Greetings Pilots! And welcome to the first installation of the Phalcun NL for VSG 102. You will find the narrative at the bottom of this NL. The reason is simple: It is crazy long (spanning from 7 days before the Battle of Blerthmore to the beginning of 102). So I wanted to make sure everyone read the important things first! But, if you want to do a little reading, I highly suggest you check it out.

First, VSG 102 for BoP and XWA is out! So download it, fly, and get that first report in. If you have any problems running anything, don’t hesitate to send me an e-mail and I’ll help you out.

Secondly, the ORW3 Scrimmage was this past Sunday, the 21st, from Noon EST to Midnight EST on irc in channel #outerrim on the Undernet. I couldn’t make it due to some RL stuff, but I heard it went pretty well. Note that when the actual ORW3 scrimmage begins (hopefully in a couple weeks) it will be at the above times, except it will be on both Saturday and Sunday, not just Sunday.

Third, Battlestats’ Week of War is currently going. If you are not currently registered at the battlestats.com website, go ahead and create an account. Then simply pick the “Club Search” menu option after you confirm your e-mail address, and type in RS. Then select the Rebel Squadrons. It’s all fairly straightforward. But if you have any difficulty, don’t hesitate to contact me. Once you receive an e-mail indicating you’ve been accepted by the RS Admin (not sure who that currently is, Spokes I think?) you can then begin to fly. Please go to the Week of War’s official page at the Battlestats site and read up on the rules and procedures (as well as info on where and how to get the match-making software, Errant Venture). Once you’re all caught up, go fly! My RL is still a little busy, but I will try to be on in the evenings (6-10 or so, EST) up until when WoW ends on Friday.

And now, three quick bits of squadron business:

First, if you did not fly the last mission, and did not turn in a zero (like me... sorry, that’s not going to happen again), I’d like an e-mail from you just letting me know you’re here, and that you’re planning on flying 102. I’m not mad or angry, I just want to know that you are indeed present and accounted for.

Second, we currently do not have a Google/Yahoo group. Personally, I hate the damn things, and am content to continue to use the “E-Mail Squadron” function on the roster. However, I serve you guys, so if some of you would strongly prefer a Group, let me know, and I will make it so.

Finally, the XO search. As you know, we recently had a bit of a shuffling in the Fleet Command Staff. As such, the criteria for XOs has also changed. I know it’s taken me awhile to get a decision together, but I want to hold open the application a process a little longer. If you are interested in applying, please let me know in a brief blurb containing why you are qualified, and why you would like the job. Hopefully this decision will come fast, but the best deadline I can give is “soonish”.

Well, that’s about it. My only other note would be, if you feel like writing a narrative, don’t hesitate. Writing narratives can really make this whole experience a lot more enjoyable, if it’s your kind of thing. You can either write it alongside mine, or just make up your own. Just be very careful with referencing events and dates. Vaughan has worked hard to get this all set up, and he will probably very justifiably hit you with a dead trout or something if you mess up his chronology. So please, go ahead, just keep the importance of getting all that stuff right (or just be ambiguous, like I did).

Well, that’s all I’ve got for this installment. Get out and fly!

PM

102 Narrative (plus lots of other stuff)

(7 days prior to the Battle of Blerthmore)

"Prisoner 46221, step forward!" A guard clad in a dark gray uniform with the insignia of the Rebel Squadrons Task Force barked out from the entryway to a uniform detention cell. Behind him were two more guards, similarly dressed, their hands resting warily upon blasters unclipped from their holsters.

"Vader's Heart, they really did give him a pardon!" Someone exclaimed from the milling crowd of bright orange clad prisoners arrayed haphazardly around the large, central area. This was mixed in with several other exclamations of shock and surprise.

"You're out, Count!" A tiny Chadra-Fan, looking ridiculous in a prison uniform cut for a being almost a meter taller than him, squeaked at the figure slowly rising next to him.

Prisoner 46221 rose to his feet slowly, turning down to look at the Chadra-Fan with a nod and a quick, sly smile. "Like I promised, Bini, I'll put in a call for you. You'll have a good lawyer for your appeal."

"I am in your debt, Count." The little Chadra-fan looked up at the taller man, genuinely appreciative, and extended a small, clawed hand. "I'll see you on the outside?"

"Of course," Prisoner 46221 took Bini's hand in a firm grip. "So long, Bini."

