled slightly before the Lieutenant spoke again. “I want to be totally sure there is nothing left on board. We’ve found signs of a possible struggle on the bridge.” He paused for a moment, as he seemed to listen to another voice nearby. “We’re just checking the log. With any luck it will answer some questions. Latham out.”

Harker looked over at the other two men, who were checking the area around the lifeboats. Under his breath he muttered, “I think this ship has run out of luck.”

* * * * *

The light in the cargo hold was dim, even with the odd bulb still casting its low glow over the area. But the room was still light enough to enable Lance Corporal Anderson from walking into any of the crates and boxes that littered the hold. In the dark, they appeared as walls creating a kind of maze through the area. He edge forward carefully, swearing slightly as his arm grazed along the corner of a crate that he was closer to than he realised.

His eyes scanned around him, his ears picking up the footfalls of the other two men who were mirroring his actions, as they moved down the length of the area. The place felt oppressive, as if the room was closing in on him, the passage ways in front of him seeming to narrow to alarmingly small spaces. As he moved on, he could see the area growing darker ahead, almost like they were walking into a tunnel.

Suddenly gunfire sounded from his left, a quick rapid succession before it stopped, almost as quickly as it started. From his right, he could hear the sound of running footsteps, his own joining in. The two men arrived at the location of the gunfire at the same time, to see Grant standing there his weapon pointing into the darkness.

“What is it?” Anderson shouted as he came to a halt. “What did you see?”

Grant shook his head. “I’m not sure, it was like a shadow, but it wasn’t. It moved, like a man, but then it seemed to up and separate.” He frowned in the gloom. “Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be harmed by the bullets.” Despite his words, he did not lower his gun.

“Okay, let’s go see what it was. There might be something it left behind.” Anderson raised his gun, and from the corner of his eye saw Morris do the same. He could not shake the feeling that the emptiness of the ship and the desire to find something had caused the other marine to see something that was not really there.

Slowly, the three men edged forward.

Mirriaov walked forwards, as the hefty book seemingly identified as the Captain’s log was dropped the short distance to the tabletop and landed with a muted thud. Negotiating her way through the assembling Humans, and aiming her wrist-mounted light upon the tome she opened the cover gingerly. Though she hardly expected anything to rear its unpleasant head from the mere pages of a book, little was gained from being rash.

Her brow furrowed as the light illuminated the somewhat-crushed remains of an insect upon the introductory page. Indeed the name of the ship’s Captain was obscured by the long dried fluids of the curious creature of a species she could not identify. This in itself was not surprising -- the Kaeneian was hardly fluent in the insect life of Tartarus.

Retrieving a small plastic container from her small utility backpack, she paused to consult the assembled men. “Do you recognise this specimen?” She asked whilst appropriating the tweezers required to liberate it from the apparently premature grave it occupied on the paper. Hearing assorted negatives, she sealed the small sample jar and placed it back safely within her sack and back upon her leaning back.

Turning attention back to the log, she turned the page and spied actual entries. The majority were irrelevant; course corrections and minor thoughts of some weeks passed -- Neither interesting nor directly shining reason on why this vessel now found itself paralysed utterly. She paused before an entry dated scarcely five days previous, and read aloud.

Tuesday 28th August. 0400 Hours.

Captain Maxwell Florance-Ponganne entering.

This is probably the earliest entry I’ve ever had the misfortune to write! The temperature onboard has been steadily going loco since about noon yesterday. Sleeping is as good as impossible; you’d think I’d fallen overboard with the amount of water that rolls of my skin just laying in bed for a half hour. Getting hotter and no amount of shouting at Alan’s correcting it. He keeps wining about the cooling pumps being blocked so I told him to disassemble one and take a look -- Despite his protests that it’d take hours and only reveal a malfunction they couldn’t fix onboard. He’ll let me know as soon as he’s done.

I should have stayed in the military -- At least the cutbacks were for the good of the country.


Wednesday 29th August 1700 Hours.

Captain Maxwell Florance-Ponganne entering.

The military certainly didn’t include this in basic tech maintenance; Alan showed me the pump this morning, and it’s chock full of bugs. Hundreds crammed so tightly they gummed up the pump totally -- No amount of scrubbing shifted them, and they’re the oddest things I’ve seen in a long, long while. Shiny carapace and eight legs. We’re not sure how they got there, but there’s a smashed crate in the cargo hold and it could be someone’s classroom biology experiment. I’ll bill the shipping address when we reach port, those pumps are not cheap.


Mirriaov chose not to read the next few entries, of considerable mundane nature and irrelevance. Her attention was however grasped by the curious element of an entry dated a few days after the events of the pump failure which had first caught her attention as odd.


Sunday 3rd August 1900 Hours.

Captain Maxwell Florance-Ponganne entering.

What started as an annoyance and costly fuck up is escalating into a major bloody nightmare. A few hours ago there was bedlam in the mess hall when some of the guys reported those bugs appearing from the taps in running water -- Dead as could be, but still somehow in the water system. Alan, a man famed for his appetite placed this as priority and took a team to the filtration plant. Sure enough, he said the purification filters had been blocked by them, and they’d got into the pipes too.

We’re not taking the risk of drinking the water without proper filtration with these things floating in them, so I’ve ordered the emergency seawater purifiers and tablets out. It’s not quite yet an emergency of drastic proportions -- We’ve got bottled water onboard and this ship is due a decent service, and truthfully, probably a decent chief engineer to replace Alan.


Thursday 7th August 0300 Hours.

Captain Maxwell Florance-Ponganne entering.

I feel like I’ve fallen into a poorly written thriller. The Radar’s been added to the list of systems affected by this infestation; so clogged the dish isn’t even rotating at the top of the tower. Alan says he’s almost certain the container in the hold’s responsible for their migration, but it doesn’t really help us. Water on tap and air conditioning we can deal without -- Not being able to see other ships and hazards is just downright dangerous.

Sunday 10th August. Time Unknown.

We lost motive power this morning, and then the rest of the shipboard mains. Alan’s just gibbering about loose wiring and overloads, but it’s pretty obvious this is just the latest symptom. I’m no alarmist but this is beginning to look a little foreboding; we’ve still the radio hooked up to emergency battery, so broadcasting our position isn’t a problem. Just have to sit tight, play some cards, and do something about the incessant heat.


Monday 11th August.

They’re buzzing now. A droning that doesn’t stop day or night, coming from under the deck plating and behind the walls. I don’t know what’s driving them but I’ve seen them swarm as quick as a flash from a dark recess to another through a flashlight. They don’t seem to like the dark much …



They’re hungry.


The Kaeneian could read no more, the simple sentence forming the final entry, and bringing a consensus upon those assembled. Reiterating these unspoken words, Mirriaov turned to the Tartarus Captain, her eyes displaying the obvious urgency not present in her otherwise cool and clipped voice. “I suggest an immediate withdrawal until such time as we can ascertain the log -- This ship may be the victim of accepting one too many ‘unauthorised’ transport missions.”

Reaching for her Radio, the woman sought to contact her superiors deep within the bowels of engineering. However instead of a brief burst of static upon activation, a high-pitched whine tore from the speaker panel, assaulting the ears of all gathered until Mirriaov found the perseverance to continue lost and silenced the unit.

“Perhaps you should check your equipment Captain,” she requested. “It appears we may be in some degree of difficulty.”