Pax Anglia - The Great Expedition, 19/11/13

[General Retreat]

Encyclopaedia Anglia - a compendium of useful information

1. A tale of Port Jackson. 2. Drinks with a knight. 3. An unexpected arrival. 4. Sea and Storm. 5. The Hairy Red Line. Notable Characters Henry Boyce, FRI: carefree lordling. (Age 23) Background Henry Boyce is the young son of the billionaire aristocrat Lord Chelsea, and set to inherit his lands, titles and wealth. While his father has vastly increased the family fortunes through investment and industry, Henry is laconic and laid back, preferring the good times of the high life to the concerted effort of the daily grind. While he does have some of his father's innate ability to profit from any situation, it was determined that some life experience was the order of the day. After his father purchased him a fellowship with the prestigious Royal Institute of Science, he was dispatched to the frontier colony world of Nova Sydney, where he has been lodging in the capital city of Port Jackson. He has been appointed to lead an expedition to catalogue the planet's wildlife, while displaying little passion for the scientific aspect of this task. Professor Ralf Fields: long-suffering academic. (Age 68) Background Professor Ralf Fields is a scientist that is currently serving as an attaché to the Royal Institute of Science. Within academic circles, he is universally respected in his specialist fields of biology and Doctrine research. Fields achieved his doctorate through the Royal Anglican University, graduating from Queen's College with distinction. Later in his life he would return to his old university as a member of the faculty, eventually obtaining a readership as a research professor. A combination of political machinations from rivals, and a love for field science prevented him from obtaining an academic chair. Recent years have seen him contributing significantly to Royal Institute projects throughout Anglican space, most recently being posted to Nova Sydney as a tutor for the young 'Fellow' Henry Boyce. Given that his own nomination for Fellowship has been mired in the peer review process for the last two years, Fields naturally finds his current situation to be highly distressing. Sir Aaron Peterson, KCVO, KCMG, CB: eccentric noble. (Age 74) Background Sir Aaron Peterson is a minor celebrity throughout Anglican space, but a local hero on Nova Sydney itself. Originally being raised and schooled on London Prime, Peterson attended public school and later university alongside Lord Chelsea (then Arthur Boyce), Henry's father. He has lived a long and varied life that has taken him from one side of the galaxy to the other and through most of the systems in between. His latest career choice, or "quiet retirement", has been as a royal explorer, pushing back the kingdom's borders one jump at a time. His current vessel, the ACV Intrepid is part funded by the crown, with a long list of accolades associated with it. Peterson's most recent coup has been the "discovery" of Nova Sydney, much to the chagrin of the settlers who were already there. Peterson is currently resting his crew at Port Jackson after a year in the traverse, outside charted space. In a universe where time is money, Peterson also appears to have mastered the reverse, appearing 20 years younger than his age and acting a further 20 less than that. Mikal Korvoz: enigmatic spacefarer. (Age 45) Background Little is known about Mikal Korvoz save that he is a long time companion of Sir Aaron Peterson, and is, or perhaps once was, a citizen of the Western Federation. He is physically imposing, towering over most men and possessing an almost inhuman physical strength. This has been augmented by a prosthetic arm replacement, which has been left bare in an unusual deviancy from the social norm. It is assumed that the prosthetic was required due to some form of injury. Korvoz has been associated with Sir Peterson for at least 15 years, having served as the first mate aboard his vessels for that length of time. Due to his position and the consistently volatile relations with his homeland, Korvoz has been subject to large degrees of suspicion from the Anglican security institutions. His good conduct and Peterson's testimony has largely enabled him to steer clear of trouble with the police or military intelligence services. Notable places Nova Sydney – Anglican claimed frontier system. Stars: 2 (binary group). Nation: Pax Anglia. Capital: Planet Nova Sydney. Population: 540,500. Details Nova Sydney was discovered 4 years ago by the Anglican explorer Sir Aaron Peterson. The system is notable for its binary stars (dubbed Bamapana and Djunkgao) which are currently locked into a tight orbit around one another. There is a large belt of asteroids between Whi and Nova Sydney. Several civilian merchant ships en-route to Port Jackson have gone missing in this region over the last 2 years. The Royal Navy has been tasked with patrolling this route to try and safeguard future shipments. There are 3 planets within the system. Yhi (originally Aaronsden, ref: PA11NS-3) is a dead planet on the edge of the solar system – it is believed to originally have been an exoplanet that was snared by the binary star’s gravity well. It has no atmosphere or natural satellites and is currently being surveyed for mining. Wala (originally Knightsford, ref: PA11NS-2) has a weak atmosphere and a highly eccentric orbit, which results in either scorching heat or glacial freezes depending on the orbital period. The planet has 4 moons that orbit at varying distances. The planet is not currently being surveyed due to the variety of extreme conditions rendering operations cost-prohibitive at the present time. Nova Sydney (originally Seclusion, later Petersfield, ref: PA11NS-1) is the only planet in the system with a viable atmosphere and documented life. It has a regular elliptical orbit and a minor tilt on its axis, resulting in regular seasons. There are no natural satellites. Several large comets have projected trajectories that bring them within 20,000 miles of the atmosphere; these are now being considered for redirection for mining or demolition. The planet is currently being