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EDIT 07/10/20: This story is no longer InRP for Robert Miller. Please disregard.


Robert Miller initiated final docking procedures with Sevastopol Depot. He rarely left the station nowadays, his leg still badly injured from his trial on the surface of JiangXi. By late June it would be back in full working order, but until then the doctors were adamant he remain out of the cockpit. He still had his duties in the Fighters Corps however, so on important raids or in defence of Omega-52 he barged his way past the hoards of doctors with their clipboards and muscle relaxants and returned to the fight.

It'd earned him a medal. The Hero of the Revolution, an incredible honour. The Premier himself had called his actions 'a legend'. Destroying a Corsair Legate with an Insurgent, made possible by an Ion Storm disabling the weapons and shields of the battleship. He had even been given a call sign by the Premier: 'Lex Talionis'. He had since replaced his normal IFF transponder displaying his name with this new title, worn as proudly as the medal on his formal attire.

'Lex Talionis, this is Sevastopol Depot,' the mechanised docking drone replying to his docking requests said. 'You are cleared for docking port one. Welcome back, Commissar-Captain.'

He didn't bother to respond. There was no need, he had his instructions and followed them. He'd found that he'd been doing that a lot lately, since JiangXi. He'd just demonstrated it in the battle he'd just returned from, in Omega-49. Requesting orders, obeying them. Using military-talk. "Weapons free" had cropped up a few times. He'd had to become a soldier to survive Scott's coup d'etat. He'd had to become a soldier to survive JiangXi. Was he losing his old self, becoming replaced by a new Robert Miller? A Robert Miller more like a soldier than a gentleman. A survivor in his new-found life?

The more he thought about it, the more true he believed it was. He was surrounded by soldiers, and he risked his life on days. A Bretonian gentleman would not survive that.


He surrendered control of his ship to the Sevastopol automated docking procedures, and his Insurgent lurched forward. He watched the CPS-Shanghai toil away with its h-fuel collection to fuel the Coalition revolutionary machine, its defence his primary purpose for commanding Sevastopol. Its destruction would put the Coalition back months, even years.

He lost sight of the gas miner, and began to enter the Sevastopol docking port.

The cockpit panel latches detached themselves from the main body of the Insurgent. There was a hiss as the gases of the cockpit and the hangar intermingled, and Miller pushed himself out of the cockpit. He scanned the hangar, watching ships being repaired and launched to begin their patrols. Then he noticed the doctors, three of them, judgmental as they watched him walk down the steps. In his hands he held a cane, which until his recovery was to serve as a walking stick.

He reached the bottom of the stairs, and they immediately swarmed forward. They surrounded him in seconds.

'Commissar-Captain...' one of them began.

'I don't want to hear any of it,' Miller hastily replied. 'I have my duties to the Fighter Corps and taking a paid holiday is not an option.' He let his cane slide to his side, and before the doctors could respond he was stepping away. One of them followed close behind, clipboard tucked neatly under her left arm.

'Constantly returning to assist in the Fighter Corps will only slow down your recovery. At this rate it could take months, even years before you're fully recovered. The constant stresses of fast paced combat situ-'

'It is out of my hands, Doctor. I have my duties here, and I have my duties with the Fighter Corps. If I determine that my duties in the Fighter Corps are slowing my recovery I will request to be temporarily grounded for medical reasons. But until then, it's out of my control.'

A device on his wrist chirped, and he stared at the screen. He then did a double-take and began moving back to the hangar. 'Seems I'm needed again,' he called back to the pursuing Doctor.

February 23rd, 819A.S., 18:25 local time

Robert Miller was in his office. His room with a view. One of the walls was completely transparent, allowing the Hero of the Revolution recipient a surreal sight of Tbilisi and the Shanghai, hard at work to fill the fuel stores of Sevastopol. It had been four days since the Resurgency mission, and he was still trying to work it out in his head. If he ran his hands through his hair, he could swear that there was still some dried cry-fluid. When he closed his eyes, he saw sleeper pods flashing past. Those who were left behind, accepting their fate and sinking into a deep sleep.

He swirled his glass around, watching the brandy chase itself around the glass, like a dog pursuing its tail. Eventually his game came to an end, and he threw the brandy down his throat in one motion. He continued to pace through the confines of his office/quarters. It was something he had taken from his father: when the option is available, why bother keeping your office and home separate? Arthur Miller always kept a bunkbed in his office on Cambridge. Its springs were bent to his body shape, while the bed at home was perfectly flat. As he began the life of work, he too took to sleeping in the office. The habit stuck.

'Commissar-Captain Miller, you are required in the command centre. Commissar-Captain Miller to the command centre immediately.'

The door to his quarters opened immediately. They knew where he was, and were making his passage to the command centre as quick as possible. It really must be serious. The glass was lucky to not slide off the edge of the table as Miller aimed it to land on the surface as he began running to the command centre.

February 23rd, 819A.S., 18:28 local time

By the time he arrived at the command centre, his leg was throbbing. He'd left his walking stick behind and hadn't had time to return and pick it up. Bah, he thought. It'd slow him down too much.

