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7th of May, 826 A.S. - Leeds System

The yellow sun burned in the distance coating everything in a ruddy orangish hue. Masked behind it the smog-ridden, sickly-looking and industry-abused planet peaked out like an abused child hiding behind it’s more pure brother. The sight made Malachy pause, stuck staring out at the planet longingly. It was home, after all.

“Defensive patrol mark G-34 avoided. Orders?” Said a voice to his right. Malachy snapped out of his gawking to look around. His Lieutenant, Otto Bailey, was returning the gaze. His expression was dull, clearly having seen his commanding officer stare off into literal space and lose focus. Malachy cleared his throat and tried to look professional. It failed horribly.

“Raise us two klicks then hold position. Put power to our scanners, drop any unneeded systems to lower our detection range.” Malachy paused and frowned, looking back through the display glass of the bridge. “You have the bridge. Report any updates to my link. I will be in my office for a report.”

Bailey gave a half-hearted salute and turned back to his station. Malachy didn’t comment, instead gathering up a folder and datapad. A moment later and he was out of the bridge. Here he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It’s been years since he saw his homeworld. Years since he was forcefully removed from it, his life changing in drastic and outlandish ways. He sighed out and stepped down the corridor. A passing bridge officer gave a lazy salute as he passed, but didn’t stop. Once more, Malachy didn’t comment or react. Reaching the end, the left door opened with a flash of his ship token. Silence overtook him a second later as the door closed behind.

Shoulders sagged, eyes closed. His uniform hung on his skinny form. A soft click from a wall-mounted clock told him a minute passed. Eyes opened and he went for his desk. Folder and datapad went onto it carefully while he landed heavily in his chair.

There was so much to consider. His operation was greenlit and he was out, in the middle of action. Their arrival into the Leeds system was thankfully without any note. There was a minor delay as they were passing through the Dublin system to avoid a patrol of Gallic fighters, but otherwise it was smooth sailing. Now they sat in empty space to observe patrol patterns and supply lines.

His crew didn’t like him. They saw him as an upstart, egotistical child who was hand fed everything. There was the minimum respect given to him, though he understood why. When it was announced that the invasion of Leeds was coming, he was lucky enough to escape with his sister, Marisa. They landed in Liberty as refugees and while Malachy was still reeling from what was going on, Marisa wanted to fight back. She joined the Liberty Navy. A year or so later, Malachy did too.

He worked hard, despite hardships and the constant threat of danger, and rose in rank. He got to Commander before he was assigned to training operations out of West Point until he eventually got out of his contract with the Navy. A transfer request to the Armed Forces was swiftly approved at one rank below his own in the Navy. This is what made his crew spiteful. He was aware of the grumblings, how this now Commander was getting special treatment for coming from Liberty, how he wasn’t a true Bretonian. Screw them, he thought. He didn’t need any of them.

Actually, he did need one. He sat forward and pressed a button on a built in comm-link on his desk. A six number code later he was connected through. “Grayson? Office.”

“Understood, Commander.” Came a sharp reply, and the connection dropped.

The clock on the wall ticked three times before a soft rapping came. “Medical, Grayson.” A muffled, older voice announced through the door. Malachy pressed a button on the control system on his desk and the door slid open.

Thomas Grayson was an older man, grey hair to match his name. A peppered small beard and and half-moon glasses helped fill out his otherwise thin angular face. He was in a well fitting white medical scrub shirt but loose fitting medical pants. Overtop he wore a standard issue Armed Forces jacket which wasn't buttoned, hanging from the elder's shoulders. Malachy doubted it's ever been buttoned. Overall, the old Bretonian man was laid back and jaded from the struggles of the war. However, he still had a witty personality to him. The young Commander once made the mistake of implying Grayson had smoked to fit the stereotype of the loose-cannon doctor. The stare he got was uncharacteristically intense enough to make Malachy quickly excuse himself to some other task.

With a smile, Malachy greeted him and waved him to the chair beside his desk. “Doctor. Thanks for coming.”

“Commander Marshall. As always it's my pleasure. What can I assist you with?” A salute and coy smile was broadly displayed on Grayson's face. He was playfully mocking the younger man, but unlike the rest of the crew it was in a friendly manner.