surveyed for exploitable assets, whether they are mineral or biological. Colonised planets Planet Nova Sydney: Anglican frontier planet. System: Nova Sydney. Nation: Pax Anglia. Capital: Port Jackson. Population: 540,000. Details Nova Sydney was discovered 4 years ago by the Anglican explorer Sir Aaron Peterson. While Pax Anglia’s claim on the planet was initially ratified by the UN Exploration Council, this is now being scrutinised. A complaint was lodged that settlers had previously inhabited the planet, which was then known as ‘Seclusion’. The argument proceeds that these settlers (despite never registering with the UN or filing any territorial claims) effectively comprised a Successor State, making the Anglican annexation an act of war. Crown authorities contest these allegations, affirming that their actions were legally sound, and the “settlers” were little more than vagabonds and squatters. Anglican claims are now enforced by the Royal Navy, which has the HMS Equinox (a Regina class battlecruiser) stationed in orbit. This vessel also acts as a customs and excise station for all vessels entering or leaving the atmosphere. The arrival of the HMS Equinox has done much to quell open sedition from the native settlers, given the implicit threat of orbital bombardment. There has been a constant stream of trade ships heading to and from the system since the colonisation drive began, necessitating the construction of an orbital trade station that will eventually oversee the offloading of cargo. This is expected to be completed within a year. The planet is currently dependent on trade convoys to bring settlers, supplies and news from the core systems. The planetary governor hopes a degree of self-sufficiency can be established within 12 years and has published an industrial roadmap to demonstrate how this will be achieved. Population statistics are based on census figures compiled from official Anglican citizens. Major settlements Port Jackson: Nova Sydney’s capital city. System: Nova Sydney. Planet: Nova Sydney. Nation: Pax Anglica. Population: 523,000. Details Port Jackson was the first colony established on Nova Sydney by Anglican citizens and contains the vast majority of the planet’s “official” population (a figure that could possibly be matched or surpassed by native settlers). The city is situated on a large peninsular (26,000 miles2) that also bears the city’s name. Several minor satellite settlements exist across the peninsular, mostly for the purposes of farming imported crops or extracting minerals from mines. To the north-west there is the beginning of the huge Worronora Mountain chain. To the west through to south is a body of water known as Long Valley Bay. Long Valley bay feeds directly into the Gulf of Paramatta, which borders the Peninsula to the south through to north-east. Effectively, the peninsular is isolated from the rest of the continent by either mountains or large bodies of water. Port Jackson itself was founded almost 3 and a half years ago and has been a hive of bustle and construction ever since. Port Jackson’s residential sectors are largely comprised of towering prefabricated structures, giving the place a particularly sordid and unpleasant appearance. The tiers for these huge buildings are manufactured in the Anglican industrial heartland and then imported to the system aboard colossal gigafreighters. They can then be retrofitted for any given purpose in situ. Once the city’s native manufacturing infrastructure is established, a new capital will likely be constructed and the current city abandoned to become slums (if it is not outright demolished). Port Jackson is currently attracting large amounts of scientific, corporate and public interest, given the scarcity of planets with naturally occurring advanced life. The city is policed by the Anglican Terrestrial Army, a standard procedure for new royal colonies; the governor has stated that a domestic police force will be established shortly and will begin a hand-over of duties once the colony has become more stable and developed. Population statistics are based on census figures compiled from official Anglican citizens. Planet Earth System: Sol. Nation: International territory (custodial governance by UN). Capital: Harmony. Population: 8,360,201,000 Details Earth is the cradle of the human species and consequently remains an ever important symbol for all of the galaxy's nations. A spare-faring country that was founded on Earth is often referred to as an Originator State (OS), while those which were founded at a later date are Successor States (SS). There is some legal dispute as to whether one can transition to another (see the People’s Democratic Federation of Typhem privately purchasing several islands in the Pacific and then nationalising them). Many OS' see SS' as little more than offshoot "mongrels" of legitimate nations, a mindset that has caused a considerable amount of friction and conflict over the centuries. While each individual country on Earth retains a degree of sovereignty on its own territory, the UN is considered to have overall custodial governance of the solar system. In effect, the policy of a national government could be superseded by the UN Council in much the same way a planetary governor is subordinate to his own nation's capital planet. This policy is widely disliked by member states, but it is equally acknowledged that this arrangement does prevent war from reducing Earth to a quantum singularity. To date, all OS' have their capitals located outside of the Sol system. To avoid accusations of favouritism the capital city of Earth was previously rotated through the planet’s major settlements on a 5 yearly basis. This arrangement came to an end almost 200 years ago when the city of Harmony was established on an artificial island in the middle of the Atlantic. This has since been administered solely by the UN, far from any other national interests. England is currently maintained by Pax Anglia as a heritage site of cultural and historical importance. The Church of England is also based from this ancestral heartland, with Canterbury Cathedral considered to be a point of pilgrimage for Anglican believers.

