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Fort Azores Control, this is Alpha-One-Nine, requesting docking rights.

Alpha-One-Nine, This is Azores, we recognize you and docking rights are granted. Welcome back, captain.

The Brown fighter soared through the air, it's engines giving it the power to resist the enormous wall of wind-driven snow that threatened to drive everything under. Spinning a few circles, it finally seemed to locate a hangar, and started giving signals.

The hangar doors opened, and the Nephthys fighter glided in, landing neatly on one of the marked empty spaces. Almost as soon as the landing was complete, a stocky man jumped out, in complete flight gear. Removing his helmet, Captain Santos Bolevara looked around the Hangar for a brief moment, then went to the nearby restroom to change into his stock uniform.

While undressing, he gingerly felt at the many swathes of bandages on his right side. The injuries had been no joke, but he was recovering, and certainly in flight condition...what he felt. The Doctors would not have let him go, but he had ways.

Back in his Order uniform, he jogged to his Nephthys, ignoring a few spasms of pain. One had to remain strong in this corner of the universe. He would do a few tweaks on his ship first, then go for a bite at the canteen. Taking a toolbox, he started working on the left wing, which had nearly been blown off on the last patrol in Delta. He had lost Five of his wingmen today. Normally, he would have felt grief and sadness, but it was becoming increasingly common.

Order forces were being put up against increasingly hostile odds, and nothing could survive under this much Pressure. Navy, Nomads, Hunters, Wild...would it ever end?

He attempted to drive it out of his mind as he worked on the repairs.

Moiraine was listening to her assistant, giving her the casualty list of today's skirmishes. It wasn't bright so far. Four Bastets were destroyed, two of the pods were recovered and one of the pilots inside was already dead when the salvage crew managed to tractor the pod in, due to an oxygen decompression caused by faulty engineering.

She couldn't get angry with the engineers at her command, they were doing their best to prepare the ships for battle. For them, life was six hours sleep every day and eighteen hours of workshop repairs. Some couldn't even find the time to visit the ship's mass hall for some r n r.

"How many craft and personnel we have for a quick response?". Commodore's voice was iron blickering in cold ice. She was known to be a statue of emotionless logic but compared to her recent mood, it was like a tender walk in the flower gardens of Kyushu.

"With the loss of this week's total, when we add the injured personnel to the list, we lost 7 crafts. 4 KIA's and 2 pilots are in need of medical attention for at least another 10 days." Her assistant Jeannie was with her since Rand Seith left the Order more than a year ago but she was already used to her delusional states and steel-like behaviour. Still, she was afraid of her reaction to the ever forming bad reports.

"With that in mind, we have twelve crafts left. Seven Bastets, three Nephies and two Sekhmets Ma'am."

"It is enough for now." It had to be enough...

She looked at the cold view of Alaska. Immortal's current assignment was to cover for the Minor junction and prevent any unwanted guests to enter. After a brief moment, she turned back and looked Jeannie in the eye.

"Narrow our patrol route by 10 clicks. Tell the Navigation to plot a new arch where we pass near Atum's patrol routes as much as possible. We will have to go mutual with their wings at this time."

"Yes Ma'am."

"And inform the High Command, I have to speak with the Admirals in actual as soon as possible."

With that, she turned back to stare at the cold, numb deepness of Alaska, trying to see the dangers ahead through the thick fog.

Several Order fighters patrol the nebula. Unknown vessels appear on the radars. Supposedly nomads. Confirmed. The fight begins. Suddenly more vessels appear. The Core. They stay away, watching. Watching the Order fighters being slowly overwhelmed. Screams on the comms. "Need some cover here... They got me! - Eject, eject now!" Static. Almost no hope. The Core moves in. No idea what to expect. The nomads keep emerging. Need to retreat. Some hesitation, but the orders are given. That day was better than it could be.

You should stop recalling that fight, Brian. Such things won't help to fulfil the mission. Concentrate, corporal Scott, come on... Come on...

- Corporal Scott, come on, launch the ship.
Brian suddenly returned to the real world. He was in the docking bay of Islay station, in the system of Edinburgh. The voice that interrupted his thoughts belonged to the docking dispatcher of Islay. Brian hit the button and the ship left the hangar. It'd take him some time to return home.

Home... I wonder where is that now... Leeds? - But I don't remember much about it, although it's my birthplace. Los-Angeles? - Don't deceive yourself, Brian, you haven't been there for years. The carrier you served on during your Navy days? - It was blown to dust. Toledo? - That sounds good, but you spend more time in the cockpit of your fighter than there.

Not that he disliked Toledo - that icy planet had its own charm, so to speak. But he really didn't have much time to even visit it. After the battle he has just been recalling things were going worse and worse.

Don't deceive yourself - the inner voice reminded. - things have begun going worse long ago, and you know that. No matter what victories I... we achieved, the Guild Core was still standing firm and their attacks were closer and closer to Kiribati asteroid field where the jump hole to the cradle of the Order was positioned. Some of the most desperate Bounty Hunters even ventured into Minor, but they still were repelled.

