Re: SDNW4 Prologue Thread
Posted: 2011-02-03 07:24pm
CDS Watchdog
A Place system, Sector N5
June 15, 3388
"We are approaching the field, commander," the helmsman called out, "at present relative velocity, the Watchdog will enter it in three minutes."
Commander Abagail Brookes suppressed the urge to smile at the helmsman's words - a year into her own commission and she had to admit that she still liked the ring of it. Even in a Civil Defense vessel assigned to a backwater like A Place, it was no mean feat to be commanding a ship-of-war at age 25, even if said ship-of-war was really more a patrol ship and a cramped, battered example at that - the Sentinel-class patrol cutter's efficiency may have won the hearts and minds of its maintenence crews back in the drydocks, but actual assigned crew would sing a different tune for anyone willing to listen.
To their credit, Brookes' crew kept their grousing to a minimum...most of the time. This recent deployment had apparently seen complaints at an unusual low, but then, having something to do besides waiting for smugglers too smart to bumble in front of the local authorities helped to take one's mind off of the lack of creature comforts.
Brookes scanned the main display as the cutter made its way into the field where the smuggler depot was supposed to be. Typically, asteroid fields were far more wide-spread than pulp fiction would have one believe - the only crashes that happened were due to incompetence or intent. This wasn't a typical case; the A9811 micro-field wasn't really an asteroid field in an of itself so much as it was the remnants of a large body that had been smashed apart a few hundred million years ago. With time, this field would disappear as gravity did its work and sufficiently-accelerated fragments wandered off to establish typical orbits around A Place's star.
Sensor results showed A9811 to be largely metallic - ferrous hunks the size of city blocks with the occasional rare metal for flavor. A9811 and fields like it were prime real estate for mining operations, and Brookes rather expected that - besides the drugs and small arms - the smuggler base here would probably have small-scale mining going for rare heavy metals. So far, however, sensors showed nothing. Scanning the main display, Brookes felt her mood dampen some. Such a large area of space, with so many rocks in such a tight space - really, it was an ambush waiting to happen. The intelligence report had indicated that this outpost was a minor one and probably unarmed besides the guards on-station, but that did little to comfort her. Intelligence reports could be wrong, ships could be lost, and no one in the command office really cared that much.
"Decelerate us and prepare to drop decoy pods," Brookes ordered, "We'll deploy a net of them here," she drew a pattern on her small personal pattern with a stylus, the result appearing on the main display as well, "and leave them on passive."
"Commander," this was Brookes' XO, Lieutenant Commander Hall, "Intelligence reports indicate that this depot is supposed to close and be abandoned within the next 72 hours - we may reduce our chance to capture prisoners and contraband the longer we take."
Some officers might've rebuked their XO for dissent on the bridge, but Brookes valued the older man's experience and encouraged his input. The lieutenant commander would not voice an issue idly, and Brookes prized his willingness to disagree. She paused to consider, then shook her her, "Noted, lieutenant commander, but this vessel's worth probably exceeds the value of any small-time smuggler outposts, and there's no guarantee prisoner intel will prove valuable. We'll err on the side of caution"
Deploying a decent network of decoy buoys was no mean feat done in minutes - the compact designs left little room for maneuvering gear, which meant that the Watchdog was forced to travel slowly across a considerable portion of the micro-field to achieve proper distribution. Brookes hoped that Hall's analysis wouldn't prove her the fool, but she'd meant what she said - drugs and light arms weren't worth a Civil Defense cutter; the fringes needed more, not less.
Its defensive task completed, the Watchdog resumed its course further into the micro-field, its sensors roaming over rocks large enough to hide the whole cutter in to no avail - they were approaching the area of the field deemed most likely to house the outpost slowly but surely, but the cutter's diligent probings had revealed nothing man-made so far; no sensor buoys, no defense emplacements, and certainly no ships or outposts. Brookes was beginning to wonder, as the hours rolled on, if she had perhaps made a mistake. As if to answer her, her sensors officer suddenly cried out, obvious surprise in his voice.
