//This is an experimental approach to roleplaying. I have a long-running ship, the INS-Klaxon (formerly LNS), and I want to continue its story even after the demise of the Insurgency. I have decided to give the community input into its storyline direction in a way that makes sense and is in-character for the captain, Cmdr. Augustus Howe, to pursue. This thread will occasionally pose certain issues as multiple-choice questions, and anyone is welcome to post as a member of the Klaxon's crew and vote according to the system laid out. Please do not participate maliciously or with simple +1s for certain options, but rather post and vote in a thought-out manner, as an actual member of the crew who has fought and suffered as a soldier and has a role to play on the ship. I will request moderation of posts that do not follow these guidelines.
Battleship Klaxon - Situation Report 08/09/830 AS The Ohio and its battlegroup are closing in on Veracruz. The Insurgent Navy is in tatters. Standing orders from Central Command are for units unable or unwilling to throw their lives away in a heroic last stand to disperse via Kansas, Cortez, or Texas; either to carry on the fight in the Independent Worlds however they can, or to abandon their equipment and slip into the shadows.
The Klaxon, from its position at the edge of the Guerrero field, has a birds-eye view of the carnage unfolding, with the last remaining Arbiters, Judicators, and Archer strike groups collapsing by the day as Liberty's search-and-destroy wings pick them off before they can even assemble into a coherent defense line. Every watt of power coursing through the nigh-decrepit Monument-class's circuitry, at present, is devoted either to life support or its overcharged sensor arrays; as far as Insurgent assets operating anywhere besides Leniex know, the Klaxon went dark weeks ago.
In all respects, the situation seems utterly hopeless. Commander Augustus Howe, who's been at the helm for a long and trying eight-plus years, has a hard time feeling anything besides regret over the entire affair; after all, not only did the Klaxon help enforce martial law in Texas during the Nomad War, the Insurgent Navy deposed the Commonwealth's civilian government and betrayed Liberty's ancient values once again in imposing military rule over the population of Veracruz.
"Never again", he vows. He leaves the captain's quarters, decorated with various medals issued from centers as diverse as West Point and Marshall, and enters the bridge. Howe ignores the inquiring glances of his command staff and a wandering atmospheric technician, approaches the command desk, and toggles the microphone on, leaning down to send a message to every single room, lobby, hall, and supply closet on the ship:
"All non-essential personnel, report to mess hall. Atmospheric technicians are advised to set regulators to auto. As many hands as possible are to find a seat or place to stand and await further instructions. Over and out."
//Who can vote: every character gets one vote. I myself have two votes, representing the quartermaster and the communications officer. Certain community members who desire a higher involvement in the Klaxon's storyline (you know who you are) are allowed to have two characters, each who can vote as they please—their characters do not all have to vote the same way. They know who they are; if I have not talked to you about this, you may invent ONE character and vote as you please.
//How voting works: You don't just have one vote; every character can vote for as many options as they please. You cannot vote for the same option twice. This is called "approval voting". Imagine you're trying to decide where to go to eat with your five friends, and nobody can agree, so you say "Ok, who's okay with Taco Bell? I see four hands. Who's okay with McDonald's? I see two hands. Who's okay with Wendy's? I see three hands. Okay, we're going to Taco Bell". So everyone votes for every option they don't hate, and the option with the most votes wins. This way, the final choice is whatever the most people are okay with.
//If you don't understand the voting system: DM me or message me on Discord, or just wait until the first round of voting is concluded and see how it works. Everyone is welcome to come up with a character, representing a crewmate in any position on the Klaxon. This character should NOT exist ingame in any capacity unless I've talked with you about it, and should exist just for the purposes of Klaxon-related threads; I will be working on ways to make forum-only characters fun and engaging, including lots of threads about what's going on inside the ship as time goes on that you all will be able to participate in.
Battleship Klaxon - All-Hands Meeting Minutes 08/09/830 AS Regardless of their personal feelings on the lost cause of the Insurgency or on Howe personally, the entire crew knew better than to disregard or delay in enacting any order, no matter how unusual. Almost all were former Navy personnel, some having been in the Legion long before the Separatist campaign even began, and maintaining constant military discipline was, by now, universally reflexive.
