Post by "Soviet" on May 31, 2014 14:25:54 GMT -8
Any news? Slag asked, his mouthful of uj'alayi. He'd been stuffing his face for the last ten minutes with all sorts of vhe'viin bait, gihaal strips, haarshun bread, and now cake. The man didn't seem to be interested in curbing his gluttony, either, and Soviet had grown tired of hearing his smacking lips reverberating over the commlink. No, no news. How goes the decryption process? Soviet asked, his voice gruff and tinged with frustration. And can you stop eating for a sec? I'm sick of hearing you chew. He added. He could almost see the grin on Slag's face, the man was rarely one to give a damn about manners. I've been collecting any transmissions that come our way, though I've yet to make any headway on decryption. The Imps are using algorithms I'm not familiar with, I can't get any purchase on their code. I won't be able to crack any of this with the equipment we have on board. It doesn't help that the Imps are sending everything in tight beam, I can't even intercept half of what they send. Soviet frowned, wishing they had access to an entire team of slicers to work on the Imperial's communications. This new Empire might appear similar to the first, but they were far more efficient and studious in their efforts to protect their knowledge and hide their activities.
What the bloody hell is hanging around here going to do for anyone then, eh? He bit out. A moment later, Slag's progress appeared on his secondary display screen. It was nothing but a jumble of symbols and lines of script that made no sense.
Dammit, Slag, we need names. Locations, times, all this nonsense is useless. Soviet grunted as he continued to scroll through his companion's incomplete work, then closed it all with the slap of a button. His display went dark, as if mirroring the amount of progress they'd made. I'm doing the best I can with what I have, mate, relax. I've saved some of the transmissions. GALCOM can work them out later. Slag seemed to be making excuses, but Soviet was forced to accept the truth in his words. They couldn't do much in a gunship, unable to contact highers without risking exposure. And with their stealth systems engaged, they'd be hard-pressed to make a jump to hyperspace before being snagged by a tractor beam, or vaporized by a turbolaser cannon; the engines would take too long to kick on. Soviet refused to admit this all to Slag, however. Finally, the Black Operator resigned with a sigh.
Let me get some of those snacks you have holed up with you. Soviet said, holding a hand up over his shoulder. Slag reached down through the small hatch that separated the partitioned cockpit, dropping a large plastic sack into his hand. Soviet was surprised by the weight of it. By the Force, you pack food like it's going out of style, mate. He murmured, mostly to himself. Soviet rummaged through the sack, pulling out several strips of gihaal and a piece of uj'alayi. He handed the sack up to Slag, who took it. Not out of style, my friend, but it is all perishable. I want to eat it before the mold sets in. Soviet's jaw froze, a half-chewed strip of gihaal resting between his molars. How old's this food? He asked, his voice ringed with suspicion. In the cockpit above him, Slag shrugged. I dunno, think I had it since Corulag. Soviet groaned and spat the strip of meat out of his mouth, dropping it into the small waste receptacle behind his chair.
You disgust me, you know that? Behind him, Slag was laughing to himself. I'm just messing with you, I packed it all a couple days ago, before we shipped out. Soviet pursed his lips, looking down at the piece of cake and the rest of the gihaal in his hand, not sure if he ought to trust Slag to be joking through his lies, or to be lying through his jokes. He was a bit peckish, however, and ate the food warily, keeping his tongue and nose on the lookout for any off scents or tastes. As he ate slowly, Soviet considered the possibilities. Unfortunately, he had too little answers, and a growing list of questions. It would be days, at the earliest, before they would have a chance to run the transmissions they had managed to intercept through GALCOM's Intel database, and by then it might not matter, even if they did find something. Figuring out what the Empire was up to is what mattered, though Soviet was beginning to feel as if he were running out of rope. Whatever the Imperials were planning could very well be in motion already. Soviet's only task was to figure out if their plans were beneficial or harmful to the greater Galactic community, not to decide how he should help or hinder them. There would be little he could do anyways, with only a gunship and a glutton as his assets. You know, Sov... Slag mused, popping another piece of cake into his mouth. We could steal aboard their ship and extract data from their mainframe in the command tower.
Soviet felt as if he'd been slapped in the face with a wet phallus: Shocked. You've gone bloody daft, haven't you? The tone of Slag's response made Soviet wonder if the man were merely playing Sith's Advocate. He already was a poor judge of sarcasm, the result of a deficit in his sense of humor, Hoover told him, though Soviet suspected he was being facetious as well. Not really. The garbage hatches are actually built into the backside of the rearmost superstructure. We could sneak in through those hatches, and insert ourselves pretty close to the command bridge. Soviet spun his head around, looking up at Slag through the cockpit's shared hatch.