The command centre of Sevastopol was what Miller believed a news stations news room would look like. Monitors of every size covered all walls, showing different pictures. Live guncam images from patrols, incoming transmissions from various locations around the system, everything that needed to be shown on the monitors was shown. Even episodes of "Shoot the Fascist" were occasionally viewable.

Upon entering the command centre, there were three paths to take. Two, the left and right, led down or to the side to a number of terminals. These terminals controlled all of the operations of Sevastopol and the Shanghai. The central path led down a perfectly straight and flat line to the end, where the platform - by now several feet elevated above the lower levels with the terminals - bulbed outward to provide extra space for a chair. It was Miller's chair.

He rushed into the room, but proceeded casually down the central walkway across the shiny steel to his chair. The chair was a solid metal cube mounted on a fixed swivelling base, with the vague outline of a chair carved out of it to accommodate the commander of the station. Padding had recently been added on Miller's request.

'What's the situation?' He asked his crew as he lowered himself into his chair. The armrest was littered with various buttons of different sizes and colours, allowing him full control of the station in case the terminals were offline.

'We have an unknown transport inbound, Comrade. Dromedary class. It's broadcasting various Coalition IFFs.' The woman monitoring the sensors turned in her chair to face him. 'They're from some of the people we lost on that secret mission. The one you were on.'

For a moment, Miller was stunned. How could that be possible? It wasn't; it couldn't be true. He composed himself quickly. 'Establish a video and audio channel with the ship. Instruct two Revolutions to break off normal patrol and escort it to Sevastopol Depot. If it deviates from the course set out for it, shoot it down.'

There was no response. There didn't need to be. They knew what they needed to do. Hands became blurs over console keypads as the crew performed their assigned instructions. They were a good crew.

The central monitor, previously showing some still shots of a Storm in transit, became a static storm. It soon cleared up as the link between Sevastopol and the Dromedary was established.

'It is an honour, Commissar-Captain,' Maktu said.

// For more information on the Primusian Communists, see this thread: http://discoverygc.com/forums/index.php?sh...c=88354&hl=

February 23rd, 819A.S., 18:42 local time

They were coming aboard. The Dromedary had been escorted through the cold expanse of the Siberian Ice Field to the station, and to docking port one. All other traffic had been diverted; Miller was determined to receive answers from these "Primusians". Their leader, Maktu, had been determined not to explain anything until they met in person.

Why should he believe them? The codes could have been stolen, and it was just a coincidence that some of them were from the people left behind on the Hispania. But did they pose much of a threat? He didn't think so. The command centre would be monitoring the single exit from the transport at all times. First sign of trouble, the Dromedary was detached and destroyed when it cleared the station.

Miller had told them exactly what was going to happen. The Dromedary would be brought into the docking port under the escort of two Revolutions. The Dromedary would extend its docking clamp to one single port, and two Primusians of their choice would proceed into Sevastopol Depot.

That was exactly how it happened. These Primusians obviously didn't want any trouble. Miller was standing at the receiving port, leaning heavily on his walking stick. An aide had fetched it for him, for which he had been extremely grateful when he realised just how much pain he had been trying to ignore. His recovery was still a very long way off.

With him were ten marines, rifles hanging from their necks, ready to be grabbed, cocked and aimed at a seconds notice. The large airlock door was knocked. Once, twice. Their guests. One of the marines stepped to a console, and upon Miller's nod entered a code to release the lock. The door was pushed open by an eight-foot monkey, fur sun-tanned, with eyes like sapphires that sparkled under the light.

Behind him followed his chosen Primusian to enter Sevastopol with him. An odd sight, to say the least. At a guess the second was six foot seven, long braided hair leading down the sides of his head. A rastafarian hat was perched on his head, and he was holding some sort of joint in one of his hands. Or paws. Necklaces dangled from his neck.

They both approached him together. Then Maktu bowed slightly, and placed his right hand over his heart, as if he were taking a pledge.

'Commissar-Captain,' he said to the floor. He looked up. 'It is an honour to finally be amongst our brothers. I am Maktu of Kemklau, the leader of the Primusian Communist Party. And this is Bobby, a loyal supporter and our pilot.'

'Sup man,' Bobby said.

Miller looked at them both for a moment. Maktu had yet to take his hand away from his heart. He didn't have proof of who they were yet, but it couldn't hurt to play along for now. Until they had some confirmation.

'Maktu, Bobby, it is an honour. Please, follow me to my quarters. We have quite a bit to talk about. These marines shall take a look around your ship, if you do not mind. To check how many you have brought with you.' Maktu and Bobby exchanged glances. Bobby nodded, raising his joint to his mouth and taking a long drag. Maktu nodded to Miller.

'That shall be fine, Commissar-Captain. We have nothing to hide.'

The marines proceeded into the starship through the docking tunnel in single file. Then Miller was left with the Primusians, and two marines.

'Please, this way.' He extended an arm to the corridor, and took lead. Maktu and Bobby followed, with the marines close behind.