The Vast and Empty Sky (IC)

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Jennifer Warden, Thrawn B7

Oh, alright. Seems to be another normal job. Protecting precious cargo, not an easy job but hardly the hardest ones. The man who gave them job seems to be from some sort of nobility background as his implied-aura gave such opinions to her. And to her surrounding comrades, will-be-comrades, soon-to-be comrades. He is the Ser Josef and the commanding officer for this particular job. Great. A noble leading the ship can't be wrong at all. Nope. Her experiences with noble officers usually led to either incompetence or competence, but she encountered the former more than the latter.

"Gotta go for awhile, need all of my things," as she went out from the bar, to the motel, took her belongings, and returned to the bar. Those minutes before ship got off was precious and she didn't waste any minutes for minor things. "Alright, I'm here, can we just please get off this planet now?" she insisted, though she didn't addressed it to anyone but herself. And maybe to those who heard her.

[G-Tech Corporation]

The dapper gentleman merely smiled winsomely at his ernstworst host, the half-barb about arrivals and timing. A wizard arrives precisely... oh, wait. Wrong continuity. Damnable mindflakes. Old king Teftnet II hadn't been worth much less than a fortune on the black market, but it turns out if you let an Eclurbian marinated for five or ten millenia its flesh got the most delicious shade hallucinogen-y.

"Yes, yes. No need to trouble your tailfeathers, Brody. I'll be there to pull the fat out of the fryer when one of these reprobates you've hired engages in their sudden but inevitable betrayal, never fear."

Flavian didn't bother to lower his voice, though fully half of the rest of the crew was still loitering about the interior of their meeting room. Those who were loyal to their principles wouldn't be offended, and those who were already plotting treason would be put on notice. The man-thing's violet eye rolled balefully to take in the entirety of those remaining again, and then the Sojourner loudly harrumphed.

A flick of the wrist, and a piece of crystal leapt off of the table from next to the nobleman's bottle of cognac. Not the one that had been set at Flavian's seat- or, rather, lack of a seat- but the one inset with Broden's crest. The image shimmered slightly on the glass as the Scion took a swig from the beverage, before resuming the aforementioned crest once more as the tall man with the crimson hair set it down again on the light-drinking ebony table.

"Take care of yourself. CyIntel will need all the good men she will get, before this is all over. And in the absence of good men, men like you will have to do."

The wink was very broad for the grimness of the pronouncement, and Flavian's grin seemed over-wide, like that of a predator unhinging its jaw for a meal. Then the moment passed, and a spritely air passed the giant's lips as he set his walking cane to the lushly appointed floors, passing through the throng of sellswords and mercenaries that still clustered in the "secret" room of the Dekling.

Mm, yes, commoners, indeed. Some were a useful lot. Hopefully these bravos had ships, or the only use the expedition would get from most of them was stopping a stray bullet or five. Time to leave, a sentiment the others shared; at least, the thermal signatures in the Decklings were dissipating rapidly, and the sojourner was fairly certain nobody was bumping off ground-pounders just yet. Unless CyIntel had seriously let this operation go tits-up, and they normally weren't quite that incompetent.

A nod to Brody did duty for a bow that would have been more proper in formal settings, which this dive-bar was not, and Flavian departed. A swift stride took him through the ramshackle swinging doors of the pub, out in to the chaos of the streets of this miserable excuse for a city once more. Thrawn wasn't the most savory of planets, but then again, more palatable locales would assuredly be watched by eyes that were unfriendly to the objective of this little jaunt. And unfriendly in this case, given the importance obviously assigned to the delivery, could mean lethal problems along the way. In the dust and the heat Flavian took a sharp right turn away from the Deckling, towards the warren of haphazard construction and dilapidated highrises that composed the Silver Quarter of the city.

Ironically named, really, for the high-rent risers that had been built here had long ago gone under when an economic crash sabotaged the efforts to make this a ritzy shopping and living district. Most were still largely unfinished, skeletal frames now a patchwork of salvaged metal sheet and other impromptu building materials, scavvies and the worst of the worst having made their homes amongst the desperate simply yearning for somewhere to call home. It was not a part of town where one dressed as Flavian often passed, and so it was that the wanderer stepped behind a length of sheetrock leaning drunkenly against a wall for a moment. When the previously dapper man re-emerged, scant moments later- indeed, the length of time his stride would take to transit the width of the sheetrock- his mien was altogether changed. Tough flying plates, well-worn and hard-used, replaced waistcoat and silk cravat, serviceable brown ripstop trousers tucked in to assiduously polished leather jackboots the color of nighttime mud. Though his red crest and manicured beard remained, Flavian was altogether less remarkable, a bruiser coming back from business in the better parts of the city, not some dandy out for a stroll.