"M'am!" he said, "I'm reading on- no, three contacts coming around the rock ahead! Two our size, one a bit bigger."
Brookes didn't need to ponder what they were, "Give us full reverse acceleration immediately, head for our defensive field. Bring down all non-vital systems and prepare to rechannel them to the shields; no power to weapons for now," she paused, "Bring life support systems down to 10% and prepare to shunt that power to shields, as well," to their credit, the crews went to work immediately; lights dimmed, artificial gravity subsided, and warnings honked as the Watchdog began to withdraw. The main display ahead showed the "top" edge of the rocky mass ahead, magnified several times - their contacts were coming over the top now.
A new siren blared and a bridge officer called out, "Center ship has a partial target lock and is firing! Brace for impact!" The Watchdog's sensors registered the ship's six oversized mass drivers fire as one; a moment later, the cutter's shields flared brilliantly and a new warning appeared, "Forward shield generator 1 partially damaged. Shields at 40% and climbing. Estimate that they hit with roughly half of their fire."
The sensors officer again, "Center enemy frigate identified as the pirate boat Maximum Fuck. Pirate cutters unidentified."
"They have target lock and are firing," the previous officer called out again. This barrage of fire was far less impressive - small-scale mass drivers mixed with autocannons and detatchable missile pods; the Watchdog's active defenses swatted these latter out of the air and most of the former missed, "Shields at 45% and resuming climbing."
Brookes considered - even with power shunted to the shields, they could only recycle so fast; it was a simple mechanical limitation. Under continued fire, it was unlikely that they'd bring shields up to sufficient levels to stave off the enemy long enough. Brookes knew the Maximum Fuck would get the job done in one more salvo, maybe two if it could manage to hit; its oversized mass drivers were difficult to traverse on such a small hull and slow to recycle, but there was simply no arguing with their firepower. Particularly not in a Civil Defense cutter. Brookes knew she couldn't rely on the cutter's armor...wait. "Helm," she barked, "Bring put the nearest rock between us and them as much as you can," she paused, "Draw off remaining power to life support and reshunt it to engines. We're not going to need air and heat if we don't have a hull."
---
On board the pirate cutter Rip and Tear the commander expressed his frustration over the Civil Defense cutter's dodging and weaving in the way he knew best. By raging incoherently.
"Why can't you get a damned lock on the thing, you cretin?" he snarled at his gunnery officer, "It's shining on sensors like the ever-fucking sun!"
The gunnery officer knew better than to give an excuse - after all, there was a reason that the last gunnery officer was no longer in the position the new one occupied - and instead replied with something 'constructive,' "I have a partial lock sir, requesting permission to fire on that?"
"Crack that can open or I'll crack your skull open!" the commander roared by way of expressing approval. The converted civilian freighter rumbled and whined as its slipshod armament let loose another stream of autocannon rounds, driver slugs, and some of its remaining light missiles. Fortunately for the gunnery officer, it fell to the sensor officer to call out the results.
"Partial hits only, sir," he said, "It managed to scoot behind another rock."
The commander said nothing - which was sometimes worse - and simply stared at the main display, drumming his fingers on the command chair. The gunnery officer could almost sympathize; this whole affair was intended to convince Civil Defense to keep its nose out of where it didn't belong - here and elsewhere - and that message could hardly be communicated if their prey got away so effortlessly.
"Sir!" the sensors officer broke the silence again, confusion and fresh alarm in his voice, "I'm getting...serious interference here! We've lost the target and there are contact ghosts everywhere!"
"Open a channel with the Maximum Fuck!" he barked; a moment later, its captain appeared on the screen. To the Rip and Tear's crew, it looked as if the Maximum Fuck's captain was looking at something disgusting - a cockroach, perhaps. Oblivious, the Rip and Tear's commander lived up to his ship's name and tore into his comrade, "You said this was a damned ambush! Now we're in the trap! Crane, you better not be double-dealing!"