A Tale of Port Jackson

Nova Sydney was a planet on the frontier. Discovered but four years previously by the famed Anglican explorer Sir Aaron Peterson, the Kingdom had filed immediate claims with Earth and dispatched a colonial settlement force as soon as the atmosphere was found to be tolerable. This was met with mutters of nearly universal disapproval from their solar neighbours, given that the planet was allegedly occupied by a unchartered successor state - entities the crown authorities had written off as mere ‘squatters’. Of course, those mutters were unlikely to mature into open condemnation, lest a spotlight was shone on their own recent expansions and actions. The Western Federation had predictably demanded a full UN Exploration Council inquest, but that had more to do with the fact that they were predisposed to acts of international pettiness. That they also happened to be looking down the barrels of Anglican dreadnoughts on their eastern border was only a peripheral issue, after all.

Anglers had set up their lines all along the sea wall. It was a nice day, relatively speaking. Cambridge’s climes tended to be generally warmer and more forgiving, but the binary suns far above served to keep the area temperate, even at this southern latitude. Henry Boyce was sat on a deck chair looking out over Long Valley Bay. The waters spanned almost 25 miles before the looming bulk of the Woronora mountains rose sharply from the depths, visible as a towering blue haze in the distance. Some way down the wall, a figure was wrestling with a fishing rod that was bucking and twisting - the creature in the water was thrashing around and creating a froth on the surface. There was the distinct sound of a snap, then a tirade of infuriated curses.

The rod Henry was using differed in a number of significant ways from the more mundane utilities the other fishermen wielded; a virtual intelligence installed in the rod’s shaft could detect when the bait was seized and expertly reel itself in. You could suspend a small hover skiff from the line, which was constructed from an interesting nanotube weave, rendering it almost unbreakable. An electric pulse could be dispatched to stun particularly troublesome catches, leaving them inert and unresisting. In short, it was not a sportsman’s rod and cost more than the average house on New Chatham.

The young gentleman in question was twenty three and the heir to the assorted lands, money and titles of the honourable Lord Chelsea of London Prime. The needlessly advanced rod had been paid for at his father’s expense, as had the majority of the debts of the Royal Institute of the Modern Sciences. It was, among other things, the second point that had led to young Boyce’s emigration to the up-and-coming Anglian holding of Port Jackson. Given that his parents believed the lad had developed a passing fancy for biology (‘anatomy’ he would clarify to young ladies in bars), his Lord father had him fast-tracked through the academic process. Bemused but uncomplaining, he gladly embraced his new status as the youngest ever Fellow of the Institute and the opportunities that thus entailed (in bars or otherwise).

At the time, it was considered right and proper for the youth of the aristocracy to go out into the world and gain some experience in the workings of the realm and her surroundings. Traditionally, this had involved taking up one of the sciences at some prestigious Cambridge institution or another. This practice had lately suffered a blow, as it was considered altogether more wholesome to enlist as an officer at Dartford or Sandhurst for a stint and do a tour of duty against whatever menace was attacking Pax Anglia at that moment in time. Not entirely believing his offspring was suited to a military way of life, Lord Chelsea decided the rigours of the uncivilised and savage frontier was exactly the sort of bracing, character-building experience his son required. This conveniently allowed him to dodge the draft.

Even more convenient was the fact that the Royal Institute had announced that they required the expertise of a seasoned biologist, to categorise the untamed wilds of Nova Sydney - previously known as Seclusion by the ‘native’ squatters. Henry had of course been accepted after half-heartedly applying for the vacancy, at which point the Chairman of the Institute spontaneously departed for a golfing holiday at one of the resort-world Equinox’s six-star retreats. Seemingly as an afterthought, the elderly but universally respected Professor Ralf Fields was dispatched to Port Jackson - as Henry’s assistant. Stung, but stoically doing his assigned duty, Professor Fields has since assisted and tutored his young superior with varying levels of success.

Suddenly, there was a sharp beep from Henry’s rod. Apparently, it had snared something. The man himself continued to peruse the gossip magazines he’d downloaded onto his datapalm before departing from Anglia proper. Without looking up, he snapped his fingers in the air to draw Fields’ attention. “I say, Ralf my old pal. Go and check on that, will you? I’d do it myself, but this is rather interesting, y’see.” Sighing, the old man stood and went to check on the rod. Peering over the wall’s parapet, he could see some creature beating the surface to a lather. There was a brief flash, then silence. Slowly, the rod winched the organism out of the sea.

“Master Boyce, you appear to have caught a Spindleel,” he intoned wearily.

“Oh yes, very good. I’ll have two sugars,” the young man replied, not really listening.

The Professor shook his head and sighed once more. Peering back down at the beast that was slowly but surely advancing through the air towards him, he took stock of its appearance and size. The creatures really were peculiar - they held a striking similarity to the eels transported from Earth in the migration gene banks, at least superficially. They certainly had the Moray’s temperament, given that they were mean, squat looking creatures, with large maws bristling with fangs. Like most of the wildlife in the area, it was adorned by three bulbous, staring (or in this case, glazed) eyes, one set on each side of the skull and the third centralised between them.

The Flatbacked Spindleel did not garner its name from its peculiar face, however. Retractable bone like protrusions jutted from the beast’s flanks, ranging from four to six inches long and each deadly sharp. Its body was flattened, being far wider than it was tall. Despite its fearsome appearance and penchant for devouring the fingers of careless fishermen, the Spindleels were in fact edible - one of the few local fish that were. Once their dark green rubbery skin had been peeled off, their flesh made a nutritious - if flavourless - meal. The one the Turbo Rod was bouncing off the sea wall had to be roughly eleven feet long, identifying it as an almost full-grown adolescent. An angler wandered over in time to see the Spindleel’s face emerge over the railings.

“Bloody hell, that made me jump. Nice catch there though, mate.” He eyed the rod suspiciously, which was still hoisting the beleaguered fish onto the concrete floor. “Tell you what, I’ll give you 30 bob for that one. Good eating on it.” Fields opened his mouth to reply, and was immediately cut off by Henry, who up until that point had been presenting every sign of being utterly absorbed by the titillating tales of London's Ladies.