"So long to you too, Count!" Prisoner 46221 let go of the Chadra-Fan's hand and began walking toward the guards, exchanging nods with several inmates amid a chorus of "Goodbye Count!" "See you on the outside!" and other jailhouse promises. Stopping his little parade directly in front of the guard who'd called out his name, Prisoner 46221 extended both his hands, not bothering to conceal the smirk on his tired face, covered in almost a week's worth of dark blond stubble.

"What's so funny, Prisoner 46221? Afraid you're going to miss your little girlfriend over there?" The lead guard asked, motioning to the Chadra-Fan sitting on a cot against the wall of the cell's common area as he securely fastened a set of binders to Prisoner 46221's outstretched wrists.

"No," the prisoner said dryly, dropping his bindered hands in front of him. "I was just thinking about how much I will enjoy the fact that by the end of the day, I'll outrank you by about 12 grades."

The guard said nothing, instead giving the Prisoner a rough rank on his binders that almost caused the taller man to fall. "Get in line!" He barked, roughly pushing the prisoner between the two other guards. Stepping through the portal, the prisoner and his escort left the cell, the gray durasteel door closing firmly behind them.

**

The office of the Fleet Commander of the Rebel Squadrons Task Force was fairly plain, clearly reflecting the tastes of its current occupant. There was nothing to suggest opulence, just the utilitarian tools of command, documents spread across a nondescript desk, an assortment of data pads stacked on a chair in the corner. Only a few pieces of artwork hung in the office, their spartan use of colors meshing well with the atmosphere of the room. Fleet Commander David Astoris-Trebonious sat amidst the minor hurricane of paperwork arrayed on his desk like several feet of snow. He looked down at his personal datapad and sighed. The meeting he was about to take had been on his schedule for almost a week now, and his sense of apprehension had been building steadily since then. A chime rang on his comm console, along the wall to the left side of the desk.

"Yes?" He asked, going through his notes for the meeting one final time.

"He is here, sir." A nondescript female voice announced.

"Very well, let him in," Dave sighed one last time, closing his note file and standing from his chair.

On cue, the office door smoothly opened, and in walked Prisoner 46221, surrounded in a triangle by the three gray-clad guards. "Prisoner 46221, reporting as ordered, sir!" Called the lead guard as all three popped a crisp salute.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Dave returned the salute and sat back down. "Take off his binders, and then the three of you are dismissed."

The lead guard paused for a second, a questioning look in his eye, before he turned to the prisoner, who again had both his hands outstretched. Quickly triggering the release on the binders, the guard stuck them back in his back pocket. Casting another threatening look at the prisoner, the guard turned precisely on his heel, exiting the office with his two assistants close behind.

"Thanks, Dave," the prisoner, still clad in his bright orange jumper said, looking down as he rubbed his wrists. "I was wondering-"

"Do not thank me, Petr. Do not think this amnesty you're being given is some sort of personal favor, or a result of your family's influence, or anything other than what it is, a last resort borne of need." Dave looked sternly at Prisoner 46221, also known as Ex-New Republic General Petr Tagge Margul. "There are many officers here who would just as soon let you rot in the brig for the rest of your life. You're only saved by the fact that you're more useful right now to the Republic on duty than in a cell."

"By 'many officers', sir, do you mean to include yourself?" Petr asked, still standing in the center of the FC's office.

"I'm very tempted to agree with them," the Fleet Commander rose forward slightly in his chair. "Petr, what in Vader's name were you thinking? If you'd been smuggling to Republic-allied groups, maybe Intel might have looked the other way. But no, never any sense of discretion for you. In the file I've been reading there's no less than eight confirmed shipments to groups overtly affiliated with the Remnant. So I say again, what were you thinking?"

"Good business sense, I suppose," Margul ran a hand through his blond hair, usually fairly light, was slightly darker, perhaps reflecting the few opportunities he had recently had for a proper shower. "Sell to one supplier only, they eventually come to think they can set a price. Sell to multiple sources, well, more competition, and hence, more profits."

"But that's just it," Dave sighed in frustration. "What do you care about profit? You've been set for life since the day you were born. You worked hard to get beyond your Imperial past, and in the last six or seven years you'd proved yourself to damn near everyone. What would possibly compel you to throw that all away? I mean, consider, what you did can certainly be construed as treason."