Not that that stopped the lowlifes of the region from bothering him. A man in decent clothes, however workmanlike, was a man with money, after all. A few creds pinched from a pocket could repair a hovel, or at least afford the next hit for the most destitute. Black eyes followed the man out of time as he moved with intent gait towards one of the central high-rises, assessing him. They looked away quickly though when Flavian wordlessly broke the hand of the first pinchpurse that thought him easy prey, leaving the man mewling in the dirt with his bones protruding through his wrist and crimson staining his filthy sack-clothes.

Malice might have touched the eyes of the Sojourner then, or a grim satisfaction. But his pace did not slow, and his path did not deviate even as he left the wreck of an unfortunate soul in his wake.

A presence touched the mind of the debauched debutante, a questioning pressure that was as familiar as the memory of home.

Pleasant outing?

Flavian smiled to himself, an expression that sent a rag-picker with her cart shirking away from his glare as his path wound upwards through the ruined staircase of what was once to be a great shopping center.

Pleasant? I wouldn't go quite that far. Productive, certainly. Turns out that message was from CyIntel, like you suspected. Poor Brody is stuck playing nursemaid to a cargo of reprobates and lowlifes, which the Empire for some reason finds absolutely necessary to escort a freighter all the way to Terra.

A sense as of the intake of breath and a quiet chuckle rippled through Flavian's awareness, and he nodded to himself, and the invisible presence.

It has been a long time since we have been anywhere near Terra. Mm, dangerous voidspace there, crowded with men who know too much and see too much. The money though... the money is good. A trap, perhaps, one carefully laid. We will have to be cautious.

Since when have we not had to be cautious?

A point. A distinct point. To orbit, then.

With unceasing rhythm Flavian's legs had carried him mechanically to the highest floor of the mangled tower-block, a place where a fire had recently raged, and whose structural instability had discouraged squatters from returning. Though it was forty stories and more the sojourner had not tired or slowed in his ascent, his breath coming with a regularity that belied the physical exertion of his passage skywards. There, on the apex of the damaged building, stood a ship. Not any ship, a ship of silver and black that the eyes almost instinctively looked away from, a sense of nausea starting in the stomachs of those who gazed upon it, a desire to avert one's gaze from something that should not be. Not that any would know why they felt such a thing, no, that would be absurd. But there was something very.. wrong about the slender arrow of a ship that sat on three graceful landing struts, and perhaps even more disturbing about the young woman who lounged against the wall nearby.

A Terran female? At casual glance, yes, but not so much upon close inspection. Her hair was too black, her skin too pale, her features too impractically beautiful to have been graven on a human form even if some ancient god had decided to make an essay of his craft. And her lips were too red, a red the color of blood fresh from the vein, the red of the kill. Behind the light gray material of the finely-woven trousers and tight greatcoat her chest did not stir with breath, and she was as immobile as a statue in a garden.

"Time to get underway."

[Pax Nerdvana]

James Dawson
James Dawson stood up from the chair, his metal limbs clanking and creaking. He picked up his duffel bags, and walked out of the bar, and began making his way towards the Isaac. He took a sip from his water. It wasn't too far away, maybe ten or fifteen minutes, at his current rate of speed. He wondered what kind of a cargo they would be escorting. That would be good to know. He hoped something would happen, so he could shoot something. He patted the handle of his handgun. He was almost there. He stood outside of the ship, waiting for it too open, seeing as he didn't have the access codes.

[The Burning Sun]

"You there, Cyanian. You belong to a noble house, yes? I confess that I do not remember which family is associated with that crest, but one cannot be expected to be able to differentiate between each of a dozen species of vermin. What are you doing on this mission? What is your true purpose here?"

Emilia held up her hands in mock defense, clearly not having expected this sort of attack on her personal history. But by the look on her face, nor was she entirely okay with it.

