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A New Beginning - Commissar - 09-27-2010
New York System
2km Galactic North of Norfolk Shipyard
1700 Zulu Time
David Ripper stared through the reinforced cockpit of his Rhino freighter's escape pod and cursed his cowardice. The two people behind the young officer did little to help, instead glaring through the narrow window, lost in thoughts of their own. Outside the sparking pod; the burning remains of a Rhino promptly exploded, melted hull fragments welding themselves to the pod. A single Guardian heavy fighter, weapons still glowing, faded from vision as it entered the nearby trade lane.
1650 Zulu Time
'Initiating trade lane sequence; all hands prepare for jump'
The ragtag Rhino; callsign Delta-3, sidled into the queue. Taking it's place behind a trader convoy.
'Drop the formality Ripper. If I have to put up with this all the way to Hudson, the pirates'll be the least of your worries.' Paul Nerwell chuckled, an odd expression on his scarred face, as he squeezed his muscular frame in to the Rhino's navigation control centre, in actuality nothing more then a few flickering screens.
'Formality's the only thing stopping me from insulting this hunk of junk all the way there, if you'd rather put up with that, that's your business Sarge.'
'Heh. Well, the Army ain't known for its fleet son. If you joined up for the flying, you're in the wrong service.'
Now it was the brown-haired Lance Corporal's turn to laugh.
'Perhaps I am, Nerwell, perhaps I am.'
'Eh? What's this heresy? The Navy indeed'¦ Great bloody 2nd in command you're proving to be. You'd best check the cargo before we jump. While you're at it; check if Callstone's fixed that cough in the engine.'
Ripper smiled and eased himself out of the Captain's chair. Nerwell could handle the ship just fine, as long as no manoeuvring was involved, in which case Ripper would rather take his chances with open space. The Sergeant was a fine man, but he was no pilot.
The single chevron on Ripper's otherwise light green uniform identified him as a Lance Corporal in the Liberty Army's 6th air division. Not much of a division now though thought Ripper. Once home to over 10 000 men and associated vessels; the war with Rheinland had bled it down to less then a quarter of its former strength, with men and materials 'diverted' to aid Naval Forces. That was why Nerwell's team had been assigned to ferry duty, carrying Hydrocarbons to fuel a military training group on Hudson. As the only one with any flying experience; Ripper was designated 'Pilot'. So far he'd only hit two asteroids. Thankfully; despite its other failings, the Rhino's shields worked well enough.
David's rubber boots absorbed the blow as he dropped the last foot or so to the cargo deck where Private Nathan Preston, the mission's loadmaster, was making final adjustments to the mass of pressurised cylinders on board. In full dress uniform.
'How are we looking Private?' enquired Ripper.
'All cargo stowed and prepped for jump Lance Corporal!' boomed the young Private, snapping to attention. Ripper was barely 24; but this lad couldn't have been over 19. Liberty command would be pleased to know their recruiting drives were still working.
'Excellent work Preston.' Ripper nodded toward the ordered pile of cargo. 'However' Ripper added 'firstly; you don't come to attention for me. I'm flattered but, I'm not a commissioned officer. Secondly: what the hell are you doing in formal attire?'
'Firstly; Understood Lance Corporal. Secondly; I feel that, as we're landing on a military base it's only appropriate that I wear clothing suited to a base visit Lance Corporal.'
Ripper rolled his eyes. And Nerwell thought he was formal.
'Private?'
'Lance Corporal?'
'Follow me. I'm sure engineering could use a hand.'
Preston stifled a moan.
Despite it's name 'Engineering' consisted of only one very greasy individual. Private Nicole Callstone eased herself out from between two pipes and wiped the sweat from her pale brow.
'Close that mouth Private; I think your tongue's dragging on the ground.' whispered Ripper to the stunned Preston; who quickly retracted his tongue. The idea of touching anything in the Delta-3's filthy engine bay with it proving an adequate counter to Callstone's looks.
'How's the engine Callstone?' asked Ripper.
'Do you have any idea how difficult it is to repair a 40 year old ship en-route?' chided the auburn-haired engineer, casually wiping her grease stained hands on the formerly immaculate Preston.
'I have the utmost faith in you Private.'
'Yeah, it's running, though I'll need better equipment if you want to keep it running for the return trip.'
'You can take it up with the Sergeant; we need everyone on deck for the jump.'
'All hands. This is Nerwell. Look's like we've got ourselves a friend; the Lieutenant here's agreed to escort us to Hudson.'
The group ceased their trek to the cockpit for a moment. A look out the loading bay window revealed a Guardian heavy fighter hovering in the gloom. A red light silhouetting the war machine against the darkened sky.
'Nice job on those docking lights Callstone; I thought they were out.' Preston muttered.
'What? I didn't touch th-'
The drail burst hit the Rhino with the force of a freight train.
'Shields failed. Hull breach imminent. Shields failed. Hull breach imminent. Shields'¦'
'What the hell just happened?' coughed Preston, heaving himself upright. 'Did he jus-'
Preston was prevented from further contemplation of what may have happened due to the sudden appearance of Ripper's hand around his waist as he was flung bodily into the Rhino's escape pod. He was shortly followed by a bleeding Nicole Callstone and Lance Corporal Ripper, in a similar state.
Preston glanced out the pod's windows; only to wish shortly after that he hadn't.
The Guardian was coming in for another run.
To look outside the pod was to gaze into hell itself; red emergency lighting gave the crippled Rhino am ethereal appearance. This was rapidly dispelled by the fire, rapidly closing in on the battered crewmen and Hydrocarbon stores.
Then Ripper heard the screams. His mind worked rapidly, calculating time, speed and chance. It reached its conclusion; one that hit Ripper even harder then the fighter's weaponry. There was no time to save Paul Newell.
Even as Ripper's mind realised this; his body swung into action. His vision was focused on one thing only; the launch lever. In a single smooth action, he reached out and; with a moment's hesitation, pulled it. As the Escape Pod's doors slammed closed; the screaming suddenly stopped. The pod rocketed into space; leaving the doomed Delta-3 behind.