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Falinx was forced to admit that it truly was an impressive ship, as his apparent liaison, Lieutenant Chester Hunt, Master of Arms aboard the ship, took him down a barren hallway and into a massive common room. There was a cafeteria down on one end, with restrooms for either gender nearby. The kitchen was a half-walled off affair, with counters piled with dishes, ingredients, and other cooking materials ringing it. A chef was busy at the stove, concocting something out of materials that were somewhat questionable as to their origin. Hunt stood off to one side of the entrance corridor, allowing Falinx to walk in on his own.

Apparently many of the crew had nothing better to do, and so had migrated here to mingle and socialise. Some of them were playing some board game, others were holding a miniature drinking contest, some were eating, and some were just sitting around, relaxing, and talking. Several of them, startled, looked up as he entered. He noted with a frown that there were no Dalynther amongst them, naught but humans. It seemed as though his was a dying breed, here in theAlliance anyway. Regardless, he waved the sailors back down as they stood up, scrambling to attention. Only partially relaxing, they sat down again, still eying him warily.

He prowled through them, ignoring their fascinated stares at him and his Ironguard armour and markings, marching to the crew quarters, which were adjacent to this particular room. Most of the rooms inside were occupied by rows of bunk-cots, no doubt where the crew slept. It seemed, in fact, that the hallway that connected to all of these rooms stretched the length of the ship - obviously, it was built with the intent to carry perhaps four or five hundred people. He continued his exploration, discovering more restrooms and a handful more common rooms scattered about, and then wandered off onto the next deck.

This was the gun deck, where the vast weapons of destruction on the metal beast's flanks were housed. Dozens of gun-slaves were lounging around down here, with some of them touching up the optical lenses for their specific turrets in preparation for battle. He noticed that there were dozens, if not hundreds, of small alcoves set flush into the sides of the decks - that was where the close-range defensive turrets were contained, ready to be revealed and used at a moment's notice. Unlike the vast laser cannons, these smaller turrets were solid-slug machine guns, designed only to throw hunks of heated metal at fighters, bombers, boarding craft, or anything else relatively small that got too close - they wouldn't do much good against even a frigate, though. Falinx walked about, quietly discussing the state of the ship's weapons with each of the main gun's masters, all of them agreeing that they had been tested and were ready for combat. Satisfied, he continued into the very bottom of the ship.

This particular deck served as the engine room, one of the fighter-bomber hangars, and an armoury all combined into one. First, he checked off with the engineers, making sure everything was in order, then with the fighter pilots, ensuring they were ready, then moving on into the armoury and admiring the vast rows of armoured suits, weapons, and boxes of ammunition. Lieutenant Hunt, being the Master of Arms aboard the ship, soon blocked his way as he attempted to continue.

"I'm sorry, sir, but this is a restricted area. Even you can go no further." His voice was flat and toneless as he spoke such, no doubt having said such things many times before as per regulations.

"Well who can?" Falinx snarled angrily.

"I can, sir." He remained impassive against Falinx's obvious annoyance.

"And why exactly is that, Lieutenant?" A system's worth of scorn was poured into the title, emphasising the lower rank.

"I can't tell you, sir." Hunt continued to be about as emotional as a particularly stern rock.

"Actually, I believe you damn-well can. I just so happen to be the commanding officer aboard this ship, in case you hadn't figured that out by now."

"It's... experimental, sir. Access restricted. Unless you can get a Councilor to authorise your entrance, you have to stay out of this wing. My greatest apologies, but this information is too sensitive for any eyes but my own and those of the Council." Despite the over threat made by the captain, Hunt was calm and collected.

"Listen to me now, damn it. You do in fact realise that I am the person who has been put on a mission that is apparently "too sensitive" for the rest of the military to deal with it. So in other words, you can either let me in there, or I can break your spine and go in there myself. What's it going to be?"

"Uhm... Sir. I'll... I'll open the door, sir." The unfortunate lieutenant had become extremely pale during the short rant.

"Good choice! You get to live for another day. Congratulations." Falinx smiled innocently at the sheet-white Hunt as he hurriedly put in the codes to open the way. "But I still don't understand why this has been kept a secret.

"This ship has been granted a large complement of mechs in order to better accomplish the mission, sir."

"And this is such a big secret, why?" Falinx looked at Hunt impatiently.

"Well, sir, Faltrack Cybernetics has given us, in addition to a platoon of various FC-9 patterns, they have also allowed us to carry a half-squad of experimental FC-10 mechs."

"What other toys do we have in here? Give me the full list."

"Well, as I said, there's a platoon of FC-9 mechs, made up of nine different patterns, a squad of FC-7 heavy support mechs, the half-squad of FC-10's, and a team of walkers - a Crusader, Knight, Paladin, and Lancer." Hunt read each of the names from a small electronic datapad that he had picked up from atop a nearby crate."

"I see why this was kept a secret, then." Although he didn't outright admit it, Falinx was impressed with the numbers and types that had been listed.

The radio in his ear chirped once to indicate an incoming signal, and he frowned.

"Falinx here. Go."

"This is the captain. We are in the Corzana system now, and are approaching the planet. Your presence is requested on the bridge."

"Confirmed. I'm on my wait, Captain."

A few minutes later, he rejoined his Navy attache, observing a slight undercurrent of tension and anxiety amongst the crew."

"What's the problem, Captain?" Falinx demanded.

"We're receiving no communications on the main channels, sir. Their scanners should've picked us up by now."

"And?"

"One, it is common practice to exchange hails and codes with approaching ships, and two, the Council has reportedly sent messages to the governors of each world we have planned as stops to be passed along to the station controllers and docking officers that we're to be assisted and left unhindered within their power."

"Have you tried secondary and tertiary channels?"

"Aye, along with emergency channels. Communications are apparently down, all across the planet, along with most electronics in general, it seems. Maybe just a planet-wide electrical blackout. Power failure in the energy grid."

"I suspect otherwise. Prepare a ground assault force, if you will."

"Of course. Should I authorise use of the mechs?"

"Only the FC-9's, for now." Falinx did not question how the ship's commander knew he had found out about the ship's cargo. He assumed that either Hunt had informed him, or he had simply observed via cameras.

"Understood. To the shuttle bay, if you please. The mechs will be waiting for you on the planet's surface."

"What's the landing zone going to be, and who else will I be going with?"

"KaprentiaParkshuttle port, in the main sector ofKarrackCity, the planet's capitol. I am organising a squad of ship security officers to accompany you."

"Very well. I will see you in a short time, Captain."

"Of that, I have no doubt."