"If you thought I was a traitor, I wouldn't have a pardon," Margul's perpetual smile faded, replaced by a stern, business-like gaze.

"Don't be so certain about that," the Fleet Commander held up a finger in warning. "Do not underestimate the need we have these days. Anything in the Outer Rim, military or otherwise, is not exactly a budget priority for the Senate these days. We're short on everything, equipment and material, as always. But especially, veterans. Transfers, attrition, promotions, it's left us spread thin. Sure, we have a steady supply of personnel being sent in by Coruscant, but most of them are raw, very raw. Which is why you have your pardon. Your very conditioned pardon."

"The conditions," Margul said. "I was wondering about those."

"It's very simple, Petr, hopefully so simple that even you can't weasel your way around it. No monkey business. Nothing. No gambling, no smuggling alcohol onto ships for people. No favors. No shenanigans. Not a single activity that could even potentially be considered unethical. You are going to be a model officer, an example. And if you're not, you will go back in the brig. Where you will stay, for a much, much longer time than you are prepared to stay. There will be no 'breathing room', if you will. If you mess up, you go back in. It's that simple."

"You know," Margul began, his grin returning. "You always had a way of ruining my fun. I guess I really gave you your chance this time."

"This is not a joke, Petr," Dave said gravely, reaching into his drawer for a document. "If you think our history, or your history with anyone else here, will keep you out of trouble, you're wrong. You've spent all your chits, Petr. It's important you understand that."

"If you say so, Dave. I mean, sir," Margul replied less than convincingly, his eyes casting around the room, averting looking directly at Dave.

"Well, if the past years have taught me anything, it's that I'm sure not going to get through to you. So we'll see what happens," Dave placed the documents on the table, clearing a small stack of personnel files from the middle of the desk. "You are going to be placed in command of Phalcun Squadron, with the IBG. I've made sure a lot of the greener pilots are concentrated there. You've also been given a few veterans to help speed things along. Including Trate Daxson."

"Trate came back?" Margul asked, genuinely surprised.

"See it as a sign of the times," Dave stood, pushing the documents to the edge of the desk toward Petr, who walked forward to look at them. "Intel knows he was involved in your little operations. There's not a thing either of you have ever done in which the other wasn't involved somehow. The only reason he's not standing here with you right now is because he was smart enough not to get caught. The last thing I want is to put you two back together, but I need these people trained fast, and for better or worse, it's clear you two work together pretty well."

"So I train them up, and then what?" Margul murmured, picking up the documents.

"Most likely, as soon as the squadron is deemed up to a sufficient level of training, you'll be replaced by a junior officer."

"Replaced?" Margul's brow furrowed as he set down the papers. "You want me to get a squadron up to flight, get these kids used to a certain style and operational tempo, and then just turn it over? That makes no sense, Dave."

"Well, I wouldn't want to do it if I thought I could trust you!" The exasperation in Dave's tone was clear. "But how can I conscionable give that to you? This pardon as it is barely happened."

"I see," Petr said flatly, gesturing at the documents on the edge of Dave's desk. "I assume I need to sign these?"

"Yes," Dave said, pushing a pen toward him and then warily leaning back in his chair, massaging his brow.

Petr leaned over, giving the papers a final once over. Dave tipped back in his chair a little further, his hand still on his brow. He had been afraid things would turn out like this. Petr was as sullen and defiant as ever. At the moment he almost wished he had just left him in the brig. There was no doubt there would be trouble on the horizon. Dave had no idea when, or what, it would be, but it was almost a dead certainty it would happen. Trouble seemed to follow Petr like an old, loyal nek hound, his faithful travelling companion.

"There, everything should be finished," Petr said, affixing his signature to the last page and dropping the pen back on the table. "So I assume I should report to the dock for transport?"

"There's a shuttle waiting for you. They'll fly you out to Phalcun."

"Very well," Petr looked at him a little coldly as he gave a perfunctory salute. "Well, I'll see you around, sir."

"Dismissed," Dave rose to return the salute, than sank back in his chair. Yes, he thought, this was prototypical Petr. He'd just been given a last chance, and again here he was, headed at flank speed for the edge. Dave watched as he turned away, walking purposefully toward the door. "Petr."

Margul stopped at the exit way, the door swishing open as he approached.

"Why did you leave?"

"I could explain it to you," Margul said, a hint of anger in his voice, perhaps something darker. "But I doubt you would understand. I doubt many here would understand." And with that he walked out, not giving Dave another chance to reply.