Still, a dreadnought is a large thing, and older models like the Klaxon don't have the luxury of elevators and other such extraneous features. It took about half an hour for the vast majority of the crew to assemble itself in the mess. Absent were some of the junior engine technicians and a few ensigns consigned to janitorial duties. It was unlikely that their input would sway the outcome of what was to come regardless.
Howe stood atop a small desk near one of the self-service counters in the mess, with a blackboard next to him. There were some mutters among the more experienced crewmates—some joking, others concerned—about the increasingly heavy lines being worn into his face, but otherwise the cafeteria was silent. Eventually, when he was satisfied that the majority of personnel were present, Howe spoke. He was getting on in years, but his voice still boomed.
"At ease, all. We have already gone through the winnowing of the wheat from the chaff; those formerly of our number who wished to evacuate or give up the fight have already been provided their escape routes and received honorable discharges. Those of you remaining have decided to continue your service aboard the Klaxon wherever fate may carry it."
He paused, taking a deep breath before nodding and resuming his speech.
"We are on the precipice of a historic defeat. The last major resistance to the illegitimate government's tyrannical forces is about to be wiped out, and the situation is such that we are unable to provide meaningful support. Informal surveys have been carried out via your immediate commanding officers, and the majority of us are of the opinion that the Klaxon should evacuate. My command staff agrees. Whatever happens, we cannot allow our vessel's systems to fall into the Navy's hands, whether via boarding or salvage.
"We, and other Insurgent personnel, have been extended an offer by the Cretan organization 'Deterrence'. During my communications with their representatives, I was informed that accepting their assistance would entail service in their own military forces.
"There are many compelling reasons to accept. We have few other options as to where to run. The Klaxon's internals are sensitive, and are a great asset to whatever person or group we work for. The Corsairs have extreme technical prowess, maintaining their own sizable capital ship fleet, and were they so inclined, I have no doubt that they could adequately keep all of us clothed, fed, paid, and the Klaxon in working order. Their offers of citizenship and financial support for each and every one of us are very generous.
"However, there are equally compelling reasons to decline. The Corsairs, as an unrecognized nation, make their living via piracy and murder, which we universally abhor, and the rendezvous point of Omicron Nu puts us within spitting distance of LSF assets—meaning we may potentially be walking into a trap. Their society, as well, is not democratic. However, I insist that ours be."
Some murmuring among the crew. The recycled air in the room becomes tense, and Howe waits for those under him to calm themselves before continuing.
"As such, from here on out until such time as we unanimously decide to alter this system, all matters of major concern—life and death, where our food comes from, major moral implications, and allegiance—shall be put to a vote. Each and every one of us shall have an equal say as concerns the general direction we will take. I myself will only vote in case of deadlock, or a tie. However, we will not repeat the mistakes of Manhattan's civilian government. We will not succumb to the tyrannical majoritarianism and dishonesty of simple first-past-the-post electoral systems. Instead, all our decisions will be based on consent.
"You will vote for every choice you can live with, whether that is only one option or whether that is all of them. When all votes are cast, I and the command staff shall enact a decision in keeping with the course of action receiving the most votes. In this way, we will take every voice into account while avoiding polarization or incentivizing tactical voting which would threaten our unity of purpose and coordination."
Howe let out a cough—he had, probably unwisely, taken up smoking to help cope with the stress of his position—and turned to the blackboard, picking up a stick of chalk and beginning to write in big, bold letters.
"The first and only item on the agenda today; do we accept the Deterrence's offer? Yes, or no. Raise your hand to vote and offer comment. I will call you out one by one, and tally your votes here."
Lieutenant Anthony "Doorstop" Capley 08/09/830 AS Lieutenant Anthony Capley would be among the last group of personnel to enter the mess hall. Baggy eyes, unshaved stubble, a messy head of hair and a flight suit that he would still be in the middle of fixing as he entered the room would suggest that the Lieutenant had been in bunk when the order to report to the mess hall had gone out, the interruption to his sleep however, would seem to be of little hindrance to his awareness as he stood near the back of the crowd and paid keen attention to the Captains speech.
