OtherSpace MUSH

There’s one rule on Tomin Kora – Don’t cross the Boss. What happens when the rule is violated? Saiidyr finds out…

Conference Room

A brightly lit room with slit windows overlooking the city of Shadowheart. Taking up most of the room is an oval mahogany table surrounded by a dozen black leather chairs. Holographic emitters mounted on the ceiling are aimed at the center of the table. A stylized C gleams in steel on one wall. Guards stand on either side of the door.

The Tomin Nebula shimmers through the transparent dome overhead.

Falkenberg walks in to the conference room a bit warily. He limps a bit, his peg leg thumping on the floor.

Neidermeyer stands, staring out the angled window. A chill breeze hisses past the slightly open pane as he stares down at the city. His hands are clasped behind his back. Two human guards flank him, eyes locked on the doorway. As Falkenberg enters, they bring the guns up. Neidermeyer hears the sound, then looks up, seeing the reflection in the glass. “Ah, Johnny boy. Good evening.”

Falkenberg’s face tightens a bit at the word “Johnny.” But he forces a smile and nods. “Mr. Neidermeyer. I have just now returned to Tomin Kora from Nephthys, which I must say is a singularly boring place these days. Not like it once was.”

Neidermeyer arches an eyebrow. Slowly, he turns to face Falkenberg. “Can’t say I’d know anything about that. Never spent any time offworld – well, besides the usual patrols or journeys to Mars – before the revolution.” He curls a wry smile. “But enough ancient history. Let’s talk about right now. You’ve heard about these fiends in the CHPMF, I assume?”

Falkenberg nods. “I read the news regularly, Mr. Niedermeyer. I must say it seems to me they misnamed the organization. CHUMP sounds more like it.”

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Saiidyr’s Crossing” »

The Minerva crew discover the cause of TRV and race to find a solution…

Crew Facilities

The bunks stacked in two rows, two-high, can sleep as many as 50 crew members. They appear to be designed primarily with humanoids in mind, but several appear to be reinforced and extended for larger, bulkier races.

The crew bunk area also includes four unisex comfort cubicles, four showers, an exercise square featuring an oval running track, training gear and weightlifting equipment, and a holovid pit with a viewer and a few couches and chairs.

The ship’s commander and executive officer have their own cubicles that contain beds, computer terminals, and dressers for the display of personal effects.

DS-3633 is attached to a computer console. Suddenly, the Phyrrian comes alive and disconnects itself.

Porter emerges from his cubicle, tugging on the sleeves of his uniform jacket.

Marlan enters the crew facility, a backpack on her back.

Porter glances toward Marlan, nodding. “Doctor, evening.”

DS-3633 turns and says, “Greetings Colonal Porter, this unit inquires of your current state.” It turns, “Greetings.” It still doesn’t know how to refer to her.

Porter tilts his head, looking toward DS-3633. “My current state? I’m itching to hit the road, Diss.”

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Face of the Enemy” »

Concordance Station’s nefarious cab driver, Buteo, runs into trouble on the flight deck…

Concordance Station Flight Deck

A high, broad chamber that serves as the flight prep and launch deck for the Concordance Station colony ship. A blister module high atop the port wall, above the entrance, serves as the control tower. To starboard, a wide slit opens onto the blackness of space. The cargo bay is aft. A muster room is fore.

Burn marks and rubble from broken vessels litter the area.

Buteo Limousines Cab – 9327 fires its braking thrusters as it arrives.

Buteo Limousines Cab – 9327 whirs to a stop near the shuttle arrivals platform.

Urfkgar shrugs and says, “Yup. Urf mosterer goodererer. Urf want carrots. Urf eatededed all carrots. Urf no go morerer. Urf do work stuff.”

Buteo Limousines Cab – 9327 whirs near the shuttle arrivals platform.

Neilson chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Urf, yer certainly interestin’. Why don’tcha jus’ get some more carrots if ya want ’em?”

Urfkgar clacks his teeth together and grumbles, “Urf sayededed. Urf do work stuff. Urf no stupid softskin grabass. Urf do work stuff. Urf do work stuff.”

Melody enters from the customs room, steps slow and shaky. In one olive hued hand she holds a pair of wire-rimmed glasses while the other wipes her tear-stained cheeks free of moisture.

The yellow hoverlimo honks its horn repeatedly.

“No – Hero that is most uncalled for!” comes a muffled shout from inside the hoverlimo.

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Wrong Turn” »

A couple of Timonae on Tomin Kora encounter the famously unintelligible Tito Aldente.

Last Call Tavern

A place like this makes a person wish every chair sat with its back to a wall.

The tavern is a dark and shadowy place, the outside glow of the nebula filtering in weakly while pale blue plasma lanterns gleam in the center of most tables (some seem to have run out of juice, but the complaints department doesn’t care and the maintenance crew doesn’t get paid enough to intrude on conversations better left in the darkness).

The room stinks of sweat, cigarette smoke, and spilled alcohol and blood.

Fifteen tables and six booths are arrayed around a central C-shaped bar counter, which has eight stools in front of it.

Tito minces into the tavern, datapad in hand, mouth twitching as he peers through the shadows.

Niesa throws back her head with a low, rich laugh. “If anybody’s Neidermeyer’s bitch, it’s Falkenberg. You would be surprised, I think.”

Tito forms an ‘O’ with his mouth as he hears the familiar voice of the bodyguard. He begins to weave through the tavern, chin up, glancing dartily back and forth as he calls out. “Meez Naawwweesssawww?”

Read More “Classic OtherSpace Log: Speak of the Devil” »