If you are receiving this, my deadman's switch has triggered meaning it has been 48 hours since I checked in with the neural net. I am either dead, floating in an escape pod in space, or captured. To all enemies of Gallia or friends of the crown, I ask for your assistance. I am broadcasting my last uploaded flight plan along with my personal logs in the hope that there is a clue somewhere in there that will lead you me, whatever my fate. Good luck to us all, and I hope to see you soon. Newport out.
***UPLOADING FLIGHT PLAN***
ORIGIN - PLANET LEEDS, LEEDS SYSTEM, BRETONIA SPACE
DESTINATION - PLANET MANHATTAN, NEW YORK SYSTEM, LIBERTY SPACE
ROUTE - LEEDS>MAGELLAN (ERR: NO JUMP GATE ON FLIGHT PATH)>CALIFORNIA>NEW YORK
CARGO - REFUGEES X174
VESSEL - CST-010 DORADO CLASS OSC FERRY
VESSEL DESIGNATION - CHARLIE WILSON
Switching off the deadman's switch, it's good to be home.
It's odd to speak of a homecoming when I've been planetside for almost two weeks, but a Gallic holding cell isn't terribly "homey." As a guest of the Gallic Royal Navy, I was not terribly impressed with their accommodations. 1/5 stars. Would not be captured again. Of course, the greatest irony is that my stint with the frogs was the longest I've been home since this whole LRF business began. Still, it felt good to come back to Leeds via atmospheric landing. I missed being jostled to the point of breaking a rib.
Mounier finally got me. Third time's a charm, as they say. I was making one last refugee run when he happened to undock from the French side at the same time. I should have aborted the mission, dropped into the atmosphere and lose him in the flack. But those refugees were desperate upon desperate. Now that the LRF had a semblance of regular service off of Leeds, families with small children have been clawing at tickets off world like we were giving away passes to the Hawaii. I gunned it for the Magellan hole, and that's where the trouble began.
There was a GRI spook doing whatever it is GRI spooks do in the Magellan system who moved in to assist Mounier. Against one fighter, it was a fair chase. I was making progress and the Charlie Wilson's ample backside was buying me time while I slowly burned through bots and batteries. Had Freeport 4 still been functional, I would have made it to a dock. Of course, had Freeport 4 still been functional, a lot of things would have been different about my life. In any event, I gave a good chase and made it all the way to the ice fields in California.
There, my luck finally ran out. The Charlie Wilson broke up around me, Disintegration rather than explosion, thankfully. The automatic eject systems engaged and I faded to black, wondering if I would be found by friend or foe, or if I'd simply become another interesting asteroid among the field.
I came to in a Gallic holding cell on Leeds. Surgically clean and souless, all its measurements felt slightly off before I realized that I had just never seen Gallic architecture up close. Mounier was across from me, cocky as the day was long, and started on some long winded villainous speech that I hope sounded better in his head than it did in his delivery. However, I was literally a captive audience and endured it. He even fired his sidearm above my head to prove a point. Fortunately, my training in the terrestrial resistance kicked in: I froze rather than scream. By the time I remembered to be scared it was already over.
Once he got his bad cop-worse cop routine out of his system, we got down to the deal at hand: I would have my freedom, but only as an intelligence asset to the Gallic navy. I would rat out my comrades in arms in the LRF in the hopes of ending the resistance and ensuring a peaceful transition of power on "Agincourt". Times being what they were, I took the job.
And so, I've turned over the names of all the ships affiliated with the LRF. If you've done significant business with us, I'm sorry, but you're on their radar now. I couldn't risk giving only a partial list and raising red flags. Whatever info Mounier has on our assets, I've guaranteed it is a subset of what I've given him. If Bretonia retakes the system, I could be hung for a traitor. If Gallia wins, they could just stuff me out as a loose end, another casualty of the war. Meanwhile I have casualties to haul out and medical supplies to get back in to do what I can for Leeds in the present. Future Leeds can judge me however it likes, just so long as there is a future Leeds to do the judging.