“Would that be in Universal, or sterling?” he queried, still reading. The angler chuckled.

“You’re a sharp one, you are sir. Call it sterling.”

Henry nodded. “Off with it then. Get the beast out of my sight.” The fisherman rubbed his hands together happily. Slipping a knife up through the underside of the jaw and into the brain, he ensured the vicious Muraenidae would pass on to the eel afterlife without once tasting a human digit. The Professor wrinkled his nose in distaste as the poor creature discharged copious amounts of greeny-black ichor from the wound. At least it died instantly, he rationalised internally.

Henry deftly plucked the payment chit from the fisherman’s hand and slipped it into his pocket in one fluid movement. As the man and his cohorts dragged the eel’s corpse away, Henry went back to reading. Ralf looked on quietly. While he could fault the young Boyce for many, many things, his ability to exploit a situation for money was second to none.

[Dance]

Interesting story... Very interesting...

Do you plan this to be a serial (multiple chapters)? Or is it a short story. Either way, it is very well-written

I enjoy emphasis on descriptive writing and settings!

+Rep

[Scottish King]

Nice start! Good to see another sci-fi story on the forums!

[General Retreat]

This will eventually be a serial, so you can expect some more sooner or later. Recent events have snared me up a bit which is why I've been gone for the last month or so, but it'll be business as normal from here on in.

[General Retreat]

Drinks with a Knight

“No, m’boy!” the stout man roared, “you’ve not lived until you’ve felt the heady rush of a jump into unknown territory!” Disdaining the proffered cutter, he bit the end off his cigar and accepted a spark from one of the many offered snuff cubes. Puffing the coal into a glowing red ember, he stroked his broad and bushy moustache contemplatively, eyes flashing merrily in the gloom. “Oh yes, that exhilarating lurch as we’re thrown into a new solar system. “

“You’re trusting your mathematicians have done the deed and plopped you down on the edge – dear old Jefferies – he ended up hitting the side of a gas giant at half the speed of light; not a pleasant way to end it all, but blessedly quick. Rather better than broiling in the death-zones of the local stars, where the heat will slowly bake you and the gravity is too great to escape.” He took a great draught from his beer. “So that one moment of euphoria is when you know they’ve done well... Four years ago to the month, the twin suns up above, blazing away on the edge of our spectrometers… A beautiful sight.” He slapped the bottom of a passing serving girl, eliciting a squeal of indignant surprise and great gawuffs of laughter from his audience. “More like 'er twin moons’ll be blazin’ tonight!” a lout at the back called to hoots of laughter.

“Yes, well, little did we know that we were soon to be the inheritors of yet more than a binary star system: this jewel in the barren wastes. This oasis in the desolate reaches. This fine planet – second only to London itself!” As the crowd erupted into cheers and whoops, Sir Peterson gave Henry a sly wink as men attempted to out-do one another with free drinks for the bold explorer. Henry returned a wry smile of his own and lifted a glass in salute. Wherever Sir Peterson revealed himself, alcohol was sure to be in ample supply. Returning the gesture, Peterson stood. “My fellow gentlemen, a toast, to Nova Sydney!” The room surged cheering to its feet.

- - -

In the early hours of the morning, Henry and Sir Aaron wobbled noisily along the street. They’d given the ever sober and disapproving Professor Fields the slip some seven hours previously, before dropping by the Badger’s Den for a good too many pints. After closing time, they began their unsteady march to find an establishment that wasn’t at that point shut. To pass the time they sung a tremendous refrain of “the Queen’s knickers aren’t always white”, a most unsavoury tune for men of their station. At that point, one of the lower windows of the pre-fabricated tower block they were stumbling past was hoisted open. The occupant told them to do something unpleasant to themselves before hefting a well holed shoe in their general direction.

Snickering, the pair started up again, this time commenting on their monarch’s taste in brassieres. After a few moments Henry staggered to a halt and spun to look back at the building, blinking unevenly at Peterson through the darkness. He raised a single unsteady finger. “Y’know, I could have had that fellow jolly well flogged for throwing that at us. Wouldn’t that be a lark? Would teach him a lesson or two.” Peterson chortled.

“Why of course – you’re Lord Chelsea’s sprog! Slipped m’mind for half a second. The resemblance is there.” He ruffled Henry’s hair affectionately and prodded him back in the direction they had been going. “No need to be antagonising the plebs. They tend to get rather uppity when they feel they’ve been mistreated by their betters. Leave’m be for now. If they go on strike there’s no-one working the factories and the place begins to look rather untidy.” Henry merely grunted in reply. The pair walked on in silence for a short while, before there was the click of Peterson engaging a pilfered snuff cube to light another of his imported cigars. The coal cast a ruddy light on his features between puffs.

“There was something I wanted to ask you,” Henry ventured furtively. Peterson shot him a sidelong glance, narrowing his eyes. “I've got a trip coming up – an expedition, out in the Bushlands for the Royal Society.”

Peterson’s eyes widened. “Good lord, lad! What on earth is that in aid of? Haven’t you heard the tales of border-settlers being eaten alive during the nights? Creatures jaunting about that’re the size of my… Well, it doesn't bear thinking about.” Henry shrugged.

“I had rather hoped you weren't so afraid of hob-goblins and drop bears. Nonsense put about by those blighters from the equator, trying to put the willies into honest settlers.” Haughtily picking an imaginary piece of lint off the back of his cuff, he continued. “There is nothing this planet can offer that good Anglican citizens cannot overcome. The Royal Society wishes to have the creatures of this sordid rock catalogued for the Doctrine.”