"Vermin? You wound me, not all us fighter pilots are whores and manwhores only looking for holes. As for this," she said, lifting the glass to show off the crest, "Cyanian law dictates anyone who rises above the rank of Major in any branch of the military earns the status of nobile vere nobilis. And even if I'm ex-military, only the Emperor Himself can revoke noble status, and the current Emperor only does that if you piss His Imperial Majesty off personally. All the noble bitching and dickwaving about supposed slights in the world can't change His Imperial Majesty's mind on that regard. Which is real helpful when I want to get certain parts. As to why I'm here? Money. This job pays enough to buy a whole system, and with that kind of cash I can retire to my homeworld and slap the bastard who got me thrown out of the military with a wad of money big enough to take his head off, and get away with it. Maybe get back in and put myself as Lieutenant-Colonel of some squadron based out of a paradise world somewhere."

As someone with all too much experience dealing with supposedly noble-run Cyanian government, Kaguya wasn't sure how to react to the news that one could be made a noble in the Empire. As far as she was aware, neither Eientei nor the Empire had had a habit of knighting new houses. Perhaps, she mused, it was a ploy to dilute the influence of whatever noble houses were vexing the Emperor at the moment? It was quite clever if that was true, she grudgingly admitted. Although that did mean she had just quarreled with that girl for essentially no reason.

Eh. It was unimportant in the long run. If the girl turned out to be the captain of a powerful ship or something of that sort she would apologize, but otherwise Kaguya felt that there was little point in wasting her breath on a pilot. The profession was known for its ludicrously high mortality rates, after all.

As for the others, they looked to be a similarly rough sort. The Cyanian Empire's decision to requisition her ship was starting to make more sense. It was probably the biggest privately owned warship on the planet, though with some luck there would soon be a 'formerly' in that dubious title. She had managed to refuel during the meeting, so there was nothing left to do but run through the launch checklist and join the Isaac in orbit.

With a keystroke Kaguya severed the connection to the maintenance drone. It unceremoniously plummeted to the ground in the Dekling, abandoned. Meanwhile, Kaguya leaned back in her grav-bier and called out to the ship.

"Computer - initiate launch procedure."

"Yes, your majesty." The gentle chimes of the artificial intelligence filled the air. "Hull integrity at 100%. Fuel reserves at 99.4%. Interior bulkheads...fully operational." Behind her, the bridge door twitched as the computer verified that it was indeed capable of functioning as a door. "Maneuvering thrusters at 100%. External sensors..." On the holoscreen before her, a myriad of small windows flickered into being, each showing a different part of her ship's surroundings. "...100%. Checking vital systems: primary reactor, secondary capacitors, antimatter cages, shield projectors - all fully operational. Begin launch sequence?"

Kaguya nodded. "Begin launch sequence." Outside, magnetic impellers slowly lifted the Last Sanctuary off of its landing pad. Kaguya felt the artificial gravity take over as the ship angled upwards and quickly secured herself at one of the control consoles. As the ship's mighty proton jets roared into action, she allowed herself a small smile. It felt wrong to look forwards to working with the Cyanian government, but the thrill of adventure was finally catching up to her. And at least it was better than spending the rest of her life in a place like Thrawn B7.

[Rupudska]

Thrawn B7
Jinbe Space Port - Upper Deck
11:35 Local Time
3616

It had been about 50 minutes since Emilia had encountered the Cyanian Intelligence agent known as Ser Broden as well as her future coworkers, and she had spent the previous 45 or so minutes lounging about the Jinbe Upper Deck. A misnomer, as the 'upper deck' actually consisted of four floors and an outer ring of docking bays, stations, and piers. The bottom floor was mostly maintenance and a Titan with a McDonald's and a Greznk'kek's. No space station was complete with at least one of 'em, and most Titans had one of each, plus a local restaurant. This one didn't, because the Upper Deck was for the upper class and they tolerated the Titan as it was - besides, even rich people needed a cheap burger and a cup of a piping hot, freshly-brewed pink liquid allegedly consisting of reezh and milk. Emilia herself had a cup of reezh - red, no milk, no sugar, no nothin - and a Big Mac which she had pocketed for later. The less stops the better.

Oh wait. I'm on a crew now, so it's captain's decision. And they have a replicator... fuck, I just wasted two thousand crones.

She spent the past 15 or so of those minutes window shopping and looking around. The top three floors of the upper deck were all luxury stuff and high-end things. Rich Belgian chocolates, the finest Ireulian coffee beans, ships decked out in a whole herd's worth of leather, an asteroid's worth of gold or silver, and a forest's worth of wood, lightsheets capable of projecting 3D holographs you could touch yet were no thinner than an alpaca hair. Rich fabrics, the latest in computational technology, top-end designer clothes, weapons so finely crafted you'd swear a Stowaway made them - but you'd never see a Stowaway shop in a place like this, and there were more atoms of Oganesson in the Sol sector than there were Stowaways willing to craft a gun for a lowlander.