Scoffing, Malachy rolled his eyes. “Oh sit down, Thomas.” He relaxed in his chair casually while Grayson took his. Once the doctor was settled, Malachy continued. "I'm going to lie now and say this is a routine check-in discussion. As our lead medical personnel, I wanted you to know we are confirmed to have entered the Leeds staging point and to be prepared for emergency aid. I want at least one of you awake at all hours, and keep your equipment on standby.” The young Commander gave the order in a well trotted way, just voicing the words he has said time and time again whenever moving into an active operation. As soon as the last word was out, he sighed.

“Seeing as there is only two of us, that will be quite the bit of fun. But yes sir.” The doctor responded before jumping subjects. “They still bothering you?”

“No.” Malachy lied.

Grayson frowned. “Commander, if you're going to make me play therapist then at least don't open up with falsehoods.”

The exhaustion peaked in the younger man. His head tilted back until his head thunked against the back of the chair. “Yes, of course they are.”

“And you haven't cracked down on them, because?”

“I'm not here to fight Bretonians. I'm here to fight the Gauls.”

“How are you going to do that with a crew that doesn't like you? How are you going to run this operation if nobody is running at their peak?”

“I'm running at all engines.” Retorted Malachy.

“Are you, boy?” countered Grayson.

This gave Malachy a start. Grayson was the only one on the ship that'd dare speak to him this way, at least directly. It was true. He was expecting more of a fight from the Armed Forces. The praised Bretonian tactics and strategy to fight back against the odds. Instead, he found them stumbling backwards in a vain attempt to avoid yet another blow from Gallia, and causing conflicts with bordering factions and guilds to keep in this fight. While this operation was greenlit, it wasn't given the support it needed. To be fair, there was no way they could release a full task force to strike behind enemy lines. New London was a hellish fight. But New London wasn't his home.

Malachy lifted his head and studied the elder man for a moment. This wasn't the first time they've had these informal talks. Since returning to Bretonia, Grayson was the only one to help him out and essentially brought the young Commander under his wing and protection. You don't mess with those doing medical, and that included their friends. “I'm not.” Malachy responded, submitting.

“At least you admit it.” Grayson eased his tone.

“What do you suggest I do?”

It was Grayson's turn to pause. A glance to the door as if concerned the crew could hear them. They couldn't, the office was sound proofed. The doctor turned his gaze back to Malachy.

“You know I can't answer that. Beyond the fact that I have zero understanding of military operations and procedures, I made it a point to never tell others how to live their lives.” He responded softly.

“Was worth a shot.” Shrugged the commander. “I know I need to deal with it. With the crew. I'm just not that type of guy. It's such a pointless thing to fret about when we clearly have larger matters to deal with.” His gaze moved to the desktop and the dozens of scattered papers and data pads he had gathered there.

“If you know you need to deal with it, then why are we having this conversation?” His tone was calm, therapeutic in nature. It wasn't said in an insulting way. Grayson has long learned that Malachy struggled with indecision and mild anxiety. Simply talking through the issue with someone helped more than anything else.

Head shaking, Malachy spoke. “Because I need to face the facts that it needs to be done, now. Fine. I get it. I'll start cracking down on them.” A pause. “What if they-”

Grayson interjected. “You hold rank. You also hold a greater position than any rank could do. Everyone who volunteered for this operation did so because they want to fight directly at the heart and see their home again. While they dislike you, they at least respect what you have allowed them to do. Use that.”

Seconds passed as Malachy considered. “Alright. You speak your wisdom as normal.”

“Damn right I do.” The medic smirked.

Malachy leaned forward to stand, Grayson got to his feet as well. It was the one of the nice things Malachy was able to have. A true friend. Just one, but it was all he needed to keep sane. Grayson stepped in to be his sound board, seeing as his second officer was unwilling as well as the rest of the bridge crew. It was comforting to know that there was still some softness existing in this war.

Grayson saluted and the young commander returned it. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Don't mention it, Commander. Am I excused?” Malachy nodded as his hand fell to his side. Grayson gave a light smile before walking to the door. It opened and closed leaving Malachy all alone once more.

The clock on the wall ticked.

21st of May, 826 A.S. - Leeds System

"S&S". That's their current protocol. Standby and Scan. It's been a quiet few hours since they stopped moving and set up for a sector scan. The bridge was busy reading the data that was pouring in while navigation and communications strained themselves to find anything of note. The rest of the crew was on standby, either doing shifts to get an hour or so of sleep, eating, or lounging at their stations.