Peterson hissed smoke through his teeth, for all intents and purposes mimicking the countenance of an angry bull. “Don’t go giving me that ‘Doctrine of Monoculture’ codswallop. I never took you for a follower. A load of tosh in any case. Planets choose the life that suits them. What we want is a rather minor concern in comparison, however the government wishes to the contrary.”

“On Chatham they've entirely exterminated the local flora and replaced it with the Doctrine Standard,” Henry offered by protest.

Peterson waved a dismissive hand. “Chatham is a blasted ball with little by way of atmosphere, wildlife or culture. I would hardly provide it as a champion for your cause.”

Henry cracked a small smile. “Hardly my cause, but I am a Fellow of the Institute…”

Peterson chortled in response. “You, my fellow, need to be institutionalised. You were pulling my leg, you little toad.” Henry laughed and set off again, humming the chorus to another lewd song. Dropping the half-finished cigar to the floor and stubbing it out, Peterson trundled after him. “So what did you actually want, my impertinent little friend?”

“Well, I wasn't joking when I said I was leading an expedition out into the wilderness. I was rather hoping you’d tag along. You’d make a relieving change of pace from those stuffy academics, and I can tell them we've brought you on as a chartered explorer.” Peterson grumbled under his breath. “Oh come now, old boy. We spend a few weeks jaunting around the countryside looking at new beetles – or whatever it is Fields wants to do – with a good case of brandy and a fine rifle each in case we see any worthy beasts that demand immediate mounting.”

The venerable explorer blinked in surprise. “Potentially a poor choice of phrasing there, Master Boyce. Admittedly my trophy room is looking rather bare at the moment, but I’m still not particularly sold on the matter. After all, what would my crew do without me? Do you have any idea how much an idling deep space cruiser costs to maintain? Those buggers need to be earning their keep.”

Henry gave a large and theatrical shrug. “Well, if that’s how you feel, I don’t suppose there is particularly much I can do to persuade you. It’s just… Never mind.” Peterson frowned. Seeing the bait had been seized, Henry administered the electric pulse and began reeling. “Well, I suppose I could let you know. My father was considering contracting a ship to chart a new trade route between Havisham Minor and West Magenstein. I recall him mentioning a pot of something close to 150 million pounds sterling to be rewarded to the agent who could provide the full set of safe jump coordinates. I had heard that would be an immensely dangerous campaign, far more so than this little expedition. I was going to pass on a recommendation…”

Peterson spluttered in a hurry to get his words in order. “King’s teeth! 150? Well, of course, the crew were due some shore leave in any case. That could be arranged for. You really are your father’s son, you little toe-rag. I recall him getting me into a similar bind when we were at university together.” He withdrew a handkerchief from one of his pockets and dabbed at his forehead. “I'm sure I will live to regret this decision, but consider me to be volunteering for your little excursion.”

Henry beamed. “An excellent decision, Sir Peterson. I'm sure you and Fields will get along like a house on fire.”

[Scottish King]

Interesting relationship between the two men. This expedition should be something. You should consider entering the MCWC. Good job!

[Merchant of Venice]

You sir have created some already splendid characters. I feel life isn't going to be easy for Ralf on that trip with those two

[General Retreat]

An Unexpected Arrival

Smoke drifted lazily through the air in the lecture hall. Henry watched the tendrils twirl and twine about one another with equal lethargy, until the atmo kicked in and wisped the tobacco away. Restrictions on indoor smoking had generally been lifted centuries ago, after the various toxins had been genetically or chemically modified out of the production process. In the modern day, the esteemed gentleman or woman determined what they smoked by the flavour and the status conferred by the particular product. Purified pipe and cigar tobac from the Unitary State of Iberia was considered to be particularly in the vogue, while the humble self-rolled dogend would never find much approval outside of the poorer classes. As the cloud he had been tracking vanished into a grate, Henry glanced back to the podium where Fields was proselyting. His eyes were ablaze with the undimmed fervour of an academic who’d been unleashed on an apparently receptive crowd.

“Now then, we shall proceed on to the environs of the Port Jackson peninsular and the surrounding terrain!” A large map buzzed into existence next to the eager professor, depicting an orbital scan taken by the Royal Naval battlecruiser HMS Quixotic. Port Jackson itself was picked out by a sharp red marker on the western edge of its namesake landmass. Fields jabbed at it with his laser pen. “Here we can see Port Jackson, ahem, that being the city where we are now. We are situated on a large peninsular, which has been provisionally measured as being approximately 26,000 miles squared in area. ” Henry stifled a particularly loud yawn and shuffled further down into his chair – one of the more comfortable leather bound specimens in the upper balconies. He’d had his arm twisted into attending by Fields, who had yapped at him like a particularly perturbing Terrier for the best part of three days.

The crowd was a bit of a mixed bag. Henry guessed (correctly) that the two elderly academics in the front row were off-world representatives of the Institute who were attempting to familiarise themselves with their new settings. The rest of the seats were filled out by a motley mix of passing pedestrians and bored residents. Given that there was a chemist who was running a show on combustible elements during the next booking, Henry highly doubted it was Fields’ exemplary showmanship that was bringing in the numbers. The tantalising implication that something was going to be blown up was certainly more appealing than dry facts about geology and geography. The fact that entry was free and it had been raining was also certainly a decisive factor.