**

The next few days came to Margul in a blur. He traded in his prison orange for his blue uniform and flight suit. His old X-Wing, purchased with personal money and extensively modified, against standing RS doctrine, had been taken out of mothball storage, where it'd been placed after his disappearance. Trate had not yet arrived for assignment, something about the usual personnel and transport hold-ups. In his first few days, Margul barely got a chance to speak to any of his new squad members. They were still going through temporary maneuvers with their temporary CO, and besides, he was fairly dreading having to do so. These men and women were raw recruits, fresh, enthusiastic, unwavering in their support of the Republic and the Squadrons. No doubt they, along with most of the fleet, had heard some second-hand version of Margul's story. He wasn't sure how, or if it was even possible, to gain their confidence. But he'd have to find a way, without confidence, he couldn't lead, and he couldn't train. Of course, he had different ideas than Dave about what this would mean. He had never intended to come back to the military. Those days, he had thought, were behind him. He had found, ironically, a much more "honest" profession, smuggling. But the reasons for his sudden departure remained closely guarded by him. Several old friends and comrades sent him mails, or tried to get him on the comm, but he did not take the calls, or write back. He didn't want to come back. He'd just wanted to disappear. And he certainly didn't want to have to try and explain things to people who'd used to look up to him, to trust him. Instead, he'd spent most of the last few days in his quarters, leaving only for meals, exercise and simulator time.

When the series of events that would be known as the Battle of Blerthmore hit, Margul was as unprepared as most. The IBG had been transferred to Tarsonis for shore leave, though Margul had opted to remain on ship. Phalcun's temporary CO had been transferred back out, and Petr was scheduled to take over following the end of shore leave. He had been awakened suddenly, in the early hours of the morning, by the blare of klaxons. The ship's captain had immediately taken the comm, gravely announcing that Blerthmore was under attack by a numerically superior Imperial force, and all forces were to be recalled immediately to their respective ships for immediate deployment. Margul had barely had time to clean up and get to the ready room. When he arrived on the flight deck, the members of Phalcun were already assembled in the hangar's corner. A bunch of kids, Margul had thought to himself, many of them looking understandably a little frightened. Trate had still not showed up. He had heard some rumor that Rahj Tharen had come looking for him, but again, he hadn't been answering his comm. He had relayed the orders given to him to his squad, then handed out designations. There was no point in learning everyone's names. For all he knew, half of them would be dead by the end of the day.

Margul, and most of his squadron, managed to survive the day's events. They'd played their part in the push to reinforce Blerthmore. And he'd done his part in keeping Phalcun alive. He’d lost one pilot, expectantly, very young. He would write to his next of kin. Right after he figured out what the pilot’s name had been.

**
(Approximately an hour after the Battle of Blerthmore)

Petr sat in the plush, nerf-leather easy chair that stood, isolated like a tiny island, in the middle of his dimmed quarters. The addition of the chair had not been illegal, per se. Not at least, in his estimation, to break the terms of his pardon. The bottle of half-drunk Churban Brandy hanging loosely in the grip of his left hand, however, was a different matter altogether. But old habits died hard. Petr still knew quite a few officers in Logistics, men who tended to value credits over happenstance rumors of Petr’s crimes and pardon, and so it had been a simple affair to get what he had needed. A few credits in the right locations always sufficed. But today, there was no joy, not even a passing smile, from Margul over his little act of rebellion. He had vowed he was done with the military, with the Republic, with politics, with everything that had comprised his identity for most of his life. But with the casualty reports still coming in an hour after the battle standing with at least 40,000 dead, he was painfully aware that his past was not so far behind him. People he knew, people he had at least once cared for, had certainly died in the attack. And a pilot under his command, for what seemed like more times than Petr could remember, had died. He hadn’t even known his name, or, really, the names of any in the squadron. From the moment he’d stepped into the hangar on the eve of the Battle of Blerthmore, he’d felt their eyes upon him. It was just like he had expected. They were young, eager, loyal, and devoid of any greater understanding. He was a traitor, plain and simple. And so, like he had so often in his life, he put off the painful process that would be earning their trust, that had to begin at the most basic step, learning their names.

