03-04-2021, 01:27 AM
He remembered the day that Toledo burned.
They all did. But what he felt was far, far worse? The silence...the utter silence as the planet cracked, as the magma bubbled, as the molten lava turned the ice-locked planet into a hellscape. He had gripped the edges of the command seat, staring in shock. It had almost killed them that day...but even when they survived, something in him had died. As the Nomads cut through the Isis, he turned. As the planet bubbled and boiled, he ran. He saw a transport lagging behind, their fighter escort breaking off in a suicide run against a full wing of Nomad assassins...and yet he ordered cruise engines. Ahead of him, the other Hathor of his squadron his full burn, slamming into an Irra-class cruiser full broadside, nearly breaking it in half.
But he maintained course, his crew as silent as the deaths behind him. The transport ahead of them made it. They made it. But the one behind him sent out a distress call - two fighters had gotten through. Their shields were failing from the unending barrage. They could make it. Turn around, a few volleys of fire to cover them. He already saw a single Bastet, that old, clunky looking fighter, turning and hitting cruise.
But he ordered the jump. And they, like good soldiers, followed orders. Omicron Epsilon came into view, and they powered past the Apophis and an OSD Bison. Static exploded - the transport only needed a few moments. Where he ran...he watched as the Apophis turned it’s guns to the anomaly, the Bison’s cargo hold slid open, revealing a launcher...and they waited. He watched as they dwindled away, as the transport blasted through, half on fire. The Bison launched a warhead as the Apophis moved to lock onto the transport and hit cruise, just aiming to get away from the Anomaly, the Bison not far behind. The man looked away in shame.
Better men waited. He...he had run. And his crew knew it.
He never lived it down.
Staring at the folded picture in his hands, he once more debated opening it. He had almost forgotten, over the years, how they looked. He had all but pushed them from his mind - his regret, his failure, his shame. All he could do was debate opening it once more, tearing off the bandaid. What really could he have done? The planet burned. They probably didn’t even suffer very long. He could do it. He could open it.
His hands fell. He was about to let out a heavy sigh, but the comms crackled.
“This is transport Hermes! We are under attack by a Nomad ship! It’s - gods preserve, it’s huge! Please, can anyone hear us? We are carrying civilians to Freeport 11! Our coordinates are -” He barely heard them read out, eyes widening. Again. Another transport...families...friends...people who didn’t fight, who needed protection. He set the picture down on the console. They said huge...it could just be one of those gunboats, or it was an Irra, or - at worse - a Marduk or Ish’tar. He looked up, his crew silent...staring at him. They expected him to stay silent. Two were already setting hands on their hips. They expected him to be a coward - years later, they expected him to chicken out again and again, even when they had the quietest of patrol routes. His eyes stared at the screen. They were the closest to them, that much was certain. His hands trembled. The memories of Toledo...his shame...washed over him. His family, burned alive by lava...and he didn't even try. He turned, and ordered a retreat. A retreat the entire crew expected him to replicate.
His finger depressed the communications button.
“This is Lieutenant Cadigan of the OCV Kharga. Hermes, hold on. We’re on our way.”
To say his crew was shocked was an understatement. For a moment they stared at him, and he back. Worldlessly, though, they turned, hands flying across their stations as the Hathor’s cruise engines charged, before launching them forward, speeding towards the Hermes. The tension around him was palpable. Cadigan felt like it was suffocating.
He placed his hand over the folded picture, managing to ease up.
The Hermes was a DLX-Transport, and it was clear the shields were failing...and it was abundantly clear to the crew of the Kharga that their foe was an Irra. The Purifier was flanked by a quartet of Sascya. He grimaced a bit...but there was no turning back.
“This is OCV Kharga to any friendly vessels - five Nomad ships spotted assaulting civilian transport - One Irra-Class cruiser, four Sascya-class fighters. Requesting reinforcements. We are engaging.”
The cruise engines cut out, the Kharga entering combat speed. The reactor began it’s recharge cycle, his CIC officer already painting targets on the main display. They were woefully outgunned, and the cruiser had twice the tonnage they did in organic matter. But they had to try.
He. Had to try.
“Kharga, this is Colonel Hideyoshi. OCV Nineveh is enroute, ETA ten minutes.”
A battlecruiser. And, hopefully, it was bringing friends. He didn’t feel relieved, though - ten minutes was still a lifetime, as the Nomads bombarded the transport. They were almost in range, and their guns were primed.
“Fire at will.”
In all regards, they didn’t do badly. Charging straight in, razors smashing into the Irra, turrets chipping away at the fighters. The Hathor was a heavy gunship, so it could take a hit. That said, it was taking far more than it really could. Two of the Sascyas were already debris, a third currently dimming...but the Irra bore into them, tearing apart their shields, depleting all emergency battery banks. Gouts of fire erupted across their topside, shaking them violently.
“This is the Nineveh. ETA three minutes.”
Seven minutes. It had felt like hours to them. But already they were starting to lose power, one razor slagged off from the barrage. Cadigan pulled the picture to him, looking at it.
“Abandon ship.”
“...Sir?”