Crane openly sneered now, "It's a decoy bouy net, you simpleton. Something spooked the target's commander beforehand. And if you question my integrity again, I'll blow that little shitboat out to fragments, contract or not. Captain Crane, out," the channel closed. The bridge crew, wisely, were silent.
---
"We appear to have broken contact," Brookes' sensor officer sang out - his relief was palpable. She couldn't blame him. Three-to-one odds with a light ship hunter thrown into the mix was more than they'd bargained for. Hale gave her an appreciative nod; the decoy field had worked out. So far.
"Should we head back to dock and report this?" the helms officer asked, "Call out for backup?"
Normally even Brookes would reprimand free talking of this sort, but it was a valid question - one she was pondering and one the crew surely was, too. Besides, they'd narrowly escaped destruction in the past minutes and largely had the helmsman to thank for it, "No, lieutenant," she responded, then, to the crew, "This is no stealth sloop. They're eventually going to find us here, and if we attempt to break away, it'll just be sooner. Comms will draw them to us as well," she paused again, "Redistribute power as follows..."
---
The Rip and Tear's sensor officer was clearly beginning to fear for his life as he reported - with increasing frequency - a lack of enemy contacts. A few other bridge officers watched the commander idly drum his hands on his pistol butt and wondered if the next report of no contacts would be the unfortunate's last. They were all shocked, then, when the target lock klaxon honked and the sensor officer sang out in alarm, "Enemy ship on our left flank! They're firing-"
The Rip and Tear was no warship, and its crew no experts. A better crew might've responded more quickly. A better commander may have broke them from their paralysis and saved their lives. Instead, the Rip and Tear came apart under a hail of military-grade missiles and mass driver rounds, twisting under the terrific impacts as its makeshift armor failed and the internal skeleton of the converted freighter was torn apart. Magazine cookoffs took care of the rest.
---
The Rip and Tear's sister ship, Huge Guts got a front row seat for the death of its comrade, as did the Maximum Fuck. They didn't get a chance to reply, but now that the enemy ship had revealed itself, they would chase it down and finally crush it - the commander sincerely hoped he'd have a chance to 'meet' whoever was commanding that insolent little patrol cutter.
The commander responded eagerly when his sensors officer spoke out a several minutes of pursuit later, "85% chance they're behind this rock," the Maximum Fuck's commander obviously knew the same, and was detouring around the 'bottom' of the tremendous thing.
"Don't let us fall behind those mercs," he ordered, "bring us over top and we'll catch the little fucker in the crossfire. There's no running this time.
The Huge Guts came over the 'top' of the asteroid, weapons locking onto...nothing. There was only the Maximum Fuck, travelling up towards the Huge Guts under acceleration. The commander swore, smashing his fist on the control panel as each pirate vessel passed the other. They must have made a mistake; they'd have to regroup and-
"Sir!" the sensors officer yelled in panic, "Enemy to our rear! Point-blank! They're firing!"
---
Brookes hadn't been sure that her little gambit would pay off, let alone that the helms officer could drop the Watchdog, small though it was for a warship, into the crevasse on the tremendous asteroid's rear. It was all the more rewarding, then, when the other light pirate came apart, speared through its engines and rendered a drifting, powerless hulk. They could deliver the killing blow later - right now they had a bigger problem.
"Ma'am, the Maximum Fuck's bringing its turrets around!" the sensors officer reported.
"Finish face change and fire immediately!" Brookes yelled - now it was simply a matter of speed.
The entire Watchdog rocked again under the tremendous impact of the heavy mass drivers' fire; a klaxon sounded.
"Shields down to 30%! Forward shield generator 1's gone, we've got a fire - section vented successfully, fire's out."
"Enemy frigate appears to have taken damage to its left driver turret!" the sensors officer again.
Brookes didn't wait to see the response the Maximum Fuck would bring, "Bring us back behind the damned rock as much as you can, helm."
