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Operation Defiant Bulwark Fiction Briefing
“And, the State of our fleet is strong…”, Commodore Lamin Zykara’s voice intoned as he came to the end of the first part of his anniversary address to the assembled fleet. “From the past, to the future, through Minos, Cadrel, Binaurel and Subterrel - despite the massacre we endured at the Battle of Blerthmore, our hearts and minds are clear, focused, and resolute…”
Newly appointed Rebel Squadrons Historical Officer Commander Syrin Mereel pinched the bridge of her nose as she stared down at the glass of champagne in front of her. Not nearly strong enough, and not nearly enough of it., she thought, focusing on the bottom of her glass, which would occasionally ripple as the Fleet Commander’s baritone pumped through the amplified sound system in the mess hall of the Redemption. The Redemption’s mess hall was decked out like few had ever seen her before - adorned elegantly in colors of silver, gold and grey, bedecked with the insignia of the RS fleet and glowing lightly with retrofitted lighting rigs meant to add a festive flair to the anniversary banquet going on.
As Lamin continued speaking, Commander Mereel looked around at the assembled flag officers, seated on the dais behind the Fleet Commander. Fleet Admirals Falcion and Qel-Droma looked fairly uncomfortable with the formality of it all, a ludicrous amount of ale tankards and shot glasses spread between them. Her eyes narrowed as she squinted to try to get a better look at them. It appeared that Fleet Admiral Falcion was either trying to teach Qel-Droma the rules of an elaborate drinking game or demonstrating the finer points of a pincer manuever, she wasn’t sure which.
Commodore Lommax, the Executive Officer, sat near Colonel Veld, the Second Officer and seemed to be paying close attention to Lamin’s speech. ...is he taking NOTES!?, Commander Mereel thought to herself, ...what a kriffin’...what does he think this is, the Legislative Youth Program? There’s no extra credit for listening to your boss drone on, Commodore…. Of course, it was that kind of attitude towards her superiors that had gotten Mereel reassigned to the Greeop Sector, joining the Greeop Defense Force as part of an arrangement worked out during a recent court martial.
General Raven, the Logistics Officer, was conspicuously absent, but that didn’t stop Admiral Sconn, the Operations Officer, from creating a reasonable facsimile of Raven out of some fruit and his mashed starch side dish. Referring to it as “Faux Admiral Raven”, outside of the assorted waitstaff, the inanimate food-Raven was the only officer she had seen Admiral Sconn speak to, or even acknowledge, during the entire banquet. Meanwhile, the Director of Fleet Intelligence, Admiral Joshua Hawkins, seemed to be heavily engrossed in a hand-held datapad. Whether he was reviewing security logs or playing some sort of game, she couldn’t be sure, but if she had to bet, she’d put credits on the latter.
That’s it. I can’t take this anymore. I’m either going to fall asleep or squirm out of my chair. Commander Mereel looked from left to right, checking her periphery. There. Lieutenant General Jarnhann looked like he was getting up to use the men’s room. Perfect. A hulking mountain of a man clad in power armor that it was rumored he even showered in, Lieutenant General Markus Jarnhann would indeed make the perfect cover for her exit. Depositing her napkin on the more or less empty plate in front of her, she slipped off of her chair and deftly snatched an empty tumbler from a nearby neighbor. She tiptoed her way between tables where members of Red and Gold Squadron were sitting, a few decks of Sabacc and Pazaak cards spread out between them, though the games had been mostly abandoned when the FC began his speech. As she approached the waitstaff serving station, she let the glass tumbler “slip” from her hand, where it shattered with a moderate amount of noise. Instantly, the combat trained eyes of RS pilots and commandos flicked to where the glass fell as the waitstaff converged on it to begin cleaning it up with an alacrity that would rival some of the RS’s elite units.
None of that mattered to anyone looking for the Historical Officer, however. As Lieutenant General Jarnhann began his plodding but urgent stroll towards the men’s refreshers, she sidled up next to him, but outside of his peripheral vision, moving on the opposite side of him from the crowd. She matched his lengthy stride step for step, no small feat for someone who gave up approximately a meter of height to Jarnhann. As soon as they exited the mess hall, she veered off his intended path and ducked down a side corridor en route to her office. “Flawless.”, she sighed to herself quietly, thanking the Sky Seraphs that she’d made it out of there undetected.