“I said abandon ship.” His head snapped up. “Transport Hermes, this is Kharga. We are preparing to launch escape pods. Prepare to receive.” His free hand danced across the terminal on his command chair. “Transfer control to me helm. Get out of here.”
“...Sir. We’re not leaving.”
“I gave you an order. Get out.”
Cadigan didn’t look at them. He didn’t see them rise, nor salute. He only saw the screen. The space before him. The Kharga twisted in space at his command, banking to protect the lifepods that began firing towards the limping transport. Out of the corner of his eye, the Display showed the Nineveh was closing in, already launching it’s support wing from the rotary hangar. It didn’t matter. Either the Kharga bought them those precious two minutes, or they died. And for once, in so many years, Lieutenant Franklin Cadigan, as he banked and turned towards the cruiser, dumping all power - everything - into the engines, unfolded that picture. Cruise began to charge, and he looked out at the Irra. Bolts slammed all over, as he looked down. Maria had brown hair, with a shimmer of red - like an autumn leaf that hadn’t quite turned yet. Declan had his black hair, but his eyes - oh, he had his mother’s eyes. For once he found a smile, before a bolt slammed into the bridge, melting everything to his left and sucking him out into the vaccum of space.
He was alive long enough to see the Kharga’s engines hit cruise, lurching it towards the Irra. He got to see it smash into the nose of the Nomad, punching through the veil and lurching it off. That was all he got to see, before the black took him, hand frozen shut on a crumpled picture.
⧫ OCV Nineveh
⧫ Omicron Delta
⧫ From: Colonel Natsumi Hideyoshi, Battlegroup Apophis
⧫ To: Overwatch
After Action report:
OCV Nineveh arrived on-scene to assist against Nomad incursion. All hostiles confirmed destroyed. Transport Hermes was towed to Freeport 11 for repairs. Remaining crew of OCV Kharga among those onboard - casualties listed as thirteen killed in action. Search and Rescue Flight combed the area and recovered Lieutenant Franklin Cadigan’s body.
Lieutenant Cadigan spent his last moments plotting his vessel on a collision course to buy the Nineveh time to arrive. His actions saved the lives of dozens of civilians, as well as his own.
Remains will be transported to Akabat for burial. No remaining family within the Order. According to crew, they died on Toledo. His crew expected him to turn and run today, as they say he did during the Fall. Records state they put forth such complaints, which explains why OCV Kharga has been set on "milk run" patrols since the Fall.
Suggesting Posthumous promotion to Captain.
He will never know if his actions bought the time we needed. I can only hope he found the courage to forgive himself in his final moments.
The greatest tragedy of sacrifice is not knowing if it truly will change anything.
End Report
They all did. But what he felt was far, far worse? The silence...the utter silence as the planet cracked, as the magma bubbled, as the molten lava turned the ice-locked planet into a hellscape. He had gripped the edges of the command seat, staring in shock. It had almost killed them that day...but even when they survived, something in him had died. As the Nomads cut through the Isis, he turned. As the planet bubbled and boiled, he ran. He saw a transport lagging behind, their fighter escort breaking off in a suicide run against a full wing of Nomad assassins...and yet he ordered cruise engines. Ahead of him, the other Hathor of his squadron his full burn, slamming into an Irra-class cruiser full broadside, nearly breaking it in half.
But he maintained course, his crew as silent as the deaths behind him. The transport ahead of them made it. They made it. But the one behind him sent out a distress call - two fighters had gotten through. Their shields were failing from the unending barrage. They could make it. Turn around, a few volleys of fire to cover them. He already saw a single Bastet, that old, clunky looking fighter, turning and hitting cruise.
But he ordered the jump. And they, like good soldiers, followed orders. Omicron Epsilon came into view, and they powered past the Apophis and an OSD Bison. Static exploded - the transport only needed a few moments. Where he ran...he watched as the Apophis turned it’s guns to the anomaly, the Bison’s cargo hold slid open, revealing a launcher...and they waited. He watched as they dwindled away, as the transport blasted through, half on fire. The Bison launched a warhead as the Apophis moved to lock onto the transport and hit cruise, just aiming to get away from the Anomaly, the Bison not far behind. The man looked away in shame.
Better men waited. He...he had run. And his crew knew it.
He never lived it down.
Staring at the folded picture in his hands, he once more debated opening it. He had almost forgotten, over the years, how they looked. He had all but pushed them from his mind - his regret, his failure, his shame. All he could do was debate opening it once more, tearing off the bandaid. What really could he have done? The planet burned. They probably didn’t even suffer very long. He could do it. He could open it.
His hands fell. He was about to let out a heavy sigh, but the comms crackled.
“This is transport Hermes! We are under attack by a Nomad ship! It’s - gods preserve, it’s huge! Please, can anyone hear us? We are carrying civilians to Freeport 11! Our coordinates are -” He barely heard them read out, eyes widening. Again. Another transport...families...friends...people who didn’t fight, who needed protection. He set the picture down on the console. They said huge...it could just be one of those gunboats, or it was an Irra, or - at worse - a Marduk or Ish’tar. He looked up, his crew silent...staring at him. They expected him to stay silent. Two were already setting hands on their hips. They expected him to be a coward - years later, they expected him to chicken out again and again, even when they had the quietest of patrol routes. His eyes stared at the screen. They were the closest to them, that much was certain. His hands trembled. The memories of Toledo...his shame...washed over him. His family, burned alive by lava...and he didn't even try. He turned, and ordered a retreat. A retreat the entire crew expected him to replicate.