A new day, a new ship. I've had to take stock of my assets with the LRF. One simply couldn't expect the resistance to stand around waiting for me, I suppose, but I am a bit miffed about them taking my ships out without me at the helm. PuddleJumper has been busy playing the role of last mile delivery, getting vital supplies planetside to the resistance. The Charlie Wilson is obviously nothing more than dust and echoes scattered across the Tahoe Ice field, a feature whose name I never had a reason to learn until now. Stranger is the disappearance of Vow to Thee. Apparently a crew that seemed to know what they were doing took her out for a sortie and never checked back in. I suppose as a privateer I can't be too terribly upset at being pirated, but it is terribly unsporting. Perhaps I am being too pessimistic and somewhere out there is an Oasis class liner full of Gallic weapons fire. Curious that the destruction of the ship is the optimistic option.
In any event, I'm back to freighters, but I don't miss flying the large vessels much. It's nice to fast-dock with tradelanes again and I always feel cut off when I'm in a ship that can't land on Leeds proper. Speaking of which, I've invested in my next vessel using funds from the PuddleJumper's jaunts while I was in custody. I'm the proud owner of a XDS-2 "Voyager" Deep Space Freighter. I opted for a Bretonian model, what can I say, I'm a patriot. Even though it has less cargo space, it has an interesting weapons configuration that I look forward to decking out. Though with my yellow ticket of leave from the frogs, a blind eye from Liberty, and active support from her majesty's government, I'm running out of people to shoot me. The ship still doesn't have a name, which I know is terribly unlucky, but I'm waiting for inspiration to strike. My grandfather told me stories of Charlie Wilson. He was a leader in the proto-Liberty government back in Sol who navigated a whole tangled web of politics and gun runners to get weapons to a resistance against the proto-Coalition (still amazes me that one planet could house so many rival factions). It seemed a fitting moniker for my vessel while I was hauling arms, but now that I'm focused on more humanitarian cargo, perhaps a different approach is in order, something more benevolent.
Of course, that cargo is often illegal human organs whose methods of obtainment is simply listed as "don't ask, don't tell." I'm no saint, just someone trying to keep Leeds alive another day.
The Liberty Navy also had me run more messages out to the borderworlds. No idea what's in them, but my contact was curious about my knowledge of the Edinburgh system after reading his data pad. I told him what I knew about its jump holes and gunships (the latter being why I mostly avoid it) and the independent privateers base out there. I hope it helps whatever Liberty is cooking up. Her relief fleet got lost in an accident with the Poole supergate while I was incarcerated. I hope that doesn't put a damper on the efforts of the Liberty War Machine. This war will come down to who gets tired first, Gallia or Liberty. Simple as that.
Sidenote: Aland shipyard is a hot mess right now. Ships from a half dozen factions float aimlessly around her while a mishmash of cruisers and defense platforms offer some protection to the still burning station. I don't know what the crown gained by taking it, I imagine the resources needed to get her online and converted to accommodate capital ships would have been enough to simply build a new shipyard from scratch, but what do I know. When this war is over, someone is going to get rich salvaging those wrecks. My money's on the Junkers
I awoke this morning to do my usual pre-flight checks of Unnamed Vessel only to find it guarded by two members of the terrestrial resistance. I asked them if everything is ok, at which point they sheepishly asked me to check my messages. Skipper got wind of me falling off and back onto the grid after my run in with the frogs and ordered me grounded until we could have a formal debrief. It is a completely reasonable course of action, until further notice he has to assume I've been compromised as an intelligence asset his majesty's navy. But the impersonal language of it all cut deep. Remain in quarters, cease operation of all LRF vessels, putting a bounty on any ships I fly that make it to space. Perhaps this is what the Gallic Navy wanted when they cut me loose, create confusion in the ranks of its enemies. If so, I tip my hat to them.