There was tension on the bridge as the crew waited for the pirate frigate to fire again and perhaps land a truly deadly blow, then, disbelievingly, the sensors officer spoke up, "Enemy appears to be disengaging."
There was a smattering of applause from the crew at this - disbelieving, full of relief. Brookes could sympathize. Hall gave her an appreciative nod, and she smiled back in response.
"Comms," she said, "Send a message to command - report this and request reinforcements. We've still got a smuggler outpost to take care of."
---
Federal Naval Office
New Haven system, Sector N5
September 10, 3388
Commodore Burg reshuffled the report, rolling his head from side to side to loosen his stiff neck and scowling reflexively at the Civil Defense uniform this Commander Brookes was wearing in her file photo - it seemed that the more distant the Civil Defense fleet, the more ostentatious the uniform. It was something he really wished the Department of War or Department of Civil Defense would correct. That aside, though, he had been pleasantly surprised with what he had read in the report on the A9811 incident - a leak in sector Civil Defense command had cost the locals enough that the Federal Navy was still investigating the numerous incidents. Most of them began and ended with an ambush and another lost ship the Union couldn't afford. More work for the real navy while shipyards turned out replacements and training churned out crews. Burg didn't envy local Civil Defense brass, who would probably be shitcanned when the Department of War had read the Federal Navy's report, though.
This one, though - this Commander Brookes. She'd been one of the exceptions. Her report on the incident was impressive in both its detail and in its modesty; credit had been particularly given by her to her gunnery and helm officers. Her XO's accompanying report had said what Brookes wouldn't say about herself, but it didn't take a second report to know that she'd saved the Union a ship - to say nothing of a crew - with her actions.
And they even found the smuggler depot, for what little it turned out to be worth. Shame the Maximum Fuck got away again, he thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. This Brookes was good, an asset. Too good, he suspected, for a piddling command operating out of a backwater like A Place.
Slowly, with deliberate movements that came from being a desk officer, Burg began to draw up an offer of transfer.
A Place system, Sector N5
June 15, 3388
"We are approaching the field, commander," the helmsman called out, "at present relative velocity, the Watchdog will enter it in three minutes."
Commander Abagail Brookes suppressed the urge to smile at the helmsman's words - a year into her own commission and she had to admit that she still liked the ring of it. Even in a Civil Defense vessel assigned to a backwater like A Place, it was no mean feat to be commanding a ship-of-war at age 25, even if said ship-of-war was really more a patrol ship and a cramped, battered example at that - the Sentinel-class patrol cutter's efficiency may have won the hearts and minds of its maintenence crews back in the drydocks, but actual assigned crew would sing a different tune for anyone willing to listen.
To their credit, Brookes' crew kept their grousing to a minimum...most of the time. This recent deployment had apparently seen complaints at an unusual low, but then, having something to do besides waiting for smugglers too smart to bumble in front of the local authorities helped to take one's mind off of the lack of creature comforts.
Brookes scanned the main display as the cutter made its way into the field where the smuggler depot was supposed to be. Typically, asteroid fields were far more wide-spread than pulp fiction would have one believe - the only crashes that happened were due to incompetence or intent. This wasn't a typical case; the A9811 micro-field wasn't really an asteroid field in an of itself so much as it was the remnants of a large body that had been smashed apart a few hundred million years ago. With time, this field would disappear as gravity did its work and sufficiently-accelerated fragments wandered off to establish typical orbits around A Place's star.
Sensor results showed A9811 to be largely metallic - ferrous hunks the size of city blocks with the occasional rare metal for flavor. A9811 and fields like it were prime real estate for mining operations, and Brookes rather expected that - besides the drugs and small arms - the smuggler base here would probably have small-scale mining going for rare heavy metals. So far, however, sensors showed nothing. Scanning the main display, Brookes felt her mood dampen some. Such a large area of space, with so many rocks in such a tight space - really, it was an ambush waiting to happen. The intelligence report had indicated that this outpost was a minor one and probably unarmed besides the guards on-station, but that did little to comfort her. Intelligence reports could be wrong, ships could be lost, and no one in the command office really cared that much.
