The woman, identified by her tags as Melanie Tyler nodded sharply, throwing off a dusting of the ever-present New London rain. It was only midday by planetary standards but warships, including her own command, operated on different day-night cycles to civilian installations, which were normally synced to their host planet. It was partly for security reasons, allowing military officers to sleep while planetary defense batteries stood guard, but was mostly imposed for the sake of maintaining some sort of regularity while they were in transit. Larger ships often operated crews on several differing cycles. Which went part of the way towards explaining what one of the few remaining Air Force senior Officers was doing off the flagship. The other half of the official explanation was sitting on one of the military landing pads being swarmed over by Bretonian technicians. Normally Melanie would have preferred her own people get the Guardian back in working order, but its systems needed to be mated with the Bretonian's if the fighter was going to have a chance of operating with the Armed Forces. Her fighter would be among the last to be converted to operate off the Bretonian's database.
Not that it had been an inconvenience, if she was brutally honest with herself. Since the disaster that had bought down General Winter's shuttle she'd barely left the carrier, a junior scrambling to fill a rank that should, by all rights, have belonged to a far more experienced Officer. The text under the Guardian's cockpit hatch still identified the pilot as one Captain Melanie "Harpy" Tyler, a rank and callsign that hadn't been applied to her in what felt like years, even though she knew it had only been a few months. They felt like they belonged to a different person, someone without the responsibilities of managing a task force. Someone who flew simply because she loved it. When she stopped to think about it, Tyler missed that person horribly. She made a mental note to get the identifier repainted before the crew finished repairs. Circumstances might confine her to the Ravenswood's CiC more often then she liked, but she would at least do the fighter the dignity of keeping her in working condition. That was, of course, if Congress let her keep that. Ever since the attacks on Air Force command, budget cuts had been running rampant. Half the Government was convinced that the Air Force was misusing its assets in Bretonia and, ultimately, was redundant as an organisation and the other half were well on their way there. Winters had been able to maintain the political niceties to keep money flowing into the Force but without the General to maintain those relationships, her Task Force's readiness had dropped through the floor. She simply did not have the fuel to maintain the Ravenswood at operational readiness for the periods that planetary guard duty entailed. When Leeds was attacked, and Tyler was certain it was a matter of when, the defenders would have to wait precious minutes while the big warship fired her reactors. Now, it looked as though even that might have been deemed 'too expensive.'
Thus, her presence here. A collapsible projector bulged in the pocket of her grey flight suit as she patted the uniform down, pulling the creases out in a manner that had been drilled into her since basic. The projector was an electronic courier, a device intended purely to carry and play a single message while simultaneously scrambling any electronic bugs in the area. Not that it always worked perfectly, much to the derision of the personnel tasked with their use. She had once known a Commanding Officer that had preferred to distribute his orders by old-fashioned printing. Tyler had the look of someone who had simultaneously had too much rest and too little actual sleep, a product of acting as commander of a warship with shifting schedules. At the least, she'd remembered to tie her black her back this time. Her old Skills Instructor would have ripped strips off her for the state of her uniform, but that had been a long time ago.
Traffic parted as a figure moved maneuvered his way through the pressing crowd, shaking Tyler from her contemplation. Even from the doorway, the Lieutenant Colonel had to admire the way he worked his way through the sea of humanity without prompting major reactions from any of them. It was, she'd concluded, a skill specific to metropolitan police forces, and the former BPA Constable on her ship had shown a similar aptitude for maneuvering through the mess. She'd have to learn how to do that sometime.
The man spoke once he reached her, confirming what she'd already guessed about his identity. Constable Thomas Page, Bretonian Police Authority. Not that he was here in an official capacity. Officially, neither was she, but she at least had the fighter excuse to work from. You had to win some of them.
"Thanks Thomas. Sure, call me Mel." It felt odd not referring to him as Constable, but it seem that that would just have to be something for her to work on."I appreciate you coming down on such short notice to deal with my problems. I'm sure you've got things you'd rather be doing on your leave."
The smell of fresh baked cake greeted Tyler as she opened the teahouse's door, moving to a shaded room at the rear of the building. She couldn't help but smile a little at her choice, not sure if she'd chosen the corned because it offered the best view, or the best escape route.
![[Image: icthMHY.png]](http://i.imgur.com/icthMHY.png)