Back on the stage, Fields appeared to have broken his pointer. After a few seconds of futile struggling, he dropped it into a pocket and gave the audience a wan smile. “Well, ah, I’m sure we can do without that,” he continued. “As I was saying, the Woronora Mountains border the, ah, northern extremes of the peninsular, running down the western edge of Long Valley Bay before ending in the Bushlands, some 120 miles away. This has, ah, set the scene for some rather interesting allopatric speciation and biodiversity across the divide.” At this point, the audience looked like was prepared to disagree with that particular assertion. Again, the wan smile. “As an aside to the laymen among us, allopatric speciation would be the divergence of, um, species due to the imposition of some kind of physical divide – such as the Woronora mountain range. Allopatric of course derives from the ancient Greek words ‘allos’ meaning ‘other’ and ‘patrā’, meaning ‘fatherland’.” A young man at the back of the hall surreptitiously crept out, evidently not willing to endure any more on the off-chance of seeing some exploding custard powder. Henry considered following his example, but was positive that Fields would somehow catch him and he’d then never hear the end of it. Sometimes being a Fellow of the Institute seemed far too much like work to be of his liking.

A beep from the bracelet on his wrist provided a much needed diversion from the monotony. It appeared a message had just arrived. Holding his hand out in front of him, he tapped his thumb against the side of his index finger in much the same way a small child might do while pretending to fire an old fashioned gun. Whirring into action, the bracelet activated and projected a screen onto his palm. Spreading his fingers increased the display in size. Tabbing through the various options, he found a message from Sir Aaron Peterson waiting for him.

“Hullo there Henners! There’s a chap I want you to meet; I’d quite like to bring him along for our little jaunt into the countryside. I’m sure the two of you will get along like a house on fire! I understand you’re at the prof’s to-do so do let me know when you’re out and we can arrange a meeting. Ta ta! AP.”

The surge of relief that coursed through Henry at that moment would probably have given a police sniffer dog a nervous tick. Aaron had been in orbit for the last week, sorting out the logistics of furloughing the entire crew of a deep space cruiser. A lamentable side-effect of this state of affairs was that the young lordling had run out of excuses to avoid Fields, and had thus been spending far too much time around the man. It had almost been educational. Some good company was the order of the day, and Aaron’s acquaintances could almost invariably be described as ‘characters’. He penned a quick reply and sent it winging off through the ether.

“The lecture ended early. I’ll be in the Badger’s Den in 30.”

Collecting his coat, Henry beat a hasty retreat from the hall. He could hear some waffle from the stage about the plains directly to the north of the mountains and purposefully shut it out. He’d risk Field’s sulkiness if it came to it, but an afternoon in the pub really was preferable to the lecture’s drudgery. There were probably some notes he could obtain and ignore at a later date. He left the building and emerged blinking into the stark light of the system’s binary stars. The recent cloudbreak seemed to have cleared up, with little more than the odd puddle and a distant grey cloud testifying to the downpour. Without the sound dampening systems of the science hall, the deafening din of a pre-fab drop was also clearly audible. Shading his eyes with a hand, he could see tug ships swarming around the suspended bulk of the top floor of a block of flats, which was most incongruously hovering over the skyline. The constant banging and crashes of construction had led many to dub Port Jackson the ‘city of hammers’.

In the early years of a colony’s life cycle, it was vital that huge swathes of accommodation were provided to rapidly house the booming population. The Anglican solution to this quandary was to pre-construct enormous modules that could then be retrofitted in-situ for any given purpose. Generally these would be fabricated in the core industrial systems, and then transported out aboard monolithic chartered gigafreighters. On the longer settled planets, to call something ‘provincial’ was to comment on its shabbiness, or appearance of being hastily built. As a consequence, most colonies tended to look similar, with the same utilitarian towers erupting from the landscape throughout the kingdom on a myriad of planets. It was often decades before these unsightly structures were dismantled or demolished and replaced with something more pleasant.

The gigafreighter class ATS Prosperity had been sat in orbit for the last three months offloading construction components and other profitable trade goods. The licensed owners – Anglican Trade Solutions – were operating on a lucrative state charter funded by the crown treasury, an arrangement that had been in place for the last three and a half years. The ship brought with it a small fleet of support vessels, ranging from fuel tankers to security vessels; tiny proximity defence fighters all the way up to private sector frigates. The security was necessary, as so much as a rumour of the passing of one of the city-sized ships would frequently draw in pirate bands from all the surrounding sectors. The HMS Quixotic had met the convoy in the deep space outside of the solar system as they jumped in, and then bolstered the escort for the final leg.

***

It took a good twenty minutes of brisk walking to reach the appointed meeting place. The Badger’s Den was one of the structures that had been built from locally sourced materials, giving it a quaintly rustic appearance. Given that it was in one of the nicer areas of the city, it naturally drew the region’s gentry and aristocracy. The barmaids smiled and fluttered their eyelashes at Henry as he entered – he was a familiar face by that point, and word had got out about who he was related to. It paid to be pleasant after all. He ordered a pint of bitter and placed it on a tab for Sir Peterson – with an emphasis on the title.