Desert. The endless desert full of dust, dark matter, stars and planets. Kansas. What would the nomads do there? The intel was wrong that time. No nomad vessels have been sighted, and Brian spent quite a lot of time investigating the system. At least it means that we can still hold them at bay. But the cost is getting ridiculously high.
What really annoyed Brian is the fact that he couldn't even take the shortest break. Not that he needed it that much at the moment - they train people good enough at West-Point, so the soldier could work overtime. But not every day! Once Brian returned from his last mission in Kansas he didn't even have time to land on Toledo - he refueled his ship and had to return to Liberty strainght away - the scouting team that had been sent before Brian returned needed assistance.

The scouting team had to go to the Independent Worlds again (Couldn't have told me when I was there already, huh?). But that time the Libertonians were ready. They deployed a small fleet that could effectively lock down the entire system of California. Only by pure luck corporal Scott and major Golanski managed to escape. But the pursuit was behind them all the way, so they had to move farther, to Leeds and Edinburgh, in order to lose them.

And now it was time to go home... The memories stepped away as the Bastet activated jump drives and flew straight into the Leeds jump hole.

The Nepthys was flaming when it finally docked at Toledo. Jack Brown has just returned from Alaska, where he has been countering many LSF fighters. The fights were brutal, and the ship barely held. He already lost 2 Reapers, and those would be tough to pay the repair for, not to mention the ship. To keep his mind off it, he decided to head to the good old Toledo bar and have a drink. That would surely keep his mind off things.

"Three Coalition Vodkas please" Jack said to the bartender. He always liked the Vodka over any other drink.
"Three? Rough day huh?" Replied the bartender.
"You have no idea" Jack opened the first Vodka bottle. It was a day he would rather forget.

"You must always keep a low profile while you are outside Minor. Always be on the move, don't trust anyone".
This is the lesson that corporal Brian Scott managed to learn. Of course, during his LSF days he got used to such attitude, but the amount of necessary precautions that he was supposed to make as an Order operative was bigger.

"You WILL be hunted. And not only by the House authorities and Bounty Hunters. Mercenaries and some criminals wouldn't waste an opportunity to vaporize your vessel - either looking for a bounty, or for our technology".
That lesson he learned today. Although he moved as secretly as possible, a mercenary managed to track him down. For next 10 minutes there was just a crazy race among the asteroids and mines. The race, where the prize was Brian's life, and the price of mistake was fatal. That's when corporal really appreciated the drive core of his Bastet. But the pursuing Wasupu fighter (or Stinger, as they call it in Liberty) was agile enough to follow Brian through the Badlands. Brian's only hope was that the codes from the jump gate were correct, or else he would be trapped...

"You will have to fight and survive against the overwhelming odds. A victory can not be achieved on your own. Only working as a team will get you through the mission, especially if the odds are not in your favor".
But this time corporal was on his own. Perhaps in the most guarded system in the Colonies. And once he used the jump gate, all forces within the system were aware of his presence...

"Remember, you DON'T WANT to play a hero. If the odds are against you, retreat. If the enemy is prevailing and nothing can be done about it, withdraw. The Order has few agents, and they should risk their lives ONLY if they are sure that their sacrifice will get the mission done. We don't want to lose people for nothing"."If the odds are against you, retreat" - Brian whispered, as he noticed a gunboat and a couple of fighters splitting up from the main patrol and heading for his location. He had enough of racing today, and the ship's computer warned him about that by saying that the drive core is overheating. But Scott didn't like the idea of being vaporized either, so he had to take the risk. "So, a possibility of death against certain death... The choice is obvious, if you're reasonable".

Jump. The beeping sound of the computer becomes louder and louder. The ship is about to be torn apart by interstellar forces. But luck was on corporal's side today. The ship would require some repairs (the Gaians did their best, but the Order technology is too complicated for those, who don't work with it regularly), but at least Brian was at home. In Omicron Minor

Now it was the time to visit Cape Hope on Toledo. The bar, maybe? Actually why not?

As Brian entered the bar, he simply went to the counter and pointed the bartender at the drink he wanted. A huge glass of Bretonian Ale. As he got the drink, he nodded to the bartender, left the payment on the counter and headed for the table somewhere in the corner.
"Positioning is important. If you sit in the corner, you may have no way to retreat, but at least you don't have to look behind you every time. Besides, It would be more convenient to monitor the situation in the room. So, choose your position depending on the situation".
Although he was an agent no more, Brian still kept the suggestions of LSF instructors in mind, so the choice of a place was instinctive. Corporal just sat watching the visitors, subconsciously paying attention to everything what was happening.

Captain Cauthon entered the bar with a grim look on his face. He saw the few officers hanging around in the pilot country. Some seemed to be having a relatively bad day on their side as well. It didn't matter, life was hard at best in Omicrons.