Ella Litebell lounged away. She sat with her back to a control station that was little more than a console display on a wall. She wore half of her engineer's outfit, brown overalls with a grey shirt. The shirt had once been white but sweat had changed that fact months ago. Her blue jacket was left elsewhere, perhaps her bunk. Maybe on some crate somewhere. It didn't bother her. The bridge had the decency of allowing half-uniform after their first stint into Leeds. Simply put, the ship was hot.

Due to how they were running as silently as possible, non-essential systems were shut down or turned low. While this included complex systems like auxiliary power converters and secondary batteries, it also affected simpler systems like lighting and air control. The last one made things miserable for the crew. Air was being cycled and reused, there was somewhat of a control on the temperature. But attempts to force it to a moderate temperature was nigh impossible especially in the lands of the engineers. From radiators to power blocks to reactors, the belly of the Kippax burned. Ella groaned and wiped sweat off her brow.

There was nothing for her to do really. Unlike the other stations she had to only wait until they either started moving again or had the pleasure of being attacked. It would have been boring if the stress of being behind enemy lines didn't get to her. Her fellow engineers tried to pass the time with cards or lanceboard but it got old after a week. Now, she just stared at the radiator unit before her; a hulking twenty foot mass of metal, wiring, and pipes. At a point she attempted to count the number of pipes it had. She gave up once she realized the Libertonian design had the tubes crossing each other sometimes up to three times.

Boots on the floor gave her a glorious wash of distraction, someone moving around the hatchways near her. That was until it dawned on her that they were coming to her.

Sitting down hard beside her, a crusty looking portly man exhaled heavily. His hand furiously tried to find his handkerchief to whip down his sweat drenched face. Ella smelt his sweat before she saw it. He was entirely soaked in his own moisture. "Workin' hard, eh Bell?" He said between breaths.

"Oh, y'know it Chief." Ella replied casually, scooting herself away slightly to avoid his radiating heat and stench.

"Just two more hours. We're movin' then and gettin' rid of this damned heat in just two hours." It felt he was saying this more to his own benefit than Ella's.

"Where are we going after we pull up anchor?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

He punctuated this last comment by finally finding the cloth and patting his face. Engineering Chief Mark Cather was the run of the mill stereotypical head of engineering that you would expect. Bit of a belly, a wide face, nearly balding head which was covered with a blue and red stripped bandanna. He played into the role and was entirely self aware.

"Was worth a shot. How was the meeting?" She continued to stare at the radiator, keeping her movements to a minimum. "Convince them we need more than twenty seconds to start up engines from a dead stop?"

"Ech. That Bloody Otto shat on the issue and told me to just 'make it work'." The chief snorted, irritable.

Ella mocked a cooing sound. "Did da big bwad Lieutenant shoot you down?"

That got her a punch in the arm. Ella knew it was coming and grunted at the impact.

"Gods, fine! Be'a prick."

"Don't sass me, girl. I'm right pissed that I have to argue every point with that sleazy Otto. Marshall straight rolls over for him and it's spineless!" Mark's face was red in anger, though the heat might also have something to do with it.

Ella rubbed at her arm, wincing slightly. He got her good. "It's Commander. An' everyone knows how much of'a slimeball Lieutenant Bailey is. Ain't no reasoning with him. His spite and bias runs this ship."

"It's a real prick move to take it out on the crew for the Board's orders. Malachy is the Commandin' Officer, he got the glory position. That's that."

"It's Commander Marshall. An' y'know it ain't matter what the Board says. We're out here, they ain't."

"Oh piss off with that. It's all Malachy's fault-"

"It's Commander Marshall. Or Commander." Ella interrupted harshly with a raised volume, her scowling face started right at him. Mark looked at her and cocked an eyebrow.

"The hell you on about?"

"Like y'said, he's the Commandin' Officer. Speak his rank correctly an' properly like."

"Since when do you care about sayin' ranks and titles?"

"I've always cared t'be proper."

"Bull."

"Yuh-huh."

The engineer chief squinted one eye at her. He had a look like he suspected something but couldn't make entirely sure it was accurate. Ella returned to staring at the radiator.

"Hells you care for? Ma-.. The 'Commanding Officer'-" His hands lifted to do air quotes. "has basically turned over control of the ship to the bridge. Nobody respects him, and rightfully so."

Ella exhaled. "Ain't true. I respect'em."

"Why? What reason is there? He's done nothin' for us, and he's an outsider."