The first thing he’d done, when he got back to the quarters, was remove the Churban Ale from its hiding place under his work desk’s paneling. Then he’d taken the time to look up the pilot’s name. Detreth Uon, a Churban, ironically enough. It was always difficult when a man, Petr snorted suddenly at this thought. Man... boy was more like it. He had barely turned 19. Next he would have to put in a call to External Affairs to contact the young man’s next of kin, if External Affairs even existed anymore. Petr closed his eyes, unnecessary as his quarters were almost pitch-black already. He sighed and took another deep, long drink of the brandy. He fervently wished Trate were here. Trate would know what to do. Trate would know how to get these kids on his side, and how to react after... after what had happened today. Petr just simply wasn’t prepared. He hadn’t been prepared for the shame he’d felt at the stares he got. He was not supposed to care, he had put this part of his life behind him. And yet the more mental distance he tried to achieve, the more painfully he was reminded that he had never left. He still cared, and he was still here. And now, something would be expected of him. Only he had no idea what he could do. He had no idea if he was even capable of doing this any more. Petr took another long drink of brandy, and then gently, if a little drunkenly, set the bottle down on the floor by the chair’s side and closed his eyes.

It was some time later when Petr’s comm erupted with a squawk. Margul slowly, doggedly raised his head up and opened his eyes, instantly closing them again as the darkened room began to spin. Carefully, he rose to his feet and gingerly, in the dark, made his way to the comm unit.

“Margul,” he croaked. Damn him for forgetting what alcohol could do to your voice.

“Brigadier General Vaughan here, General,” came the reply, then a pause. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” Petr cleared his throat. He didn’t know Vaughan personally. All he knew was he was a Brigadier General, and he was young, especially young. That meant he was at least ambitious. But outside of that he knew precious little about the young general, and so did his best to sober up. “Yes. Can I help you, Vaughan?”

“I am inquiring with regard to the status of your squadron. With the Fleet Commander injured,” Vaughan began.

“Injured?” Margul blurted out. “What do you mean?”

“A support beam struck him in the head during the attack. How could you not know?”

“Never mind that,” Margul cut him off. “Is he alright?”

“He’s in bacta therapy now. We should know more within the hour.”

“I see,” Margul paused, uncertain.

“What I need from you, General, is the status on your squadron.” Vaughan said, breaking the silence.

“Status?” Margul’s mind churned for a second. “Status, yes. One pilot KIA, all others accounted for. All ships minus the KIA, obviously, are present and operational.”

“Very well. And stay near your comm, I imagine there will be news soon. Vaughan out.”

Margul let out a deep sigh. Dave was injured, perhaps dead. Who knows how many others he’d fought with lay dead or dying now? And he had run out on them, all of them. And now he was back, and the Rebel Squadrons, the force he’d fought for over the majority of a decade, lay in all but ruins. He looked back toward the darkened portion of his room where his easy chair lay, the bottle of brandy beside it. He seemed to stand there for an eternity. Finally, he swung his hand forward as if to take a step toward the chair, and slowly, gently, he brought it around back toward the comm, keying a frequency.

“Deck officer,” he said into the comm.

“Yes?”

“This is General Margul. Send a general alert to all Phalcun pilots. We have simulator maneuvers scheduled within the hour.”

**
(44:3:21, aboard the Mon Calamari Cruiser Ad Astra)

The last few weeks had been a complete blur to Margul. Simulator run after endless simulator run. The good news of Dave’s recovery. The memorial and solemn remembrance of the dead. The formation of the Vigilance Starfighter Group and its assignment to hunt down the killers of over 40,000 dead RS personnel in the Subterrel Sector. His supposed temporary command of Phalcun suddenly becoming permanent. All these events had happened at a speed to which Margul had difficulty adjusting. Trate had arrived, but it had not been the magic pill he had hoped for. The squadron responded to Trate, easily enough, but that had done nothing to eliminate the utter wall of isolation that still existed between Petr and his young pilots. And Trate had been preoccupied with his own personal matters, leaving little time for Margul to even see his old friend. Margul tended to fill the time with brandy, or whatever else he had smuggled onto the ship. Once the plan to go to Subterrel, essentially Wild Space, had been announced, Petr, always prudent, had thrown some quick credits around to secure a larger, more lasting shipment, which was now stashed, almost to the bursting point, within various fake panels and other hiding places in his quarters. He didn’t let it stray into his duties, at least noticeably. But on those stretches of rest between simulator runs or administrative duties, he would collapse into the leather-bound easy chair in his darkened room with a bottle.

