The Search for the HighnDry: Session 1

My first venture into the Traveller universe! After surviving character creation, my longtime friends and I began an adventure into the expansive science fiction setting of the decades-old TTRPG, Traveller. After nearly seven years of playing Dungeons & Dragons 5e, I was more than a little excited to experience a new setting and system.

My character, Gabriel Treviso, turned out to be a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy. He grew up on a farm, joined the Marines to see the galaxy, and values friendship over wealth. The following are his personal logs from his journeys after mustering out of the Marines.

185-1102 – Planet Flammarion
Me and Max Cooper touched down at the big orbital station over Flammarion, steppin’ off the transport right into the hum and buzz of interstellar traffic. We’d served together on the Krieger, a big ol’ Navy battleship, but we was both outta the service now—retired, no plans, just floatin’.

My comm said my old buddy Zem was somewhere on-station. Didn’t take long pokin’ around our usual haunts ‘fore we ended up at Bennigan’s, this run-down spacer bar we used to hit. Sure enough, there he was—Zem grinnin’ like a dog with two tails, and that scruffy little rat of his, Gizmo, still hangin’ on his shoulder like he owned the place. I couldn’t help but say, “Ain’t that critter dead yet?” Zem just shrugged.

While we was catchin’ up, Zem got a message—something from the Detached Scout Service. He said it might be a good job and invited us along to see what it was all about. I offered him a bunk, but turns out Mitch had already beat me to it. So them two roomed up, and we all holed up at the Traveler’s Aid Society that night. Figured we’d get some shut-eye ‘fore the job kicked off.

Next mornin’, Coop and me went shoppin’ for gear. I bought me a pair of Knuckleblasters—figured they’d come in handy if things got rowdy—plus some odds and ends. Then we all headed over to the scout base, just shy of 1000 hours.

An orderly led us down some real clean, white halls ‘til we got to the office of Mr. Anders Casarii—a straight-shooter if I ever met one. Shook our hands and got right down to it.

Zem’s job was simple on paper: go to Walston, pick up a scout ship—S001642-C, called HighnDry—and bring it back to Flammarion for fixin’. Ship had some mechanical trouble, and its last crew got locked up for fraud and embezzlin’. Casarii said he’d give us repair parts and a fresh operating system—but that OS was a short-timer, only good for three months ‘fore it bricked the ship.

He offered a thousand credits up front, another thousand after we delivered, and he’d cover all travel expenses. Sounded fair to me.

Mitch looked like someone shoved a plasma rifle where the sun don’t shine. I grinned and said, “You alright, Mitch? You lookin’ like you’re holdin’ in a fart.” He flipped me the bird and said, “Since you’re so good at readin’ body language.” We all had a good laugh.

Job sounded solid, so we signed on. Transport was already lined up—a ship called the Autumn Gold. Three crates of parts already packed and loaded. Nothin’ left but to climb aboard and earn our keep.

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187-1102
We met Captain Michelle Corelli—sharp as a tack and not one to mess with. She had that calm, hard look of someone who’s seen a lot and lived to tell it. After a quick howdy-do, she told one of her crew, “Stevens, show ’em to the passenger deck.”

As we followed Stevens, I took a good look at the crew—five of ‘em, not exactly bruisers, but they looked like they could handle their own. Tight ship, too. We weren’t allowed to roam or poke at the cargo without one of ‘em breathin’ down our necks.

The Autumn Gold was a Far Trader—plain and built for work, not comfort. Passenger deck was clean, but you could tell she’d been rode hard and put away wet. The crew was polite, but they kept their distance.

Durin’ the trip, I settled into a rhythm. Mornings, I worked out—couldn’t let myself go soft, not after all them years in the Corps. Spent afternoons diggin’ into engineerin’ manuals. Figured it was high time I learned more than just how to blow stuff up.

Come evenin’, I ran a little poker game with the boys. Low stakes, just for fun. Course, my “fun” ended up cleanin’ ‘em out—walked away with an extra 150 credits in my pocket. Ain’t no shame in knowin’ how to play the hand you’re dealt.