"He's Leeds borne an' you know it. Ain't be daft Chief! Just 'cause he 'ad to flee his home an' ended up in Liberty f'a bit ain't change that fact." The engineer growled the words out then closed her eyes. "Plus, he has done somethin' for us."

"Uhuh. An' what's that?"

Ella looked around the bay they were in. It was a mess of spare parts, storage boxes of materials, and wiring. It was abysmal to look at but an engineer's playground. Her eyes caught sight of what she was looking for, and she lifted her hand to point at something hanging on the railing. Mark followed her finger and squinted at it. A blue engineer's jacket was draped over it.

"Half-uniform s'against code. Cards are against code. T'short shifts we do? Against code. He's dun more for us than y'think."

The Chief opened his mouth to reply, then closed it. A look of submission crossed his features as his shoulders sunk. Ella wiped at the sweat that had built up on her brow, and they sat in silence for a moment.

"Thirty-One." Mark muttered.

"...For real?"

Mark nodded slightly. Ella closed her eyes once more. Things were about to get a lot worse.

28th of May, 826 A.S. - Tau-31 System

This pocket of the Barrier Nebula was dazzling. Unlike the cloud of vapourous water stretching through Magellan and Cortez, Tau-31 was devoured in a dense ice field. Either due to the nearby sun's age or other phenomena, ice clumped together into asteroids which lazily circled the star. Having the nearby star's light being such a white colour, it was common to see all sorts of hues be reflected through the ice. Rumours say that one could get hypnotized by the colours, even seeing objects that weren't there and in extreme cases full on visions.

Nobody on board the bridge of the Kippax took more than a glance before wincing. In all of it's glory, the system's reflective attribute made it painful to observe through a ship's camera. The light-bleed was intense enough that optical readouts and virtual displays were used instead. Noses to their consoles, the bridge was eerily quiet. They were deep behind the warfront now. If they got into trouble, there was no help to come.

A sound broke the extended silence and made everyone jump. A junior officer, Ensign Winfrey Wilson, had turned in her chair to face the command seat. She spoke up at a normal volume, but the tense quiet made her voice compare to a grav-truck crashing into a building. She gave an apologetic look around the bridge before getting up to walk over to the person she called out to. She had said Commander.

Reaching Malachy's raised console, she awkwardly saluted. "C-Commander. An urgent message has been transmitted to us. Would you like me to read it to you?"

Malachy sighed. He was as tense as the rest of them, perhaps even more so. They had moved into the Taus to observe the Gallic supply lines and plan strikes when possible. So far, they were only collecting data. Before leaving Leeds, they had confirmed a large fleet moving into the system and it put everyone on edge. “No, Ensign Wilson. I see you already sent it to my screen. I'll handle it.” He attempted to give her a supportive, reassuring smile. It didn't work as well as he had intended, but Winfrey appeared to relax slightly at the intention.

“Marshall, I'd like to know what the message is.”

The bridge's crew all glanced at the one who spoke up. Otto Bailey didn't even look at Malachy. He was still working away, tapping on a screen and watching a data feed spill out coordinates and other information. Malachy opened his mouth and faltered. To demand from the ranking officer, let alone speak unbidden, wasn't allowed during an operation like theirs. Hell, it wasn't allowed on any military situation. Yet, the young Commander's lacking confidence got the better of him, devouring any retort he could give.

Malachy remembered his talk with Thomas, the old doctor. To stand up for himself, to show his rank, make a point. It wasn't that easy though, Malachy thought. Instead, he ignored the outburst and returned his gaze to Winfrey who stood awkwardly beside his command platform. “That is all, Ensign. Thank you.”

“Marshall. What came? What's the update?” Otto inquired again.

Malachy looked once more to his Lieutenant. The one cure for courage was building in him. Irritation. “That is not-... It is not a concern of yours.” He stammered out.

“If it's an update, it concerns the entire crew, Marshall-”

“Shut. Up.” Interrupted Malachy. The young boy's face was beginning to turn pink. The response made Otto actually look around to his Commander. There wasn't any fear, not even concern in his gaze. Everyone else on the bridge choked in the tension however. Otto attempted to speak once more before Malachy raised his voice over his, drowning it out.

“Shut up. I've had enough. I can't abide by your treatment of me. Of the position of CO. I've overlooked until now to instead focus on this assignment but your idiotic sp-”

Klaxons drowned him out suddenly and made the entire bridge collectively panic for a moment. The tension snapped, some expecting a full on verbal or physical fight to break out between Malachy and Otto. Instead, the command deck was washed with amber light.