"Decelerate us and prepare to drop decoy pods," Brookes ordered, "We'll deploy a net of them here," she drew a pattern on her small personal pattern with a stylus, the result appearing on the main display as well, "and leave them on passive."
"Commander," this was Brookes' XO, Lieutenant Commander Hall, "Intelligence reports indicate that this depot is supposed to close and be abandoned within the next 72 hours - we may reduce our chance to capture prisoners and contraband the longer we take."
Some officers might've rebuked their XO for dissent on the bridge, but Brookes valued the older man's experience and encouraged his input. The lieutenant commander would not voice an issue idly, and Brookes prized his willingness to disagree. She paused to consider, then shook her her, "Noted, lieutenant commander, but this vessel's worth probably exceeds the value of any small-time smuggler outposts, and there's no guarantee prisoner intel will prove valuable. We'll err on the side of caution"
Deploying a decent network of decoy buoys was no mean feat done in minutes - the compact designs left little room for maneuvering gear, which meant that the Watchdog was forced to travel slowly across a considerable portion of the micro-field to achieve proper distribution. Brookes hoped that Hall's analysis wouldn't prove her the fool, but she'd meant what she said - drugs and light arms weren't worth a Civil Defense cutter; the fringes needed more, not less.
Its defensive task completed, the Watchdog resumed its course further into the micro-field, its sensors roaming over rocks large enough to hide the whole cutter in to no avail - they were approaching the area of the field deemed most likely to house the outpost slowly but surely, but the cutter's diligent probings had revealed nothing man-made so far; no sensor buoys, no defense emplacements, and certainly no ships or outposts. Brookes was beginning to wonder, as the hours rolled on, if she had perhaps made a mistake. As if to answer her, her sensors officer suddenly cried out, obvious surprise in his voice.
"M'am!" he said, "I'm reading on- no, three contacts coming around the rock ahead! Two our size, one a bit bigger."
Brookes didn't need to ponder what they were, "Give us full reverse acceleration immediately, head for our defensive field. Bring down all non-vital systems and prepare to rechannel them to the shields; no power to weapons for now," she paused, "Bring life support systems down to 10% and prepare to shunt that power to shields, as well," to their credit, the crews went to work immediately; lights dimmed, artificial gravity subsided, and warnings honked as the Watchdog began to withdraw. The main display ahead showed the "top" edge of the rocky mass ahead, magnified several times - their contacts were coming over the top now.
A new siren blared and a bridge officer called out, "Center ship has a partial target lock and is firing! Brace for impact!" The Watchdog's sensors registered the ship's six oversized mass drivers fire as one; a moment later, the cutter's shields flared brilliantly and a new warning appeared, "Forward shield generator 1 partially damaged. Shields at 40% and climbing. Estimate that they hit with roughly half of their fire."
The sensors officer again, "Center enemy frigate identified as the pirate boat Maximum Fuck. Pirate cutters unidentified."
"They have target lock and are firing," the previous officer called out again. This barrage of fire was far less impressive - small-scale mass drivers mixed with autocannons and detatchable missile pods; the Watchdog's active defenses swatted these latter out of the air and most of the former missed, "Shields at 45% and resuming climbing."
Brookes considered - even with power shunted to the shields, they could only recycle so fast; it was a simple mechanical limitation. Under continued fire, it was unlikely that they'd bring shields up to sufficient levels to stave off the enemy long enough. Brookes knew the Maximum Fuck would get the job done in one more salvo, maybe two if it could manage to hit; its oversized mass drivers were difficult to traverse on such a small hull and slow to recycle, but there was simply no arguing with their firepower. Particularly not in a Civil Defense cutter. Brookes knew she couldn't rely on the cutter's armor...wait. "Helm," she barked, "Bring put the nearest rock between us and them as much as you can," she paused, "Draw off remaining power to life support and reshunt it to engines. We're not going to need air and heat if we don't have a hull."