Above the stores were luxury hotels, condos, and restaurants - the kind of gilded halls that served real caviar, saffron, and Byonki steaks. The kinds of places none of them (except probably that Flavian guy) could afford without all of them pitching together and sharing a room, perhaps a meal, and possibly smuggling themselves in (or a box out - but these places never let you ask for a box, and their portions were never large enough to warrant one anyway.) They were full of the kind of people who'd turn their nose up at anyone below the rank of Major at best and Colonel at average.

You know, nobles, and those rich or powerful enough to play the nobles' games.

People that Asian human had called her. She hated the comparison. Just because she was one didn't mean she was one.

So now, here she was, looking out at D Pier at her latest escort. The Isaac was an ugly, boxy ship, and it was large enough to occupy the entire end spot of the one-point-five-kilometer-long pier, one of four the Jinbe Upper Deck featured. Her own ship, a heavily modified version of the Cyanian Navy's standard fighter, looked like a toy in comparison and it was less than a hundred meters away.

She sighed.

Ten minutes to get onto her ship. May as well start heading out as it was, get her pre-flight checklist out of the way. Hopefully her drone wouldn't be too pissed about being left up here.

[Holy Lykos]

Ten Minutes to Flight

Near the Issac, an angular ship hovered and bobbed in waiting. An alien ship, larger than most of it's class due to the size of it's engineers. Yet it was fast, given the nippy and almost instant jerks it used to stay level and hovering near the ship it was to escort. It's occupant let out a long, drawn out yawn as the ships systems worked automatically to keep them both aloft. It lacked any advanced AI companion but nemausae were never as social of creatures as humans. And that was especially true for Nevenha, floating so high above solid ground yet totally secure in her perch.

She took a deep swig of burning hot medrapuran ale. Gods escort duty was so much waiting. Waiting and waiting. She had already synched her computers up to the Issac's, so had little else to do but await takeoff and watch the stars fall away as they started on the voyage.

Until then though, nothing. Just nothing. Well, that was a lie. Until then, booze. Another swig, and familiar burn. Stronger than the light stuff humans made most often, too. Better than the high society goods so close yet so out of reach below. The rich nobility made such tempting targets but she had an oath to keep. At least until this voyage was over and her debt resolved. But she wasn't worried.

Nev didn't expect much to attack them straight out of port.

No, it would be somewhere far from centers of power and strength and away from navies. Perhaps on a border region between two states? Hell, if they got anywhere near Medrapuran space...

A wicked grin split her features and a deep, almost purr-like laugh tumbled out. Well perhaps she'd see what might unfold should they stumble on Medrapuran raiding bands.

The spaces between stars were dark, and full of things much more terrible than felinid raiders screaming in on ships as fast as a spark. Monstrous aliens. Spaceborne leviathans. Genocidal reptilians. Such terrible things, to seem almost unreal compared to the mundane worries of sedentary life.

[Nachfolgia]

After talking to the captain of the ship and informing him of her intentions, Azarea picked up her bag and headed out the door. The Lustriean, averted her eyes from the room of death, walked outside the bar and headed towards the Issac. On the way to the ship, she stopped at a few shops to pick up supplies. She knew that the ship would have a enough medical supplies in the sick bay, so Azarea decided to buy more organic supplies. She didn't find any herbs and plants from Lustrea, but she did find some close substitutes that would pair well with the ones she brought with her. Satisfied with her choices, Azarea headed to the ship.

Upon seeing the Issac, Azarea was awestruck. To the Lustriean,The ship was certainly impressive, being huge and robust as ships go. Of course, almost anything was impressive to Azarea, being new to space travel. She even believes that escape pods and small drones are " impressive works of space travel." She couldn't help it though, being from a planet that was cut off from the rest of the Galaxy until recently.

Azarea ascended the entrance ramp and walked into the HMS Issac. Once inside, she followed the signs and maps that pointed her into the direction of the medical bay. It took her a few minutes, mostly due to her getting turned around a few times, before Azarea reached the medical bay. The medical bay itself was pretty large, having several examination and surgery tables as well as a variety of high tech equipment. Setting her bag down on one of the tables, Azarea walked into a room labled " Medical storage." Inside she found crates upon crates of medical supplies, everything from surgical tools to bandages to oxygen tanks and IV solution. Azarea also found a tablet for the use of the medical officer. Her first order of business with her new tablet was to take inventory of all of her medical supplies as well as prepare everything for the medical examinations she will be conducting.