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194-1102
After the first jump, we landed at 567908—a dead rock if I ever saw one. Planet was brown as old boots, only ‘bout 20% water. From orbit, it looked like a turd floatin’ in space.

We set down on a glorified rock slab that passed for a landin’ pad—barely room to fart, much less refuel. The only signs of life were a fuel depot and a squat little canteen.

The place was so dull-colored you couldn’t tell where one rock ended and the next began. Nothin’ but baked dirt and dusty ridges. Off to the north, we saw one lone buildin’ stickin’ outta the horizon—maybe three, four clicks out, with some antennas pokin’ into the sky.

We headed to the canteen and met the owner, Fred. Friendly fella with a big ol’ grin and way too much time on his hands. He served us up some food and then talked our ears off ‘bout gravity ripples and jump signatures. Man could talk for hours ‘bout nothin’—and did.

Turns out the canteen was called Mandel’s Prang, named after some fool scout who tried to jump an ATV off a ridge and turned it into scrap. They parked the busted vehicle outside as a kinda monument. Said it added charm. I called it a safety warnin’.

Fred kept talkin’ while more folks trickled in. Coop smoked three cigars just tryin’ to stay sane, then wandered off back to the ship. Me, Zem, and Mitch finally decided to go check out that research outpost up north.

‘Bout 300 meters out, there’s Fred, wavin’ us in like we was old kin. He gave us the grand tour—showed us sensors, data charts, all sorts of sciencey junk I pretended to care ‘bout. As a thank-you, I gave him one of my lucky decks of cards—I carry ten of ‘em, but I didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout that.

Fred got all teary-eyed and handed me his old ISS badge. Said it meant a lot. Guess it did.

We hung ‘round for a while longer, then caught a ride back in Fred’s ATV. Before we left, he gave me his comm info, said he’d be posted here for another eight months. I saved it—never know when an old friend’ll come in handy.

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202-1102

We touched down on Settlement Island—that’s where most of the folk live, around three thousand of ‘em. Buildings there are mostly dug two-thirds underground to keep out the cold. The moment we stepped out, that chill smacked us straight in the teeth. Not much out on the landing pads ‘cept a couple sealed-up hangars. Zem walked over and asked one of the dockhands ‘bout the HighnDry. Fella told us the ship left months ago. Not exactly what we wanted to hear.

After clearin’ customs—where we had to store our shootin’ irons for 10 credits a week (I marked it as a travel expense)—we made our way to the port authority. Locals were dressed bright as a sunrise, and most of the men were wearin’ kilts. I made a little joke: “I got a rule—never fight a man in a kilt.” Hopin’ we wouldn’t have to test that.

Inside the port office, we met this older fella who looked official. We told him we were lookin’ for the HighnDry. He checked the records and told us it had been hired out by the government three months back. The crew came back a month later—without the ship. Then they left again on a boat called the Maverick Spacer, headed for Flammarion. If we wanted more info, we’d have to go to Central Lake City and talk to the government folks.

We had ‘bout two hours before the daily train left, so we got ready. My companions picked up some cold-weather gear, but my Hunter Garb Jacket’s rated for minus fifty—I wasn’t worried. The train ride took four hours, not much happenin’ on the way. Found out the whole government was stuffed into one big ol’ place called The Palace. Sounded funny to me, but my companions explained it—it’s a dictatorship, ruled by one family.

At the palace, we got welcomed in right nice. After explainin’ our business, they offered us coffee and biscuits while they called in the Minister of Offworld Affairs. A tall man in a green-blue kilt walked in not long after and introduced hisself as Allen Greener. We shook hands and followed him to his office.

We explained we were lookin’ to recover the HighnDry. He told us he knew where the ship was—but there was a catch. Before he handed it over, he wanted us to finish the job the last crew didn’t. The government was payin’ 3,000 credits for a geologic survey near the capital. Some mountain that was supposed to be dead—an old volcano—was makin’ folks nervous. Last fella who looked at it thought it might blow again. They wanted a second opinion.