---
On board the pirate cutter Rip and Tear the commander expressed his frustration over the Civil Defense cutter's dodging and weaving in the way he knew best. By raging incoherently.
"Why can't you get a damned lock on the thing, you cretin?" he snarled at his gunnery officer, "It's shining on sensors like the ever-fucking sun!"
The gunnery officer knew better than to give an excuse - after all, there was a reason that the last gunnery officer was no longer in the position the new one occupied - and instead replied with something 'constructive,' "I have a partial lock sir, requesting permission to fire on that?"
"Crack that can open or I'll crack your skull open!" the commander roared by way of expressing approval. The converted civilian freighter rumbled and whined as its slipshod armament let loose another stream of autocannon rounds, driver slugs, and some of its remaining light missiles. Fortunately for the gunnery officer, it fell to the sensor officer to call out the results.
"Partial hits only, sir," he said, "It managed to scoot behind another rock."
The commander said nothing - which was sometimes worse - and simply stared at the main display, drumming his fingers on the command chair. The gunnery officer could almost sympathize; this whole affair was intended to convince Civil Defense to keep its nose out of where it didn't belong - here and elsewhere - and that message could hardly be communicated if their prey got away so effortlessly.
"Sir!" the sensors officer broke the silence again, confusion and fresh alarm in his voice, "I'm getting...serious interference here! We've lost the target and there are contact ghosts everywhere!"
"Open a channel with the Maximum Fuck!" he barked; a moment later, its captain appeared on the screen. To the Rip and Tear's crew, it looked as if the Maximum Fuck's captain was looking at something disgusting - a cockroach, perhaps. Oblivious, the Rip and Tear's commander lived up to his ship's name and tore into his comrade, "You said this was a damned ambush! Now we're in the trap! Crane, you better not be double-dealing!"
Crane openly sneered now, "It's a decoy bouy net, you simpleton. Something spooked the target's commander beforehand. And if you question my integrity again, I'll blow that little shitboat out to fragments, contract or not. Captain Crane, out," the channel closed. The bridge crew, wisely, were silent.
---
"We appear to have broken contact," Brookes' sensor officer sang out - his relief was palpable. She couldn't blame him. Three-to-one odds with a light ship hunter thrown into the mix was more than they'd bargained for. Hale gave her an appreciative nod; the decoy field had worked out. So far.
"Should we head back to dock and report this?" the helms officer asked, "Call out for backup?"
Normally even Brookes would reprimand free talking of this sort, but it was a valid question - one she was pondering and one the crew surely was, too. Besides, they'd narrowly escaped destruction in the past minutes and largely had the helmsman to thank for it, "No, lieutenant," she responded, then, to the crew, "This is no stealth sloop. They're eventually going to find us here, and if we attempt to break away, it'll just be sooner. Comms will draw them to us as well," she paused again, "Redistribute power as follows..."
---
The Rip and Tear's sensor officer was clearly beginning to fear for his life as he reported - with increasing frequency - a lack of enemy contacts. A few other bridge officers watched the commander idly drum his hands on his pistol butt and wondered if the next report of no contacts would be the unfortunate's last. They were all shocked, then, when the target lock klaxon honked and the sensor officer sang out in alarm, "Enemy ship on our left flank! They're firing-"
The Rip and Tear was no warship, and its crew no experts. A better crew might've responded more quickly. A better commander may have broke them from their paralysis and saved their lives. Instead, the Rip and Tear came apart under a hail of military-grade missiles and mass driver rounds, twisting under the terrific impacts as its makeshift armor failed and the internal skeleton of the converted freighter was torn apart. Magazine cookoffs took care of the rest.