There would be a curl of disgust in the corner of the Lieutenant's mouth at the mention of the offer of asylum from the Corsairs, a reaction that would easily be predicted and of little to surprise due to his reputation among members of the crew who had known him for a decent time, and when the time came to vote, Capley's hand would be among the first to be raised, his vote decided before Captain Howe had even finished speaking, and when the time came for him to say his piece, his demeanour would remain calm and composed whilst there wouldn't even be a hint of a waiver behind his words.
It is my belief that there is not any option but than to decline the offer of the 'Deterrence' organization. The Corsairs are known murderers, thieves and smugglers. Should we throw our lot in aside them simply for the prospect of dangled payment, material or otherwise; I am of the opinion that we would be no more or no less than common mercenaries. We already lack a home, we need not also sacrifice our beliefs.
There would be a pause to breathe and during that moment, Capley would realise he'd yet to address the tactical issues regarding the proposed offer.
Furthermore, tactically speaking the chosen RV point and exfil' route of Nu is strategically speaking a nightmare. Naval and Sec-For assets wouldn't be the only dangers we'd face. It's no secret that the Edge Worlds are littered with the hostile alien lifeforms, not to mention Core mercenaries and Order terrorists. It is my opinion that exfiltration through the Edge Worlds is liable to be prone to disaster and is likely result in significant avoidable casualties.
Morgan Lou Jeong Chief Architect/Engineer Chief Engineer Jeong had been one of if not the most recent addition to the Klaxon's crew, as such he still had yet to familiarize himself with the general vibe or commonality of belief systems among the crew, yet he did not lack a personable flair. As an ideologically inclined man, he quickly found his place among the heart throb of the good intentioned, and those deeply tired of the repeated failings of the movement that could barely decide on keeping its name in the last few years. His history with the Hellfire Legion was rich, and had been of the Legion itself for a very long time, since the first days the Legion came unto itself, and claimed Vespucci as its own.
Having been one of the chief minds and more importantly understudies of the cooperation between the Legion and Lane Hackers prior to the fall, had been behind attempting to bring the Ven'Gyr, later renamed to the Ravager into proper service, however, the Legion failed in doing so, causing the ship to perform within parameters, but unable to leave the Vespucci system for a tour of duty. When the Ravager's commanding officers chose to side with the commonwealth during the Unification, Morgan was court martialed, and subsequently imprisoned with an execution date.
This fate would not prove to be the end for Morgan however, as Liberty's invasion fleet Delaware gained ground so rapidly against the newly christened "Insurgency", Morgan was released under the pretense that he would dedicate his expertise and vast knowledge of engineering to bringing Vespucci's defensive fleets up to scratch, even if he was a tad eccentric in his work, they were desperate, and needed all the help they could get. Morgan despite being wrongfully accused of siding with the Commonwealth, being the staunchly ideological and principled man that he was, viewed his halted execution and subsequent release as a negative reflection on the state of the newfound union, and frowned upon his newly given freedom.
Arriving in the mess hall late enough to only catch the tail end of Howe's comments on Corsairs, Morgan was initially confused, but when he heard the words of accepting an offer, well, there was little left to the imagination. Should Morgan's face not be nigh-permanently hidden behind his angular helmet, even when walking amongst the crew, near everyone around him would be able to see the fierce scowl that crossed his face. Though he was not a fighter, his heart raged with a viciousness spurred by his deeply rooted beliefs, and the mere mention that the Klaxon, or even slightest notion any of the Legion or Separatist flags would accept such an offer caused his blood to boil. And as such, when it came time for him to make his thoughts known, his voice was nearly a call to rally against such ridiculous notions.
"The Corsairs are scum, only better than bottom feeders like the Rogues by virtue of being their own masters. We would hand over the Klaxon, and the lives of all her crew to disillusioned raiders that kill their own kind for a bite to eat? We should sooner throw ourselves directly into the jaws of the Liberty's oppressive machine! The Corsairs would outnumber us a thousand to one, what reason would they have not to kill us all for the boots we wear and take the Klaxon for themselves?!"