One of the bridge officers shouted out. "Enemy patrol! Enemy patrol! Directional mark F-G-453! They're on cruise right towards us!"

During the argument between Malachy and Otto, a heavy Gallic patrol got lucky and pinged the Kippax's location. Consisting of three Perilous gunboats and a full support fighter wing, they blazed towards their hostile mark.

The fighting was brutal. Caught off-guard, the Kippax had to hastily raise shields to soak up the initial volley. It's turrets struggled to track the Gallic vessels as they swung around and began to circle. A hasty hail to the nearby Garforth and it's fighter wing was sent out and after a minute their support arrived. In that minute, the Kippax found it's aim and opened up on a Perilous that made the mistake of getting too close. Heavy bolts of light pierced it's hull and ripped it in half, it drifted for a moment before hitting a kilometer long block of ice. The Kippax wasn't untouched however. Shields failed on the port side, the hull attempting to soak up the rays of violate energy that the Gallic swarm poured into it.

With the arrival of the Garforth and the fighter wing, attention was drawn off of the Kippax enough for it to firm up it's position. A swarm of Lynxes and Templars chased each other while the heavy turrets trained onto the second gunboat, pumping energy into it the moment they got a lock. A hit to it's engines saw it turn upwards to drift, the second Perilous out of commission for the moment. The Garforth, a heavy Churchill gunboat, had already taken care of the third. It's superior firepower simply tore into the Perilous until it was scrap metal.

With the loss of their main combat vessels, the Gallic fighters scrambled and broke to fall back, taking pot shots when able. The secondary batteries of the Kippax and the heavy array of turrets on the Garforth supported their fighter wing by marking and obliterating the fleeing Gauls. Orders were given to not chase, but instead clear out the remaining fighters around the command vessel and prepare for relocation. Their existence should have been already alerted to the nearby watch station and it was far time they leave. Once the last fighter was taken out, Malachy gave the order for a full extraction out of the system. The entire strike wing was to make it's way out towards Newcastle.

-----

The bridge had turned to status orange. Entire focus was given to getting them into a safe location, expecting another patrol or wing to come across them at any time. Malachy shook as adrenaline spiked up his back. He took a gulp of his water and took a moment to look over his console. A red notification that had been there since the fighting started was still blinking. He went to clear it before noticing it was a communication. Instead, he opened it.

Malachy's eyes widen. He had entirely forgotten about the message they had received earlier. Of all times, new orders were given to him and the Kippax. Their entire efforts in the Tau-31 system was just negated. The message was short, but it held weight. A new warfront opened up in Cortez. As a mobile asset, the Kippax was being ordered to move to the system and support the Harlow.

Malachy read the message over twice more before looking to the crew. He was about to tell the bridge their new orders before he caught sight of Otto. The Lieutenant held a cloth to his head, having hit it in one of the ship-wide quakes. This gave the young commander pause. Instead, he opened a line to their navigator and helmsman. Via text, he relayed the new destination for their heading. He also attached a requirement to not inform Otto. This resulted in a glance by both at Malachy, but he met them both with a cold look.

The combat awoke something within Malachy. Spite.

14th of May, 826 A.S. - New London System

The Battle of Cortez was the name given to the brutal conflict Malachy and his crew was subject to. It's official name, Operation Vanguard, saw the Harlow fleet link up with the Libertonian fleets. The Kippax and it's group was ordered to bolster their forces. While it was essentially a three to one, the Bethany fleet outnumbered, it was a grueling fight.

The Kippax wasn't untouched. A primary battery section had been blown out, a section of the side hull had been pounded in after a Obstinate tore down it's shields. However it was a victory, the first clear one to be had by the allied forces in a while. With the Gallic forces put out of action and routed, the path between Liberty and Bretonia was once more open.

Malachy ordered them return to New London where he and the majority of the crew went for minor shore leave. The Kippax and it's supporting vessels were sent to Aland for repairs. Most of his crew went to party and drink their guts out, though parties weren't exactly Malachy's style. Too much noise, too much social interaction. Instead, he made himself busy with reports and documentation on the events of the conflict. He, as well, put forward a request.

The young Commander was dining with Thomas Grayson, Mark Cather, and his third in command, Lieutenant-Commander Piper Barbara. The third hadn't been with them during the Cortez deployment, having been operating with the main fleet in New London. The war was ever short staffed, so it saw her thrust into combat sooner than she expected.