We tried hagglin’ for more credits, but Allen didn’t budge. He said the HighnDry was up on Mount Salbarii. Only way up was by train, leavin’ the next mornin’. With nothin’ better to do, we got ourselves a room, had a hot meal, and picked up some climbin’ gear—just in case.

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203-1102
Train ride to Salbarii took about three hours. The land out there was sharp and cold—jagged peaks and frozen flats far as the eye could see. When we got there, we met Xavier, a local who agreed to haul us up the mountain in his ATV far as it’d go. The ride was rough goin’, but he got us about 500 meters up ‘fore the path got too mean for the wheels.

We strapped our pelican cases—loaded with repair parts—onto a sled and started climbin’. First couple hundred meters weren’t too bad. It was steep, but we managed. By the time we hit 800 meters, it was early afternoon. Higher up, the trail got rougher. At 5 PM, we ran smack into a sheer rock face. Time for some real climbin’.

Zem and Max led the way, hammerin’ in pitons and securin’ lines. Once they had ropes down, we started haulin’ our gear and climbin’ up. Me and Mitch came up last, takin’ it careful.

At the top, we found somethin’ grim—a narrow plateau, and two skeletons layin’ there among old, rotted gear. Looked like one of ‘em fell, and neither made it off the mountain. Their stuff was mostly rusted junk, though we salvaged a few pitons. No IDs. No way to tell who they were or if anyone ever came lookin’. Just silence.

We set up camp at 900 meters. The wind howled somethin’ fierce, and the cold cut straight through. We bundled up and tried to sleep.

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204-1102
We broke camp early, just as the first light started spillin’ over the mountain. It was cold and the air was thin, but we made decent time. Hit 1,100 meters by 9 AM.

That next stretch of climb was across ancient lava flows—all black rock and loose stone that shifted underfoot. Nothin’ easy about it. Took us four dang hours to cover the next 150 meters. By the time we reached 1,250, we were flat wore out, and the sun was startin’ to dip low.

And that’s when we saw ‘em. Four strangers crestin’ the mountain just like we did. I raised a hand in greetin’, but they didn’t look too friendly. Salvagers. They were here for the HighnDry too, and they weren’t real keen on sharin’.

I kept calm, told ‘em we were there on Allen Greener’s orders. Pointed to the radio Max had. “We can call him right now,” I said. That gave ‘em pause. After a tense moment, they muttered somethin’ rude and turned back, headin’ down the mountain. Guess they didn’t want no part of dealin’ with the law.

We pressed on. Reached the top and there she was—the HighnDry, sittin’ on a little island in the middle of a dark, still lake. Water so calm it looked like glass. Sparse brush huggin’ the rocky shore, fightin’ to survive.

I pulled out my electrobinoculars and had a look. Rear port was open, and there was a mess of junk layin’ around. Then somethin’ moved. A long-haired hound was diggin’ through the scraps. I watched it for a minute and saw a collar around its neck. Somebody left it behind.

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205-1102
Me and Mitch stripped down to our skivvies and waded into that icy lake. Cold cut straight to the bone. We pulled a rope behind us, swimmin’ to the island. The water was still as death.

Once on the far shore, Mitch went to work tryin’ to coax the hound outta the brush. I grabbed the rope and started haulin’ our makeshift raft over. The dog was on edge, watchin’ us close. Hackles up, tail low.

Mitch moved slow, talkin’ soft and holdin’ out a ration bar. Hunger finally beat fear, and the creature crept up. Zem took one look and nodded. “That’s a Tensor Wolf,” he said. “Spacers keep ‘em as companions. They do real well on ships.”

The rest of the crew swam across while I finished haulin’ gear. Up close, the ship looked rough. Picked clean. Supplies were all gone, probably eaten or carried off. That dog’d chewed through whatever food was left.

By the back hatch, half-buried in the dirt, was a little metal bowl with a name stamped on it: Kimberly.

Whoever left that poor wolf behind hadn’t planned on comin’ back.