His finger depressed the communications button.
“This is Lieutenant Cadigan of the OCV Kharga. Hermes, hold on. We’re on our way.”
To say his crew was shocked was an understatement. For a moment they stared at him, and he back. Worldlessly, though, they turned, hands flying across their stations as the Hathor’s cruise engines charged, before launching them forward, speeding towards the Hermes. The tension around him was palpable. Cadigan felt like it was suffocating.
He placed his hand over the folded picture, managing to ease up.
The Hermes was a DLX-Transport, and it was clear the shields were failing...and it was abundantly clear to the crew of the Kharga that their foe was an Irra. The Purifier was flanked by a quartet of Sascya. He grimaced a bit...but there was no turning back.
“This is OCV Kharga to any friendly vessels - five Nomad ships spotted assaulting civilian transport - One Irra-Class cruiser, four Sascya-class fighters. Requesting reinforcements. We are engaging.”
The cruise engines cut out, the Kharga entering combat speed. The reactor began it’s recharge cycle, his CIC officer already painting targets on the main display. They were woefully outgunned, and the cruiser had twice the tonnage they did in organic matter. But they had to try.
He. Had to try.
“Kharga, this is Colonel Hideyoshi. OCV Nineveh is enroute, ETA ten minutes.”
A battlecruiser. And, hopefully, it was bringing friends. He didn’t feel relieved, though - ten minutes was still a lifetime, as the Nomads bombarded the transport. They were almost in range, and their guns were primed.
“Fire at will.”
In all regards, they didn’t do badly. Charging straight in, razors smashing into the Irra, turrets chipping away at the fighters. The Hathor was a heavy gunship, so it could take a hit. That said, it was taking far more than it really could. Two of the Sascyas were already debris, a third currently dimming...but the Irra bore into them, tearing apart their shields, depleting all emergency battery banks. Gouts of fire erupted across their topside, shaking them violently.
“This is the Nineveh. ETA three minutes.”
Seven minutes. It had felt like hours to them. But already they were starting to lose power, one razor slagged off from the barrage. Cadigan pulled the picture to him, looking at it.
“Abandon ship.”
“...Sir?”
“I said abandon ship.” His head snapped up. “Transport Hermes, this is Kharga. We are preparing to launch escape pods. Prepare to receive.” His free hand danced across the terminal on his command chair. “Transfer control to me helm. Get out of here.”
“...Sir. We’re not leaving.”
“I gave you an order. Get out.”
Cadigan didn’t look at them. He didn’t see them rise, nor salute. He only saw the screen. The space before him. The Kharga twisted in space at his command, banking to protect the lifepods that began firing towards the limping transport. Out of the corner of his eye, the Display showed the Nineveh was closing in, already launching it’s support wing from the rotary hangar. It didn’t matter. Either the Kharga bought them those precious two minutes, or they died. And for once, in so many years, Lieutenant Franklin Cadigan, as he banked and turned towards the cruiser, dumping all power - everything - into the engines, unfolded that picture. Cruise began to charge, and he looked out at the Irra. Bolts slammed all over, as he looked down. Maria had brown hair, with a shimmer of red - like an autumn leaf that hadn’t quite turned yet. Declan had his black hair, but his eyes - oh, he had his mother’s eyes. For once he found a smile, before a bolt slammed into the bridge, melting everything to his left and sucking him out into the vaccum of space.
He was alive long enough to see the Kharga’s engines hit cruise, lurching it towards the Irra. He got to see it smash into the nose of the Nomad, punching through the veil and lurching it off. That was all he got to see, before the black took him, hand frozen shut on a crumpled picture.
⧫ OCV Nineveh
⧫ Omicron Delta
⧫ From: Colonel Natsumi Hideyoshi, Battlegroup Apophis
⧫ To: Overwatch
After Action report:
OCV Nineveh arrived on-scene to assist against Nomad incursion. All hostiles confirmed destroyed. Transport Hermes was towed to Freeport 11 for repairs. Remaining crew of OCV Kharga among those onboard - casualties listed as thirteen killed in action. Search and Rescue Flight combed the area and recovered Lieutenant Franklin Cadigan’s body.
Lieutenant Cadigan spent his last moments plotting his vessel on a collision course to buy the Nineveh time to arrive. His actions saved the lives of dozens of civilians, as well as his own.
Remains will be transported to Akabat for burial. No remaining family within the Order. According to crew, they died on Toledo. His crew expected him to turn and run today, as they say he did during the Fall. Records state they put forth such complaints, which explains why OCV Kharga has been set on "milk run" patrols since the Fall.
Suggesting Posthumous promotion to Captain.
He will never know if his actions bought the time we needed. I can only hope he found the courage to forgive himself in his final moments.
The greatest tragedy of sacrifice is not knowing if it truly will change anything.
End Report