And do what, laser-brains, knock out a pair of Imperials and take their uniforms, then walk right up to the bridge and ask for access to the mainframe? Maybe bug their comms? Soviet snorted. Don't be daft, it's not happening. Slag remained silent for a moment, Soviet realized he was stuffing more cake into his mouth. Whaffever, maye. I was juff makin' a suggeshun.
What the bloody hell is hanging around here going to do for anyone then, eh? He bit out. A moment later, Slag's progress appeared on his secondary display screen. It was nothing but a jumble of symbols and lines of script that made no sense.
Dammit, Slag, we need names. Locations, times, all this nonsense is useless. Soviet grunted as he continued to scroll through his companion's incomplete work, then closed it all with the slap of a button. His display went dark, as if mirroring the amount of progress they'd made. I'm doing the best I can with what I have, mate, relax. I've saved some of the transmissions. GALCOM can work them out later. Slag seemed to be making excuses, but Soviet was forced to accept the truth in his words. They couldn't do much in a gunship, unable to contact highers without risking exposure. And with their stealth systems engaged, they'd be hard-pressed to make a jump to hyperspace before being snagged by a tractor beam, or vaporized by a turbolaser cannon; the engines would take too long to kick on. Soviet refused to admit this all to Slag, however. Finally, the Black Operator resigned with a sigh.
Let me get some of those snacks you have holed up with you. Soviet said, holding a hand up over his shoulder. Slag reached down through the small hatch that separated the partitioned cockpit, dropping a large plastic sack into his hand. Soviet was surprised by the weight of it. By the Force, you pack food like it's going out of style, mate. He murmured, mostly to himself. Soviet rummaged through the sack, pulling out several strips of gihaal and a piece of uj'alayi. He handed the sack up to Slag, who took it. Not out of style, my friend, but it is all perishable. I want to eat it before the mold sets in. Soviet's jaw froze, a half-chewed strip of gihaal resting between his molars. How old's this food? He asked, his voice ringed with suspicion. In the cockpit above him, Slag shrugged. I dunno, think I had it since Corulag. Soviet groaned and spat the strip of meat out of his mouth, dropping it into the small waste receptacle behind his chair.
You disgust me, you know that? Behind him, Slag was laughing to himself. I'm just messing with you, I packed it all a couple days ago, before we shipped out. Soviet pursed his lips, looking down at the piece of cake and the rest of the gihaal in his hand, not sure if he ought to trust Slag to be joking through his lies, or to be lying through his jokes. He was a bit peckish, however, and ate the food warily, keeping his tongue and nose on the lookout for any off scents or tastes. As he ate slowly, Soviet considered the possibilities. Unfortunately, he had too little answers, and a growing list of questions. It would be days, at the earliest, before they would have a chance to run the transmissions they had managed to intercept through GALCOM's Intel database, and by then it might not matter, even if they did find something. Figuring out what the Empire was up to is what mattered, though Soviet was beginning to feel as if he were running out of rope. Whatever the Imperials were planning could very well be in motion already. Soviet's only task was to figure out if their plans were beneficial or harmful to the greater Galactic community, not to decide how he should help or hinder them. There would be little he could do anyways, with only a gunship and a glutton as his assets. You know, Sov... Slag mused, popping another piece of cake into his mouth. We could steal aboard their ship and extract data from their mainframe in the command tower.
Soviet felt as if he'd been slapped in the face with a wet phallus: Shocked. You've gone bloody daft, haven't you? The tone of Slag's response made Soviet wonder if the man were merely playing Sith's Advocate. He already was a poor judge of sarcasm, the result of a deficit in his sense of humor, Hoover told him, though Soviet suspected he was being facetious as well. Not really. The garbage hatches are actually built into the backside of the rearmost superstructure. We could sneak in through those hatches, and insert ourselves pretty close to the command bridge. Soviet spun his head around, looking up at Slag through the cockpit's shared hatch.
And do what, laser-brains, knock out a pair of Imperials and take their uniforms, then walk right up to the bridge and ask for access to the mainframe? Maybe bug their comms? Soviet snorted. Don't be daft, it's not happening. Slag remained silent for a moment, Soviet realized he was stuffing more cake into his mouth. Whaffever, maye. I was juff makin' a suggeshun.