"If we are to join the ranks of lowly thieves even in the eyes of the degenerates of the sector, and murder the victims of the Houses' ever living unholy greed just for survival, then we might as well strip the stars and stripes from the Klaxon ourselves."
There was a brief pause in Morgan's hateful words, allowing them to hang in the air for a time as he made his vote on the matter a very clear "No" in absolution. Morgan brought his fist against the armored harness of his engineering suit with a clash of metal on metal preceding his pride filled shout.
"Those who serve only themselves will never understand what it means to fight for Liberty, to bleed and sacrifice for the good to come of the actions they'll never live to see! The Klaxon deserves far greater than anything less!"
Chief Petty Officer Glenn "Rattlegun" Hereford Deck Crew 3, Maintenance, Resupply, and Refueling A not-quite-ancient, not-quite-young maintenance crewman stood, rather than sat, glaring daggers at the "chief" engineer. Someone might wear the rank, be addressed by the title, but they weren't The Chief, capital-T, capital-C, until the crew said so. Surrounding him was a sizable cadre of non-coms, a little elective body that had existed long before Augustus deigned to create his own. Every man and woman jack sported grease stained overalls rather than uniforms, and there was not a medal or shining bit of gold between them. The closest thing to a "decoration" any of the ladies and gentlemen of the Klaxon's flight deck crew wore were injuries. A missing eye, lopped-off fingers, scorched cheeks, singed hair, torn coveralls, even a prosthetic foot hastily assembled from whatever scrap wasn't already being used to repair the birds. For years, that had been their lot in life: sacrificing little bits of themselves to keep other people flying. What was a missed night of sleep, or a severed pinkie, or a torso crushed under failing landing gear compared to the glory of True Libertonian Values? Of Freedom? Of all The Things That Make Our House Great? Taking a step forward to survey the majority of the crew, Hereford spoke:
"Hell of a 'democracy' we're running. I see missing bodies, Cap'. Where's Stevens? Rosabel? Chora? Looks a lot to me like we're leaving out the little guys, or were my boys and girls left fueling the air group not important enough to bring along? And you..."
Turning to address Morgan in particular, the scarred, bedraggled man fixed the "chief engineer" in a withering gaze.
"'Strip the stars and stripes off the Klaxon ourselves'? That's what we've been doing for months, years now. Look at you, in your armor, spouting empty platitudes about honor and integrity, blood and sacrifice. I don't remember seeing you on the flight deck when we had to space Kikko. Remember her? The little Kusarian girl that crawled up into the engine compartment of a flaming Executioner to try and shut the reactor down? Saved the whole damn ship being gutted from the inside out. Yeah. Bet you don't, and that makes you one of the lucky ones. Hell, half of us are still trying to forget. She melted, right in front of all of us, and we couldn't even hold her while she screamed. Couldn't tell her she 'done good', that she saved every soul on this god-forsaken ship. Nothin'."
With a grimace and a barely-suppressed tear from his one good eye, Glenn spared a glance towards his crew, the young men and women he'd fought to protect from the ravages of space and time, from the Navy, the Security Force, angry snub-jocks, and the ever-furious CAG. Cally was still on crutches after an unfortunate run-in with the cockpit glass of a Liberator, set to auto-seal after some big-shot interceptor pilot decided to disembark early for a celebratory drink. The composite-reinforced shell nearly took the limb off, all so a glory hound could high-five his buddies two seconds sooner. Not even an apology. Just another incident report for the books. She was still wearing that damnable, slightly-crooked smile, despite it all. A little sunbeam in the cold black of space.
"Fuck it, I've already talked too much. I, we, say 'no' to the 'Sairs. That doesn't mean we should set a precedent, neither. We've all done nasty things in our oh-so-illustrious careers with the Navy, with the Commonwealth, with the 'Insurgency.' You ask me-..."
A pause, as a dozen and two chalk lines were drawn and tallied beneath the "no" column, one for each member of the incongruously-named Deck Crew 3, the last little family keeping fighters in the air.