As if invoking the devil’s name, the man himself strolled through the doorway, accompanied by a looming giant of a man. He was built like an ox, with close cropped brown hair flecked with grey. This was appropriate, matching his lifeless grey eyes. A conservative guess at his age might have placed him in his early forties. Most alarmingly, he appeared to be missing his right arm – it had been replaced by a crudely metallic prosthetic limb. Generally such replacements were designed to be unobtrusive and discreet, covered in synthetic skin. This stark mutilation appeared to be intentionally advertised. In short, he didn’t look at all like one of Aaron’s regular accomplices, perhaps instead cut from a military cloth. “Ah, Henry! There you are!” Sparking up another cigar he wandered over and patted the young man on the arm. “Good lad, you got me a drink.” He plucked the pint from the bar top before Henry could get at it, and winked at the grinning landlord. “I wanted to introduce you to a good friend of mine, Mikal Korvoz. He’s served as my first mate on the Intrepid for the last twenty-five years or so, and done a jolly fine job of it too.”

“Henry Boyce. It is good to meet you.” Henry’s eyebrows rose. He recognised that accent from the news and countless hours of jingoistic broadcasting. The distinctive mode of speech - clipped and economical in the use of words. A tone that was invariably associated with the enemy – with caution and suspicion. He hadn't expected to bump into a native of the Western Federation out here.

[Merchant of Venice]

Another good chapter, i liked the lecture scene. I could most definitely picture Henry being bored out of hell listening to Fields. Poor Fields. Want to know where this new character fits in.

I advise you also start to do something of a legendarium, like an encyclopaedia of your story's world, helping the reader with stuff like who the Anglicans are what the Western Federation is. If you want some more info on legendariums head of to the latest Critic's Quill, there is a really good article on it.

[General Retreat]

Thanks for the feedback, Merchant. I've taken that onboard, and I've already started work on "Encyclopaedia Anglia". Currently I have backgrounds sorted for all of the mentioned characters (including some bits not yet included in the story itself), and I'll be expanding to places, organisations and nations over time. The information itself is in a content box in the first post. I'd love any comments on how people feel this is looking so far.

[Rex Anglorvm]

I've just read the story from your opening chapter; its very well written I like the flow and the characters seem to be coming along nicely. Perhapa a touch more description of Henry would be useful; just to picture him in the mind's eye.Rep +and I shall be following.

[General Retreat]

New post will be up shortly - in the mean time, here! Have a map!

(Click to expand)

I'd love some feedback on this thing, seeing as I'm not too happy with the way it looks at the moment.

[McScottish]

New post will be up shortly - in the mean time, here! Have a map!

(Click to expand)

I'd love some feedback on this thing, seeing as I'm not too happy with the way it looks at the moment.

Better than anything I have ever done, and that is no bad thing. Personally I like it.

[Rex Anglorvm]

I would agree with McScottish, it looks fine to me. The map will help the reader with a sense of geography and topography, but I wouldn't get to bogged down over one. Your writing style will create the world, the map is really just there as bit of added extra.

[General Retreat]

Sea and Storm

It was approaching high tide - the waves and wind were as vicious as ever, thanks in no small part to the system’s dual suns. The early morning air was frigid as the commercial trawler Fishwife tacked against the current, heaving through the troughs of the growing swell. Taking the whitecaps on the hull’s side was poor seamanship, but they needed to force progress to the south-east. Sailing into the current would have pushed them fully to the south. It made for a rough voyage, unsettling the stomachs of the nauseous. Black clouds were boiling ominously to the east, grumbling with primeval discontent - a storm was brewing, and the captain wanted to be out of Long Valley Bay and into port before it broke.

The foothills of the Worronora Mountains loomed far behind them. To the starboard, there were the humped and hilly shores of the Bushlands; to the port side, the shadow of the peninsula itself. They’d been travelling at roughly 23 knots for the last hour, crawling further and further away from the city. The powerful hydrogen engines were currently listing idly, using a fraction of their potential in order to offset the choppy conditions. Creeping past Western Docks’ sea wall, the crew had shouted their farewells to the colony, then turned to the task at hand. They’d be back in three weeks after a 160 mile trip to the deep water trawling sites of the Gulf of Parramatta. They had almost left the bay, passing through a pinch point between the Port Jackson Peninsular, and the opposing shore of the Bushlands.

According to the manifest, all the hold contained was provisions for the trip ahead. In reality, the captain had only brought enough for a few days of travel at most. They’d filled up on unofficial passengers instead, who wanted to head out to one of the upcoming settlements that had been established off the record in the Bushlands. It was a well known fact that many of the Gulf’s fishing vessels secretly offered ferry services to foreign shores. Secrecy was generally respected as a term on both sides of the arrangement - the fishermen didn't want to register for ferry licenses and pay passenger taxes, while the migrants usually had a good enough reason to be discreetly leaving the city.

A solitary figure stood on the gunwale, gripping the rails. A heavy defence cannon was bolted to the deck behind her, with the trigger gene-coded to the crewmen. In the roaring wind spray lashed the deck, running off her heavy cloak in rivulets. She was no fisherman, but rather a hunter - a savage, depending on who you asked. Port Jackson had an insatiable appetite for the produce of the new frontier: the Bushlands. Furs and scales for local high fashion. Sinewy and tough hides for industry. Preserved carcasses of undiscovered species for biologists. They were dangerous lands though, and no place for the untrained and unwary. The fishermen had dropped off more hunters who had failed to return than they could count. This woman was not like those other failed entrepreneurs. If you knew what to shoot and where to hit it, there was a wage to be made in Nova Sydney’s ferocious wilds.