Their meal was a simple chicken and rice, ordered by Malachy himself. He had simply ordered food for them all to be delivered to his office on New London and found that rice and chicken was the most unoffensive and least likely to be disliked. It was only until he saw everyone's expression of the pre-ordered food did he have the thought of asking them what they could have wanted. Nobody complained however and dug into the meal. It was a treat to be able to eat in a setting like this and they all knew they'd ship out soon.

Chief Engineer Cather argued with Barbara about the importance of not madly gunning the thrusters on a Churchill, though she refused to believe that the vessel wasn't designed to be able to. Barbara narrowed her eyes, arms crossing over her abdomen at a rather crass comment comparing how she would burn out a Churchill's rear engine bays just like she lets her own rear get ruined. Her brown eyes looked to Malachy for support, but the Commander was busy scrolling through his communication slate. She sighed, looking back at Cather to retort.

Before she got much further into it, Malachy interrupted.

“They approved it!”

All eyes looked to Malachy. The Commander was literally bouncing in his seat like an excited school boy. A wild grin stretched across his face while he reread a message on his slate. He looked up finally, smiling to his three companions.

"Eh? What was approved?" Asked Cather.

“My request! They approved it!” Malachy replied.

Barbara pressed. "What was, Commander?"

Malachy put the communication slate on the table and spun the display so the others could see it. Listed was a reply approval and additional sections on servicing and fighter squadron guidelines. “Know how we've been wanting more support out in Leeds and beyond? Well, I took a shot in the dark as we were traveling from Cortez and made a request. A bit of an ambitious one but-”

“An Invincible, sir?” Grayson finally spoke up. In Malachy's beginnings of a ramble, the doctor turned the slate towards him to see the contents clearly. “You requested a carrier? Full fighter support, the whole thing?”

“Yes!” Came an enthusiastic reply. “I mean, I was trying to be sly by requesting something bigger than what I actually wanted which was perhaps a Crecy detachment or something similar, but they went ahead and approved this!”

"How on earth-... Where is it?" wondered Barbara.

“Three days out, coming from a refitting at Aland. I think it's one of the original service models, maybe second generation of the current design. I haven't been able to read all of the documentation.” His bouncing had ceased, yet his happy mood remained.

Grayson turned the slate back towards the others. "“I'm surprised they allowed it. No offense sir, you are still fairly new to the Armed Forces. However, you've proven yourself time and time again. It's just a lot.”

It was true. Malachy had only transferred after the turning of the year. His service within Liberty saw him given a raised rank, and quick thinking got him promoted swiftly. However, this approval set a few things up. As wars go on, people die. It was a sad truth but required. Positions become vacant, others must fill the spot. Their spot had been a rough one but with the importance of a carrier behind them they knew eyes would be watching closely. This meant that any failure would be twice as harsh, while successes were also doubled, tripled in some cases. Being under Malachy's command was now a sure-fire way to either die or get promoted. Most were already prepared to die for their kingdom so that just left advancement.

“It was approved regardless. I'll have our database moved over through secure channels from the Kippax to this...” Malachy looked down at the slate to read off a name. “Goliath. Huh, fitting name. But yea', command will be switched to the carrier, and we'll have to welcome in the newcomers.”

A smile finally caught Barbara's lips. "This is great. It's been frustrating with how limited operations were in Leeds, and the report I read on the skirmish in Thirty-One really showed how much fighter support could have helped."

“Exactly. We don't have to use our heavy assets for every strike either. Four challengers can be lauched and hit one of their convoys and be out before they know what happened.”

“What about the Kippax?” inquired Grayson.

“What?”

“The Kippax. If you're moving to the carrier, who'll be the C.O. on the battlecruiser?”

This gave Malachy pause. His smile faltered. The obvious answer was his second-in-command Otto Bailey. However, the brief argument while they were in Tau-31 had caused tensions not to mention the question of punishment strikes. On one hand he could give Bailey command of the battlecruiser and be rid of him from his own bridge. Or he could be petty and deny him that command, giving it to someone else instead. Both were options he had. Whichever he decided on, he would have to move to the Goliath regardless. It came down to how much he wanted to hurt his second's career.

Malachy looked at his forgotten food. “I'll think on it.” He muttered, stabbing at a chunk of chicken.

Miaou

Miaou

Miaou

Miaou

Miaou