Nightmares

‘All hands to battlestations, this is not a drill. Marine fireteams report immediately to Starboard landing bay sections K1 through K9’ Confusion. Fear. ‘Repeat, all hands man battlestations, Marine fireteams report immediately to starboard landing bay’.

The Nightmares were often nightly occurrences. They had been ever since that fateful day, and Andrastus knew that they would likely remain so long into the future. The dreams were so vivid, he felt that he was there again, back onboard the Wandering Saint when everything went to hell and his world ended.

‘All hands, this is Admiral Noir. We have been boarded by multiple hostiles, enemy numbers are being confirmed. All marine fireteams proceed immediately to the starboard hangar deck. Boarders are to be repelled at all costs.’

The same messages and images replayed themselves again and again, the fear as potent and tangible as it had been 5 years ago. He could see so clearly the faces of his fellow Firbolg pilots as they waited in the cramped squadron ready room, confused and uncertain. Crump. The lighting in the room flickers, the power supply disrupted by whatever punishment the ship was taking. How? Where the feth had they come from? His patrol had just returned, combat had been fierce but the enemy had been driven off.... or so it seemed. Andrastus felt his gut tighten into a knot as dread washed over him. The power fluctuated again, another Crump reverberating through the ship. The intercom sounded yet again, delivering a message that would haunt his every sleeping and waking moment for years to come.

‘This is the Admiral, Sansha True Slaves have taken control of the starboard landing bay. We can confirm at least a thousand hostiles are now onboard this ship. They must be stopped. All hands report to ship’s armouries and prepare to repel boarders’.

The New Beginning

Captain Andrastus Plumb smiled to himself as he took a sip from his glass of Amarrian Whiskey. Today had been a good day. Leaning forward slightly, he placed his glass back on his desk and picked up a datapad, reading the display carefully.

‘Recorder on’ He said in a monotone voice. Leaning back into his chair with the datapad in one hand, he began to speak.

‘Personal Log, 4^th July 111YC. I have to say i am enjoying the change of pace the Angel Cartel has offered to me over the past six days. Ghost Festival is, by and large, a well run corporation, the directorship are certainly more involved than that of my former employer, Beyond Divinity Inc’.

He looked down at the datapad again, scrolling down a list of recent engagements and battles fought by the Ghost Festival corporation.

‘It is good to be flying with the old Twisted pilots once again. While the BYDI lot were competent, there was no real feeling of camaraderie or friendship between myself and the other pilots. I suppose I never really tried to integrate myself into the corp properly, come to think of it. They were too..... rowdy for my tastes, especially after we returned from a successful operation. As for the other pilots of Ghost Festival i cant really say. I have spent some time in the corporation bar, but kept to myself. From the little information I managed to extract from Mortis before applying, there has been alot of drama in the corporation recently. I personally fail to understand how ones professionalism can drop quite so low, but i guess that out here your fellow pilots become your family.’

Andrastus stopped speaking for a moment, taking another sip of whiskey and reading his datapad.

‘We managed to score some decent kills today, namely a Maelstrom, a pair of Drakes and a Cyclone. Rathnon found them lurking inside a cosmic Anomaly in the Allipes system, and needless to say, demanded that we bring the rain. I took the Ethics Gradient into combat somewhat modded this time, loading up another Warp Disruption Field Generator. It should be so noted that doing this put considerable strain on the ship’s capacitor, and were it not for some timely remote assistance from our Guardian and Basilisk pilots one of the targets could have escaped. To their credit the enemy pilots were very brave. Of the 5 ships we jumped, 2 were tackled and three escaped. Two of them subsequently returned to the site of battle, a somewhat stupid, but gutsy decision.’

The Captain sat silently for a moment, seeming to brood over what he had just said.

‘Yes, a very gutsy decision. A decision I can respect.’

Gulping down the last of his whiskey, Plumb stood up and placed the glass back down on his desk, along with the datapad. Putting his chair back underneath the table, he proceeded to walk slowly across his quarters, finally stopping infront of a series of large, metal shelves. The shelves were laden with various objects, most of which held distinct significance to him. Reaching upwards, he gently removed a framed picture from the topmost shelf, holding it in his hands, a forlorn expression on his face. The picture was of what appeared to be the interior of a Gallentean starship’s main bridge. At the centre of the photograph were seven Gallentean Navy officers in neatly pressed uniforms facing the camera with neutral expressions. At the base of the picture, just above the wooden frame a caption was visible. 'Command Officers, FNS Wandering Saint, 108YC'. The centremost of the Gallentean officers was almost a head shorter than the two on either side of him, and yet exuded by far the most warmth. Admiral Alexander Noir.

Plumb’s eyes drifted across the photograph, focusing on each face in turn. A wave of sadness crept over him as he mentally recalled the name of each person in the picture, remembering how close they had all been. They had been a family, each one willing to die for the other. 'And die some of them did' he thought, another wave of emotion moving over him. Replacing the picture, he stood silent for a moment next to the shelf, seemingly lost in thought. Composing himself, he looked around his quarters briefly before moving back towards his desk.

‘Recorder off’