This routine continued unabated until the day of 44:3:21, the day the Rebel Squadrons’ Subterrel Task Force began its mission of vengeance. Petr awoke in his easy chair, he had a standard regulation cot in the corner, but the chair was in all actuality much more comfortable, and generally by the time he was in a position to fall asleep, he had become very disinclined to walk. As had become recent routine, he immediately went to the refresher, thanking himself quietly that a personal commode was one of the perks of higher rank. After cleaning himself up, he put on his uniform and then carefully hid the either half-drunk or empty bottle back in its original hiding place. Today the bottle was empty. After hiding his contraband, he went to his comm and dialed Trate. The return chime indicated his old friend wasn’t currently in his quarters, and that the unit would take a message.

“Trate, it’s Petr. It’s mission day, you old pirate. Make sure the squadron is assembled in the ready room by 20:00.”

He then flicked his comm off. Sitting down at the much more utilitarian, standard issue chair near his work desk, Petr began to sort papers, then suddenly stopped, opening up his top left drawer. He took out a small, silvery necklace with a large, almost translucent stone on the bottom, various symbols carved onto its surface. An old Sacred Way charm. He had seen very little use for such things, indeed, for the Way in general, in the years in which he’d served as a soldier. But every now and then, when he was heading into something unknown, something terrifying in perhaps its significance and consequence, he found himself clutching the old talisman. He’d held it when he decided to leave the Rebel Squadrons, and he held it again now.

**
(Ready Room onboard the Mon Calamari Cruiser Ad Astra, 44:3:21:20:05)

Petr walked into the room; his helmet tucked under his arm, to find the squadron fully assembled. He was late, well, not really, as he had been the one to call the meeting. This was the first mission briefing he would give in... he couldn’t exactly remember how long it had been. But as he stepped to the front of the makeshift rostrum at the front of the ready room, he was almost overwhelmed by the eerie familiarity of it all. Standing there, looking out at the assemblage of eleven men and women, all staring intently at him, bedecked in the bright orange flight gear of the New Republic, he felt familiar stirrings in him. You never really could leave, he thought again.

The briefing itself was fairly mundane. A briefing by its very nature had to be. It was a recon mission. The Task Force had arrived in the Subterrel Sector all but blind, with no idea of Imperial concentrations or deployments. The only real intelligence they had were some outdated astrogation maps. Reasonably enough, the pointy-heads up in Righteous Indignation Division had deemed it necessary to send out recon pickets to see what exactly the Subterrel Task Force was dealing with. It was a straight forward mission, an impression that Petr quickly reminded himself he had possessed many times, only to see the actual mission become anything but straightforward. But hopefully, this time would be an exception. He ended the briefing with the usual call for his pilots to fly straight and fast (he had little use for blessings based on the Force), and they had started to trickle away, heading to checkout their fighters before the mission, when he suddenly, almost involuntarily cleared his throat. That stopped everyone in their tracks as heads swiveled to look back at him. He was clutching the rostrum tightly, why, he didn’t really even know.

“I know, when I first arrived here almost a month ago, a lot of you probably had some tough questions you’d have liked to ask me. I can’t say I would blame you. And I know that over this time, I’ve given you precious few answers. In fact, unless it was in an official capacity, I’ve barely spoken to any of you. I’m aware what many of you think you know about me, and how you may feel. And there will come a time when I will sit down with each of you, and I will answer your questions. If you can not trust your CO, well, who can you trust.”

“But now, pilots,” he paused. “Now is not the time. We have been attacked, as the Fleet Commander so eloquently reminded us at the memorial. But the time for mourning and laying our lost comrades to rest is at an end. We have arrived here in the Subterrel Sector with almost no outside knowledge. We do not know what kind of force we face, we do not know its intentions, and we do not know how large it is. All we know is our mission. Our mission is vengeance. The memories of our dead comrades, our friends, call out to us. They must be avenged; their deaths must be met with justice. That is our solemn vow to the dead, and to each other, one that I make here now, and will not break. You may not trust me, you may think poorly of me, but do not doubt my desire. We will have justice. Or we will die in its pursuit. Now, you may all go to your ships. Good luck. Fly fast and straight.”

With that, Petr picked his helmet back up from under the rostrum and swung it under his shoulder. Nodding to Trate, he switched off the briefing holo and walked toward the entrance to the hangar.