Newly appointed Rebel Squadrons Historical Officer Commander Syrin Mereel pinched the bridge of her nose as she stared down at the glass of champagne in front of her. Not nearly strong enough, and not nearly enough of it., she thought, focusing on the bottom of her glass, which would occasionally ripple as the Fleet Commander’s baritone pumped through the amplified sound system in the mess hall of the Redemption. The Redemption’s mess hall was decked out like few had ever seen her before - adorned elegantly in colors of silver, gold and grey, bedecked with the insignia of the RS fleet and glowing lightly with retrofitted lighting rigs meant to add a festive flair to the anniversary banquet going on.
As Lamin continued speaking, Commander Mereel looked around at the assembled flag officers, seated on the dais behind the Fleet Commander. Fleet Admirals Falcion and Qel-Droma looked fairly uncomfortable with the formality of it all, a ludicrous amount of ale tankards and shot glasses spread between them. Her eyes narrowed as she squinted to try to get a better look at them. It appeared that Fleet Admiral Falcion was either trying to teach Qel-Droma the rules of an elaborate drinking game or demonstrating the finer points of a pincer manuever, she wasn’t sure which.
Commodore Lommax, the Executive Officer, sat near Colonel Veld, the Second Officer and seemed to be paying close attention to Lamin’s speech. ...is he taking NOTES!?, Commander Mereel thought to herself, ...what a kriffin’...what does he think this is, the Legislative Youth Program? There’s no extra credit for listening to your boss drone on, Commodore…. Of course, it was that kind of attitude towards her superiors that had gotten Mereel reassigned to the Greeop Sector, joining the Greeop Defense Force as part of an arrangement worked out during a recent court martial.
General Raven, the Logistics Officer, was conspicuously absent, but that didn’t stop Admiral Sconn, the Operations Officer, from creating a reasonable facsimile of Raven out of some fruit and his mashed starch side dish. Referring to it as “Faux Admiral Raven”, outside of the assorted waitstaff, the inanimate food-Raven was the only officer she had seen Admiral Sconn speak to, or even acknowledge, during the entire banquet. Meanwhile, the Director of Fleet Intelligence, Admiral Joshua Hawkins, seemed to be heavily engrossed in a hand-held datapad. Whether he was reviewing security logs or playing some sort of game, she couldn’t be sure, but if she had to bet, she’d put credits on the latter.
That’s it. I can’t take this anymore. I’m either going to fall asleep or squirm out of my chair. Commander Mereel looked from left to right, checking her periphery. There. Lieutenant General Jarnhann looked like he was getting up to use the men’s room. Perfect. A hulking mountain of a man clad in power armor that it was rumored he even showered in, Lieutenant General Markus Jarnhann would indeed make the perfect cover for her exit. Depositing her napkin on the more or less empty plate in front of her, she slipped off of her chair and deftly snatched an empty tumbler from a nearby neighbor. She tiptoed her way between tables where members of Red and Gold Squadron were sitting, a few decks of Sabacc and Pazaak cards spread out between them, though the games had been mostly abandoned when the FC began his speech. As she approached the waitstaff serving station, she let the glass tumbler “slip” from her hand, where it shattered with a moderate amount of noise. Instantly, the combat trained eyes of RS pilots and commandos flicked to where the glass fell as the waitstaff converged on it to begin cleaning it up with an alacrity that would rival some of the RS’s elite units.
None of that mattered to anyone looking for the Historical Officer, however. As Lieutenant General Jarnhann began his plodding but urgent stroll towards the men’s refreshers, she sidled up next to him, but outside of his peripheral vision, moving on the opposite side of him from the crowd. She matched his lengthy stride step for step, no small feat for someone who gave up approximately a meter of height to Jarnhann. As soon as they exited the mess hall, she veered off his intended path and ducked down a side corridor en route to her office. “Flawless.”, she sighed to herself quietly, thanking the Sky Seraphs that she’d made it out of there undetected.