[G-Tech Corporation]

Up through the layers of low-lying clouds above Jinbe the shard of obsidian tracked, the effervescent moisture barely parting at its passage. To those below, Natalya seemed like nothing so much as a shimmer of eyesight, a heat-warp rising from the skyscrapers and adobe huts of the massive desert city. To those with more than eyes to see, the small aberration was barely worth noting- a flicker on scanners, an artifact of radar systems. Not all of that was owed to her composition; Flavian had taken the time to get bypass codes from the local authorities, willing and unknowing to aid his unnoted traverse of this particular quadrant of the interstellar void.

Still, being hidden wasn't the primary aspect of this mission. The nobleman leaned back in the soft satin cushions, and at a thought Natalya dispelled her veils. The shard of midnight became more visible, not only cognitively, but intellectually- a mere piece of existence floating along through the void, as did so many others, dun and unreactive. Much more palatable to both mind and manner than the vague nightmare that most folk felt upon viewing the ship.

Nosing through the planetary magnetosphere, Flavian leafed through the log of what escort vessels Brody had managed to scare up. Interceptors, fighters, a light frigate. Damn. Well, technically they weren't supposed to be drawing attention to the freighter. No escort was, theoretically, one way to do that. Still, if someone with some serious muscle tried to stop this superluminal escapade, they would be hard pressed to put down a cruiser or better. At least, not without getting inventive.

Or showing off

I hate showing off. You should too.

Natalya pouted prettily in the chair next to the gentleman adventurer. Sometimes the Scion thought that she lived for the praise and admiration of mortals; it would certainly explain a lot of her behavior. Still, there was pleasure, and then there was remaining amongst the living. CyIntel suspected much, but had proved little, and the difference between suspicion and knowledge was oftentimes what allowed Flavian plausible deniability. To put on an exhibition of what the spooks suspected in front of an Imperial Navy-flagged vessel would be most unwise.

Open a hail. They know we are coming, but we might as well be polite.

It took only a few moments to establish contact with Arrow aboard the 'freighter', and confirm that they were in position for the bridge. Placidly Natalya settled in on the gargantuan ship's port bow, just behind the ventral docking bay, and awaited the transit. Time to earn that pay, or at least start the tedious process.

[Rupudska]

Thrawn B7

She went over her ship one last time as she walked around it. No leaks, not even in the drop tank connector - those tended to leak in Bharaza Mk IIIs.

All was good. She slid on her helmet, but didn't yet slide down the faceplate HUD or the jawplate. Those came last. She pressed a button on her wrist, and her flight suit shed any extraneous air between itself and her body - it was made of a special semipermeable membrane that remained flexible even when being effectively skintight - giving it a resemblance to a very tight, dark red drysuit. It would contract to self-pressurize in case she had to walk out in the black, which was an unlikely situation even in the Great Void. It was far more likely she'd be burned to a crisp instead.

One quick trip through the airlock after hooking up the suit's internal oxygen. The ladder was iris scan activated, and she easily managed the climb up.

Controls, check - they moved at least, she'd check handling when she gave the Isaac the once-over Captain Arrow had asked her to do over the comms. The Savar and Fire would help too - it was always best to have more than one pair of eyes check over a cargo ship as it was leaving port.

Oxygen supply - she hooked up the hose to the bottom of the helmet, underneath her jawplate - it wouldn't even close without a breather of some sort. Check.

Instruments, check. In an age of technology, fighters still had instruments as a backup. You never knew what kinds of EMPs existed in space, and gyroscopes didn't lie.
Lastly, HUD. Down came the faceplate, the HUD system plugging directly into her eyes and the helmet itself plugging into the Bharaza's computer. Her own body could provide enough energy to power the HUD and faceplate vision should the computer go down, but only for a few hours. Check.

Fuel, check. The fuel gauge showed full, and the fuel pod beneath her showed 'full' as well - it wasn't quite full, she had cordoned off the front bulkhead of it to store her runabout, a tent, a sleeping bag, and a few other essentials - a spare microwave pistol (standard Cyanian Navy issue), fishing gear, flashlight, the sort of usual things you'd find in an in-case-you-need-to-crash list. The fuel pod could survive being dropped from orbit, it'd survive crashing with a fighter on top of it. The rest of her belongings were already on the Isaac - she'd had one of the ship's drones take them up from her hotel room while she was walking around.