Mat wasn't exactly having a joy ride as well. He was on board the Deviator as a part of the instruction team, teaching how should they handle things to the new personnel. Best treat was to go out on the field and practice against real odds, real enemies.

They were in Delta, patrolling around the Iota junction and bumped into some alien wing. It was an easy prey and rookies did a good job in eliminating the targets. All was well until one of the capacitators overcharged and caused the communications panel to explode, bursting sparks and flames all around. Lieutenant Jr. Grade Lawson had a serious burnt on his face. He was dragged into the sickbay for treatment but everyone knew that he would be lucky to have his eyes seeing again, set aside having a face without the marks.

Everything was falling apart in Order. They simply lacked the necessary resources for maintainance and their ships were getting old. Too many battles to fight and too little time to soothe the scars.

Mat experienced the pain of officer Lawson but what hurt him more was to see his eyes. They were dull as if this was something expected for Lawson, for all of them. They no longer feared death. Their emotions, senses were dulling against the ever lasting battle. Casualties were becoming more of a statistic rather than friends to mourn.

He sat near a big glass window and looked outside, feeling dizzy and lost in his own thoughts...

The form of a bastet fighter slid silently through the scrap filled debris field. Slowing as the vessel approached an isolated satellite, the pilot began to tap in commands to create a link with the satellites onboard computer.

A beeping distracted the pilot's attention.

"What the hell," captain Leigh said to himself, turning to his radar display.

A red dot was closing quickly on his bastet's position. As it neared, a Bounty Hunter IFF popped up on the radar display. Leigh quickly broke the link with the satellite and activated his cruise engines, firing countermeasures as the bounty hunter fighter entered cruise disruptor range. A red light flashed, registering cruise disruptor launches from the enemy vessel. Launching more countermeasures, Leigh took evasive action but a jolting impact followed by sudden decelaration told him that his countermeasures had failed him.

Cursing, he activated his bastet's thrusters and began to make for the nearest jump hole as blue bolts of particle weapon fire begain to flash past his cockpit.

Turning his vessel at extreme angles and never flying in a straight line, he spoke hurriedly into his comm link.

"This is captain Leigh requesting immediate assistance," he said, "I've got a hunter fighter on my arse and I'll bet he's got friends lurking nearby."

There was a crackle of static before the mission controller replied.

"Negative captain, we don't have any ships spare to assist."

Before the captain could react to the news there was an urgent tone from his controls and a jolt as his shields were downed and particle fire stitched its way across his port-side wing, blowing ragged holes as it went. He jerked the control stick to the left and rolled around a large piece of debris, attempting to get out of the hunter's crosshairs. Looking in the rear camera, he saw that the hunter was on his tail once again.
Weighing up his options, the captain cut his engines, letting his ship continue on its current path as he hauled the control stick round to bring his guns onto target. Flying backwards with the hunter directly in his sights, he pulled the trigger and let rip with his ship's reapers just as the hunter fighter opened up again.

The two ships pounded eachother mercilessly as debris and sparks flew from the impacts of the powerful energy weapons. Oblivious to the damage his vessel was taking, captain Leigh adjusted his aim and raked the bulbous cockpit dome of the hunter fighter with his guns. With an explosion of glass and flash frozen gore, the hunter's cockpit exploded and the vessel took an abrupt and violent turn into the floating remains of a stations cargo pod where it embedded itself, smoldering in the wreckage.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Leigh checked his ships systems. The vessel had taken a beating and coolant was leaking from several holes in the hull but the cruise engines were still functional.

"Control, this is captain Leigh," he said into the comms, "situation has been resolved but my ship is in bad shape. I'm heading back to Minor. Have recovery on standby in case my ship falls to pieces along the way."

With that he activated the cruise engines and began limping back towards Zone 21.

Santos Bolevara was pissed. Really really pissed. He had taken a mission to go on a field trip into Liberty, all was going to plan, but as he was making the return trip...Liberty Navy. They pinned him against the minefield, and he called for support.

He was one lucky sod, as assistance happened to be near, still, the cat and dog game near Zone-21 got him, as his ship clipped one of the huge mines forming the field...He lost the wing, and in a moment of unstoppable motion, the ship. He ejected, and felt a hell lot of pain, then nothing.

Waking up in the infirmary, he found that his wounds had opened up again. The pain was unbearable. Barely Twenty-four hours had passed, and he was walking again. Checking his injuries once more, he dressed and went to the usual bar where primary fleet hanged out.

It was rather empty, people had no time. He noticed a couple of people sitting around, drinking in silence, among them, he only recognized Captain Scarlet. The Hispanian gave a studious look to her heavy drinking, then decided to join in the action.

Today I'll kill myself.

He asked the Bartender for Tequila Shots, one, two...four..eight. He was staggering by the end of it, and sat down inappropiately, causing another shot of pain to go through his body.

Arrgh! He shouted.