"...We're not all that much better than the Cretans, and maybe, just maybe, we should lower our standards, just that little bit. My people have to eat, Cap'. We're not robots. I'll stick my dick in with half-decent pirates any day of the week to keep my people fed, but the Corsairs don't make a fuck in my book."
// I am not voting as 14 people. An agreement has been made with the "owner" of this roleplay regarding the Deck Crew.
Lieutenant-Commander Max "Barrelman" Schlesinger Quartermaster, Acting Gunnery Chief While the crew raged and hurled fire and fury at each other despite all seemingly being in agreement, a man in his early thirties sat on a table-bench in the center of the room. Everyone knew him personally by now, even the newest arrivals like Jeong; his position and the seriousness with which he took it made sure of that. He had been thin once, with smooth skin and a downright girlish build, but now he was defined by the burn scars on his arms and the developed muscles needed to haul hundred-pound supply crates up and down flights of stairs long since stripped of guardrails needed to reinforce internal structural support beams.
Max Schlesinger, the Klaxon's quartermaster. Originally nicknamed "Barrelman" in a sarcastic joke about his formerly lanky, diminutive build and its contrast with his assigned position, now lovingly called "Barrelman" due to his well-earned girth and the constant hauling of supplies he so frequently refused to delegate to his juniors. When he stood up, raising his hand as he rose in a seemingly-insubordinate self-selection, everyone turned to listen. Not even Howe interrupted—after all, Schlesinger was his personal secretary, too. At the same time, nobody was foolish enough to think they could get away with the same stunt.
"Glenn, you know damn well I'll make sure each and every mate gets the minutes—thank you, Barb—" a gentle acknowledgment of an ensign serving as stenographer behind a counter "—and has their vote counted. Now, when I took over as Acting Gunnery Chief seven weeks ago, after the big man bit it when that bulkhead fell on 'im, I saw it as an extension of my duty as Quartermaster. That duty is making sure all of you have whatcha need to do yours, be it your own bullets or safety from the enemy's. I've been workin' with CPO Ortega back there in the kitchen to keep us fed, stretchin' out the last kilos of flour and doing you-don't-wanna-know-what to make sure our last remaining fighters have mines and missiles in case worse should come to worst.
"And worse ain't come to worst yet. But we're just about out of credits, and our boys have no more supply depots. Bristol's goodwill towards us is drying up faster than the blood of those poor fuckers down there what died takin' the Delaware with 'em. Some of you say that we've lost our home and can't afford losing our ideals with it. I say we best not lose our lives. We can only recycle oxygen so many times, but Crete's full of that sweet, colorless gold. For that reason and that reason alone, I vote aye. Take their offer and live to fight another day, even if it's as honorless pirates. Our duty as a ship, a crew, a family might change, but my duty as a Quartermaster does not."
Schlesinger's eyes narrowed, and a devilish grin crept onto his roughened face.
"And if they betray us, like the good CE suggested? All one-hundred-thirty-seven nuclear mines can be yanked outta storage and stacked on the cloaking device. All sixty-three remaining Firestalkers pulled outta the flyboys' Prosecutors and ignited on top of the hyperspace surveyor. Every last remaining plasma fuel cell, dripping radiation and toxic atmos, can be hauled up to the twenty-point-oh-three-klick scanner array and set ablaze. Every single last round in our sidearms discharged into the jump drive's bioresonant core. And speaking of the hyperspace jauntulator, the Cretan cretins offered us an alternative meet-up spot in the Omegas, near Gran Canaria. Ain't too hard to commission some third party to grab us the coordinates."
With that, Schlesinger retook his seat and pulled out a pack of smokes from his oil-stained vest's breast pocket as Howe chalked the first 'aye' onto the board.
Jim Tate Assistant Among the crowd was fairly average looking guy with a round head and not a single hair on it. Not even a beard. His evenly round ears looked like they were perfect to use his moon face as a cup. Unfortunately, his head was full of biomatter, preventing anyone from, at least at this point, from utilizing it that way. Not that anyone dared. Despite being just an assistant, the crew respected him. Some even feared him. He had a reputation for showing up in places where he was not supposed to be, and his actions were widely considered unpredictable. Somehow, he has made himself quite useful among the crew, but people could not help but be almost paranoid, knowing Jim Tate was on the ship.