Everything checked out.

<<Control this is Oscar Lima One-Oh-Eight, requesting clearance for departure.>>

<<Permission granted,>> came a slightly more chipper reply, this time in a more Scotian accent. Did the AI have telepathic abilities? She doubted it. This station was nice, it wasn't that nice.

Her ship was on one of the outboard pods, so it didn't even need to taxi. Just release the docking clamp, drop away, and fire up the engines.

<<I'm airborne!>> Airborne she was not, there was no air in space, but the phrase had long since stuck.

<<Control this is the Isaac, requesting departure clearance.>>

A big ship like the Isaac, however, could not simply drop and jet on an orbital station, like smaller vessels. The deck behind it had to be cleared so it could spool up its engines and push the throttles as far as they could go before it could safely drop free.

<<Understood. Clear D Pier!>>

Emilia performed a lazy circle of the station as she observed the departure of the Isaac, her mighty sublight engines roaring crystal blue flames onto the now-empty pier. From the look of the other piers, this was either a very common occurrence or they just didn't clean the piers' external glass nearly enough. Judging by the smell from the inside it was probably the latter.

I guess if it's not the ritzy shopping district they just don't give a damn.

At last, the docking clamps of the Isaac (each as big as Emilia) let the massive ship free and she dropped down, down, down, just grazing the atmosphere before her engines caught her. And thusly she was off.

<<Confirmed Isaac, you are clear of the station. Once you're out of the gravity well you can activate your SL drive.>>

The Isaac banked left and began to pull away from the station. Emilia wheeled her fighter around the station and did a slow, sharp barrel roll around the Isaac, giving the much larger ship a visual scan. The paint was worn in places, especially around the front gun ports. The massive cylinders containing the shield generators (and a few other mechanical and electrical parts) had a few dents as well, and places where new metal had apparently been welded on to patch a hole. Paint had chipped away completely in places along the cargo bay door joints, and there was rust on the underside in spots where the bare metal was exposed - had Captain Arrow taken the Isaac for a swim?

In other words, it looked like a typical heavy freighter of the outskirts of civilization.

<<Jorgeir to Arrow, request callsign 'Owl'.>>

<<Arrow to Jorgeir, callsign confirmed 'Owl'. Isaac callsign Mother Goose, confirm.>>

<<Confirm, callsign Mother Goose. Owl to Mother Goose, some cosmetic damage but nothing major.>>

She heard something resembling laughter on the other end. Or maybe Arrow was just blowing his nose. Hard to say with Taurians.

<<That sounds about right, Owl.>>

<<Mother Goose to all escorts, prepare for SL jump on my mark - our first stop will be the Bocca system.>>

For a small fighter like Emilia's, the windup to superluminal velocities was almost instantaneous, the only limit was range. For a big ship like the Isaac, it could take up to thirty seconds depending on how moody the SL drive was feeling. The freighter crackled with blue-violet lightning as the SL drives warmed up. The coordinates plugged in, she rested her right index finger on the SL trigger and used the left to turn on the radio as she glanced back at the butterscotch ball that was Thrawn B7, and the great green orb of Thrawn B behind it.

[-ou don't really believe in all this... ancient UFO stuff still?]

[Hey, just because the Invictus hasn't been sighted in years doesn't mean it's still out there!]

[If it even exists. Regardless. Hello listeners, at the start of the song it'll be 11:45 by the global of the Thrawn system, and with our news segment done, it's back to our music. 20th century hits on 20th Century SL Radio, Dubya-Dubya-Dubya-Dubya WTXL-R!]

<<Mark.>>

She activated the SL drive. The lights in the sky shifted from points to lines as she crossed the light barrier, her vision going briefly white until the Alcubierre suspension kicked in. To her eight and below, the Isaac looked oddly still as they hurtled through space at a few thousand times the speed of light.

Another day another dollar.

<<Mother Goose to escorts, we should be good for now until we hit Bocca. Land in the hangar for now and conserve your fuel.>>

<<Wilco. Owl to Mother Goose, coming in.>>

<<Hangar door is open. Land at your convenience.>>

The hangar doors slid open. The walls of the hangar were clearly messy - seemed like Mr. Arrow hadn't had much need for escorts in a while. Boxes, tools, and metal drums sat along the edges, but there was still plenty of space for all their ships. Emilia gently touched the Pig Sticker in an empty lot along the back wall near the middle.