There was the increasingly vocal suggestion of thunder from somewhere over the horizon as a drizzle began to fall. The woman shouldered the pack that had been at her feet and walked back across the pitching deck to the hold. Up above, the captain watched her go from the bridge. He sighed and shook his head. “Mike, I don’t think we’re going to make port before this bugger breaks.” He scratched his beard irritably. “In all honesty, if the swell picks up any more, I don’t think we’re even going to be able to moor to the quay. We’d be broken to bits against the wall.” As if mocking him, the wind renewed its assault on the reinforced windows, whistling through tiny cracks in the frame and sending lashes of rain up the panes. Not so far away, a black cloud was momentarily lit white by a flash of lightning.

The crewman Mike wandered over and peered pensively at the instruments panel. “Yeah, looks like that storm front is movin’ quicker than forcasted. Bastard’ll be on us in less than’n hour. Bloody summer weather, aye?” He shot a dirty look at the meteorological readings, as if they were actually causing the storm instead of reporting it. “Passengers ain’t goin’ to like that one bit, capt’n. It smells bad enough in t’hold as it is, without them lot spending a night out here. I ain’t gonna be t’one swabbing the deck to clear out the chunder.” The captain harrumphed in irritation.

“We’ll see. Lets concentrate on getting there first.” The grizzled fisherman paused for a moment, considering the already heaving deck. His bushy eyebrows knitted in a frown. “We could punch the engines, ramp her up to three-quarters full-mast. Try to outrun the storm” Mike muttered something filthy under his breath.

“Aye, if you want us all drownin’ in carrot soup! Them spacers ain’t got the sea legs for the heave, let alone the bellies!” The captain grimaced at the thought of his poor Fishwife being soiled so.

Growling, he eased off the speed. It was another twenty minutes before they rounded the headland and began to push directly south, hugging the contours of the land. They were now leaving open water, instead aiming for a wide inlet that led deeper into the Bushlands and away from the Gulf. Further ahead would be the great estuary of the Hawkesbury River, the sailing of which being a perilous endeavour for the deep-drafted trawlers used in the fishing fleets. Fortunately, they were not due to travel so far, instead seeking the walled shantytown of Prospect’s Hope.

A klaxon sounded when the bay narrowed far enough for the vessel to come within 400 feet of the nearest shore. The crew abandoned whatever task they had been attending to and took up rifles, manning the sides and the defence cannon. Due caution and respect had to be shown to the Bushlands. The region had a tendency to reward the arrogant or ignorant with their own blood. The female hunter emerged from the hold with her pack slung over her shoulder. The rain had intensified somewhat, now hammering the deck hard enough to raise a mist from the spray. This was instantly whipped away by the roaring gale, stinging the skin of those it hit. She ended up stood behind Mike, who was sat in the cannon’s gunnery chair, looking thoroughly damp and miserable.

“You’ve been blessed!” She shouted over the storm. Mike wiped the water from his eyes and peered incredulously back at the woman.

“Doesn’t bloody feel like it,” he retorted.

“Be happy for the weather,” she replied. “The bigger creatures won’t bother your tin can, and the insects that would kill you are grounded.” Grumbling he hunched his back and turned away from her. She simply laughed and walked to the rail in order to catch first sight of the port which was now mere minutes away.

The wind then changed direction, bringing with it the banshee chorus of human screams.

[Maximinus Thrax]

Excellent work! I really like the way you handle the descriptive parts, as Dance already mentioned. It really helps bringing a fictional setting to life.

[General Retreat]

Thanks! This post is actually a bit of a departure from the main body of the tale. We may be coming back to the repercussions of what happens here slightly later on.

I'd also like to thank the people who voted for this story in this month's creative writing competition. It may or may not have won, depending on whether the vote is re-done, but the support I've had really means a lot.

[Merchant of Venice]

Great work. Really liked the dialogue from the captain and his crew, a nice touch.

I am guessing that Pax Anglia is slightly based on the early colonisation of Australia. As an Australian its funny to read about places such as the gulf of Parramatta and Hawkesbury River(a real river in fact).

Congrats on your victory in the MCWC. Good work.

[Rex Anglorvm]

That sea trip reminds me of one I had the misfortune of being on once; my god it smelt! But I digress....

A great story, much like the other comments above, I do like your description of the elements etc, it something that is often missed.

Rep+

[General Retreat]

I am guessing that Pax Anglia is slightly based on the early colonisation of Australia. As an Australian its funny to read about places such as the gulf of Parramatta and Hawkesbury River(a real river in fact).

Congrats on your victory in the MCWC. Good work.

Australia is a common convention that will be used in the Anglican named portions of the planets. The settlers that got there first might have different ideas about what things are called, of course. The Encyclopaedia will probably go into a little more details when I get to the relevant point, but an Anglican colonial council on London Prime basically determines what the name of new planets and systems will be. They can countermand the initial discoverer's choices if they don't consider them appropriate (see Sir Aaron Peterson's initial names). Anglican settlers have then used that name as a common trope for all further cultural naming references.

That sea trip reminds me of one I had the misfortune of being on once; my god it smelt! But I digress....

A great story, much like the other comments above, I do like your description of the elements etc, it something that is often missed.

Rep+

I think the description is fairly important in stories like this, seeing as you're effectively creating an entirely new world. A big part of worldbuilding his helping the reader see the thing you've constructed in your mind's eye. That can be a bit daunting at times, especially when I've got concepts about the wider galaxy rattling around in my head at the same time. I hope this is all converting into something that's relatively consistent for everyone else though.