---
The Rip and Tear's sister ship, Huge Guts got a front row seat for the death of its comrade, as did the Maximum Fuck. They didn't get a chance to reply, but now that the enemy ship had revealed itself, they would chase it down and finally crush it - the commander sincerely hoped he'd have a chance to 'meet' whoever was commanding that insolent little patrol cutter.
The commander responded eagerly when his sensors officer spoke out a several minutes of pursuit later, "85% chance they're behind this rock," the Maximum Fuck's commander obviously knew the same, and was detouring around the 'bottom' of the tremendous thing.
"Don't let us fall behind those mercs," he ordered, "bring us over top and we'll catch the little fucker in the crossfire. There's no running this time.
The Huge Guts came over the 'top' of the asteroid, weapons locking onto...nothing. There was only the Maximum Fuck, travelling up towards the Huge Guts under acceleration. The commander swore, smashing his fist on the control panel as each pirate vessel passed the other. They must have made a mistake; they'd have to regroup and-
"Sir!" the sensors officer yelled in panic, "Enemy to our rear! Point-blank! They're firing!"
---
Brookes hadn't been sure that her little gambit would pay off, let alone that the helms officer could drop the Watchdog, small though it was for a warship, into the crevasse on the tremendous asteroid's rear. It was all the more rewarding, then, when the other light pirate came apart, speared through its engines and rendered a drifting, powerless hulk. They could deliver the killing blow later - right now they had a bigger problem.
"Ma'am, the Maximum Fuck's bringing its turrets around!" the sensors officer reported.
"Finish face change and fire immediately!" Brookes yelled - now it was simply a matter of speed.
The entire Watchdog rocked again under the tremendous impact of the heavy mass drivers' fire; a klaxon sounded.
"Shields down to 30%! Forward shield generator 1's gone, we've got a fire - section vented successfully, fire's out."
"Enemy frigate appears to have taken damage to its left driver turret!" the sensors officer again.
Brookes didn't wait to see the response the Maximum Fuck would bring, "Bring us back behind the damned rock as much as you can, helm."
There was tension on the bridge as the crew waited for the pirate frigate to fire again and perhaps land a truly deadly blow, then, disbelievingly, the sensors officer spoke up, "Enemy appears to be disengaging."
There was a smattering of applause from the crew at this - disbelieving, full of relief. Brookes could sympathize. Hall gave her an appreciative nod, and she smiled back in response.
"Comms," she said, "Send a message to command - report this and request reinforcements. We've still got a smuggler outpost to take care of."
---
Federal Naval Office
New Haven system, Sector N5
September 10, 3388
Commodore Burg reshuffled the report, rolling his head from side to side to loosen his stiff neck and scowling reflexively at the Civil Defense uniform this Commander Brookes was wearing in her file photo - it seemed that the more distant the Civil Defense fleet, the more ostentatious the uniform. It was something he really wished the Department of War or Department of Civil Defense would correct. That aside, though, he had been pleasantly surprised with what he had read in the report on the A9811 incident - a leak in sector Civil Defense command had cost the locals enough that the Federal Navy was still investigating the numerous incidents. Most of them began and ended with an ambush and another lost ship the Union couldn't afford. More work for the real navy while shipyards turned out replacements and training churned out crews. Burg didn't envy local Civil Defense brass, who would probably be shitcanned when the Department of War had read the Federal Navy's report, though.
This one, though - this Commander Brookes. She'd been one of the exceptions. Her report on the incident was impressive in both its detail and in its modesty; credit had been particularly given by her to her gunnery and helm officers. Her XO's accompanying report had said what Brookes wouldn't say about herself, but it didn't take a second report to know that she'd saved the Union a ship - to say nothing of a crew - with her actions.
And they even found the smuggler depot, for what little it turned out to be worth. Shame the Maximum Fuck got away again, he thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. This Brookes was good, an asset. Too good, he suspected, for a piddling command operating out of a backwater like A Place.
Slowly, with deliberate movements that came from being a desk officer, Burg began to draw up an offer of transfer.