[This is ground control to Major Tom, you've really made the grade... and the papers want to know whose shirts you wear... now it's time to leave the capsule if you dare...]

[Holy Lykos]

Thawn B7

Nevenha was glad to be gone from Thrawn. It was even more of a backwater than most places she'd been of late, and this was coming from someone who was from a nation renowned for being largely undeveloped or purely void-bound. Now out of atmosphere (Nev had almost forgotten she had to ask for permission to depart earlier, actually. She wasn't exactly used to docking in busy ports like this.), the felinid alien stretched out her limbs in preparation for hitting the SL drives. Another heavy drink from a flask almost perfectly coincided with the mark. Luckily, Nevenha had no shortage of dexterous limbs. The universe melted away, before her ships systems compensated for the mind-bending views.

It was about time to get a Callsign, though. But first it would be good to land. Nev listened over the radio to the exchange between Jorgeir and the Issac, before flicking on her own transmit once it was over.

<<This is Nevenha. Following Owl into land as requested by Mother Goose. Request callsign...>>

She paused for a moment, to try to recall a decent animal for it. A terran one might suffice, given who funded this little excursion.

<<Request callsign: 'Leopard'.>>

The alien didn't exactly wait for proper clearance to begin her descent into the hangar after Emilia. Nev had no reason to tarry, anyway. Arrow had already provided implicit permission with the request for escorts to land after all. She guided her interceptor towards an open section of the hangars before touching it down. Landing gear magnetized to the surface to ensure its location regardless of ship gravity failure and jostling. A few moments later, Nev initialized the cockpit's opening procedures, keeping the radio on to listen for... well anything really.

It was good to be offworld again. In the inky void her people thrived within. More of a home than their homeplanet's frankly bleak surface.

[Backatri]

Excerpt from the Confession of Gerald Guthrie

After awhile I had wandered up to the main bridge. Since being a Language Liaison carried with it some authority they let me in. Arrow stood above all, lording over the crew as a god would men. The communications crackled as the minuscule fleet of the Flagship Isaac sailed towards its new berth. Even though radio static had been long eliminated, the Van Allen Belt Rediation contributed to the nostalgic crunch of the voices passing through the bridge.

<<Jorgeir to Arrow, request callsign 'Owl'.>>, <<Request callsign: 'Leopard'.>>, they voices called though the void. <<Callsign confirmed>>, answered voices of our own. I stood towards the observation area, taking care to note the functions of the ship on the dials before me, and to genuinely enjoy the view of the spaceport as we left. At last we rotated from the barren view of Thrawn B7 to the magnificent grandeur of the stars. Or maybe I speak Romantically. Some people hate space. The last few ships docked in the hangar bay and I retreated to my cabin to tend to my own affairs.

First, I sent the first coded messages back to my handlers. All the garbled letters. It was a check-in, to let my native Anthusia know that I had taken flight. Then, everything tasted purple. We had just kicked in the FTL drives. For all the aesthetic weaknesses of the Isaac, it has excellent acceleration couches in the superstructure. I felt no sensations where some ships would throw the passengers against the walls.

Seeing as I had no ships to fly, no languages to translate, and no pirates to duel, I dialed in the radio to the closest public radio station. For the interests of this Confession, I have painstakingly located the exact transcript of the broadcast I found. You're welcome.

[BEGIN ATTACHED DATA]
Thank you for tuning into Galactic Public Radio, I'm Frederick Stations, host of the midday report on the Sagittarius Arm. Today's report is a bit of a special one, as the stalemate has been broken in the decades-old Anthusian War of Aggression. Admiral Benz of the Cyanian 4th Fleet reports that a successful, albeit costly, offensive has smashed the outer defense ring of the Anthusian military, seizing one of the nation's outer planets, giving the Fleet a stepping stone to eventually neutralize the heart of the radical "Balkanization" ideology. In other news, a small planetary nation by the name of "Catalysta" was conquered by the Cipaqoaltus Federation in an apparent move to gather territory...
[END ATTACHED DATA]

The potential collapse of my country posed a challenge. I had faith that either the report was malicious propaganda or that the military could rebound, but I was left wondering. What do spies do when they lose their nation?