He was an every-man. He did whatever was necessary to be done. At some point, he lost his uniform, and since then he was mostly seen wearing a spare grey jumpsuit. His matchingly grey backpack was always on his back, as was his toolbelt around his waist. Rumor said he did not bother to take off the toolbelt when sleeping, despite it having a welder slotted. A crowbar, too. According to himself, he just wanted to be prepared for all cases, in case of the ship being on red. After getting shocked by malfunctioning doors a few times, turning him into a frequent guest of the medbay, he was also never seen without his insulated gloves. Nobody could explain the blood stains on his shoes, though.
Once it was his time to voice his opinion, people got curious. He held his red toolbox close to his body. Nobody knew what was in there, but probably not his tools, given he had all of them in the tool belt. What the hell was in there? Nobody knew. Everyone wanted to know. The sounds the toolbox made when it was carried around were concerning. As was his opinion on the situation.
If you ask me, we only reached this point because we insisted on sticking to reputation and honor. O-ho!
He sneezed. The person in front of him did not appreciate it.
I think we need to keep the big picture in mind. We are running out of options. If there is a big group out there that can help us maintaining crew and ship and thus buy us time, I say we should take that opportunity. With what we have now, we can definitely not win. We got presented a final chance, and we should take it. Yo-ho!
Once we have strength and numbers, we can plan our return. Oh-ho!
LSU-15 "Ellis" Service Droid The destruction of Fort Riley was nothing short of a disaster. A tragedy no one would have expected to happen the way it did. Many lives were lost in that day with very little to recover. The Klaxon would only get to salvage what was ejected into space by the numerous breaches in the Fort's integrity. Everything else was either too difficult or too dangerous to recover. One of those things was a Service Droid with a scratched serial number and rust covering its joints. The paint was chipped, almost as if something heavy kicked the thing through a hull breach as it stood stationary. It took three days to unclog its joints, and three more to check thoroughly that this unit was in fact not some cheap attempt made by the Navy to track more stragglers.
Attempts were made to check its memory bank for information surrounding Fort Riley's demise - in detail. Those attempts were met failure not because the droid wanted to, but rather its directories being a complete mess. Nothing was in place other than a very well organized folder containing its previous owner's life from the first inanimate "friend" to the last, as well as long shifts spent cleaning latrines. LSU-15 (Latrine Sanitary Unit) was the droid's designation. It was programmed to enjoy such tasks. One could see in its creator's eyes, though. He did not enjoy any second of seeing his creation - friend, even - clean feces off the edges of Fort Riley's toilets day and night.
Nowadays LSU-15 has been given the same task as before - seeing as it was the only thing it was good at. It receives as much trust as it is given respect - none. And it doesn't appear to mind at all. And yet looks can be deceiving as it dared to step up and raise the volume of its voicebox to near maximum with a tremble trailing behind every word. It wasn't comfortable doing this, but it was still a member of The Klaxon's crew to an extent.
Chances are C-c-c-corsairs will only help The Klaxon as long as it benefits them. This Unit urges the crew to consider the following statement...
Its voicebox crackles as it loads an audio file. The process took an akward amount of time as silence filled the room.
...if something seems too good to be true, it probably is...
The droid continues its one-sided conversation with whoever wanted to listen. Whatever confidence left in it slowly falling
apart as nobody dared or cared enough to comment so far.
Citizenship. Maintenance. Sustenance. All guaranteed should the crew pledge loyalty to marauders. Has the crew considered who will it target? Is it civilians that the crew wish to sacrifice for its own gain? --
It wished to continue, but all the eyes had locked on its optics. A wave of shame, anxiety and fear washed over the cold scrap covering its basic frame. All this time it gestured with a certain fervor. With fire in its "heart", yet could not find out sooner it was occasionally throwing grime and other unwanted materials through the small, interlocking joints of its hands at anyone nearby.
With two clumsy legs it stepped down, hunching itself while looking at the floor hoping to fool the public that in fact it has simply run out of energy and needed to recharge.
Communications Officer Joyce Stirner SIGINT, Special Access Oversight At the conclusion of the underappreciated Ellis's speech, the most awkward silence yet befell the entire mess. For whatever reason, the eyes of the largest portion of yet-unspoken-for junior and middle officers made their way to Joyce.
Comms Officer Stirner, a no-nonsense woman, was originally assigned to the Klaxon as a junior NCO while in her early thirties, was granted an incredibly rare mid-tour advancement to a commissioned officer, and was now forty-going-on-fifty. The only things she kept neater than her uniform were her charges—the special equipment that made the Klaxon so precious, which QM Schlesinger had earlier discussed at length.
Sensing that the momentane zeitgeist had laid the metaphorical talking stick firmly at her feet, she raised one hand, and at Howe's callout addressed the assembled crew.
"I vote nay."
You could hear a pin drop. Stirner wanted to scream, to tear her hair out, to go absolutely apeshit on everyone for dragging this out longer than it needed to be, but not so much as a sigh escaped her lips. She was the senior CO, goddammit, and someone had to live up to the crew's expectations while also maintaining decorum. Howe couldn't be the only professional on this fucking boat.
"The commander raised a point I believe to be critical. Omicron Nu is most certainly an insecure location. Even if we were to reach it swiftly and safely via the hyperspace drive, the entire system is under constant SECFOR sweeps. How effective their surveillance is is an unknown factor, but the entire Navy being busy with us in Vespucci and the Zoners in Erie certainly frees up SECFOR to divert more assets to the Republic's further-reaching interests such as the vicinity of the supergate's terminus.
"In that same vein, the Omegas are an equally unspecified quantity. Gran Canaria still hosts a meaningful contingent of Bretonian refugees who are loyal to the Crown, with full civilian evac to Sprague likely to take another year at least to complete. Best intel assesses the upper-eastern Omega cluster as crawling with enemies of Crete, meaning that both proposed RV locs are likely to be untenable."
She looked around, seeing that somehow there were still some curious faces.
"...also, I don't really feel like learning Greek."
With that, the COMMO finally turned her gaze squarely back to Howe. Her 'nay' tally had long since been marked.
Battleship Klaxon - All-Hands Meeting Minutes 08/09/830 AS - Final Tally The crew had assembled, debated, and argued. True to his word, Howe had given every crewmate a chance to vote, with the dozen or so low-ranking personnel being provided an opportunity by Schlesinger to have their say recorded after the fact. Yet, regardless of all, the outcome of the Klaxon's very first act of internal democracy was clear: the crew was almost universally opposed to joining up with the Corsairs. The chalk tallies on the board made it evident that not even a dozen more ayes would outweigh the nays, and for his part, Howe was strongly relieved. At the conclusion of the commentary and the raising of hands, with the last ensigns stating their positions, the captain rose his voice once again to speak out above the murmurs.
"Attention! Our final tally is as follows: 26 ayes, 137 nays, abstentions and absent personnel not counted. Quartermaster Schlesinger is to record the absentees and provide them to the stenographer for a formal, conclusive report. However, our choice has been made clear: we reject the Deterrence organization's offer. COMMO Stirner and I will investigate further alternatives. If any of you have any suggestions as to where we go from here, relay them to me via your immediate commanding officers or contact me personally at a later time. For now, we will maintain position in the Guerrero unless government forces come on-radar. Crew dismissed."
There was a nigh-audible sigh of relief among the crew. Liberty's last freedom fighters would not resort to piracy and terrorism to further the cause, and all save a handful were glad for it as the assembly dispersed, returning either to their assigned posts or to the few sections set aside for off-shift personnel. Howe noted that several of the mates who'd voted aye seemed to congregate among themselves. He was loyal to his beliefs to the end, but the practical and analytic part of his mind toyed with the thought that this new system of self-governance might lead to cliques, or worse, among the crew. Still, only time would tell what might befall them.
//The final ooRP vote tally is as follows: /////Ayes: 2 /////Nays: 8
//Thanks to @Sombs for voting as the only community member uninvolved in the project longer-term. I hope you've all enjoyed reading this thread and are as excited about this style of roleplay as I am. I hope to see more participation in future votes!
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