I looked at the rifles the two guards were carrying. I recognized them as kin to the "special" weapons I had imported from Liberty so many times. I idly wondered if the universe would appreciate the irony of me being released by the French only to be shot by my own men with guns I smuggled for them. Making conversation, I asked the guard, "Would you really try to kill me if I attempted to board my vessel?" He replied with typical stiff upper lip, "I hope it doesn't come to that, sir. Ammunition has become more scarce and I would hate to waste the rounds."
God, I truly do love my countrymen. I couldn't help but laugh on the inside.
I asked what happens next and the guard said he was going to escort me back to my quarters. "Quarters" being a glorified broom closet with a hammock. It's smaller than the cell I had on the other side of the planet, but I don't have to share it. Rank has its privileges I suppose. I asked the grunt where his quarters were and he predictably said he bunked in the bar after hours along with several dozen other fighters. I asked if he wanted to switch quarters for the foreseeable future. He smiled and agreed. "Very well, then," I replied, "Let's head to my quarters so I can await the skipper for whatever happens next."
That was four hours and several drinks ago. Liberty Ale is truly terrible stuff, but it makes you forget the troubles of the world for a while. My passwords have been revoked, my craft is grounded, but at least I can still write in my personal log. When Hudson shows up, for the second time in as many weeks I'll have to convince someone not to kill me. In all honesty, I think my chances were better with the frogs. If things go south, at least I hope he shoots me in the chest with a captured Gallic pistol and say I died a hero. Worst case scenario, I die on Leeds. There are worse fates in this universe...
I've been "promoted" back to my proper quarters with an honor guard outside my door. Turns out getting drunk and slipping back aboard my ship for one last joy ride in Leeds didn't sit well with the local resistance cell. Once again, I had to dodge my own side's flack guns to hit orbit. This time, they were deliberately aiming for me. Fortunately, our equipment is rubbish and our gunners more enthusiastic than skilled. I survived.
I flew deep into the smog cloud to blast some rocks. With all these bloody tangled webs of alliances and allegiances, I just wanted to shoot something that no one would miss. Lasers flew, rocks disintegrated, bottles were emptied, and I was just starting to feel slightly less terrible when the gods unilaterally decided I hadn't hit my daily quota of nonsense to deal with.
Skyhawk pinged me. Joy. I... don't remember much of the conversation. From the audio logs, it seems at various times I was singing pirate shanties from old Earth, crying hysterically into my microphone, and confessing my teenage sexual fantasies about the Queen's coronation portrait (eyeshadow and a pixie cut...).
Apparently in the service, we refer to that as, "the usual."
Skyhawk tried to pull his cloak-and-dagger speech, which would have been more effective if it wasn't the second time I had a gun pointed at me by a "friendly" force today. I lost it and railed to him rather than at him. It was helpful. A pill or two to sober up and the conversation become more pragmatic. Trading a courier run to the fleet in New York in exchange for him not nuking Leeds and passing along all the secrets of the LRF to the frogs. The only complication? He wanted me to return to Leeds first, turn myself back over to the powers that be, get cleared by the LRF, and then deliver his message. I hope this thing isn't time sensitive because there's no way I'll be able to get this to where it needs to go in 30 minutes or less. I guess his next pizza is free.
I landed safely after signalling my intention to turn myself over. I'm grounded, and sober, both against my will until Hudson has his chat with me. I hope he comes soon. For someone who spends so much time in a cockpit, you'd think I'd be used to tight spaces, but the gravity feels all wrong and my stomach keeps turning knots. Of course, the copious amounts of alcohol might have something to do with it.
Sidenote: Skyhawk landed at the docking ring on Leeds. Curiouser and curioser.
Interesting fact: Liberty ale is NOT made from h-fuel residue as is commonly rumored. However, it is formulated to be metabolized quickly as it was first created by the Liberty Navy to be consumed by pilots between patrols. In particular, they came up with these lovely little pills that can sober a man up from the effects of the ale in less time than it takes to prep his fighter. However, there is no such thing as a free lunch, kicking your metabolism into overdrive wrecks havoc with your body as it burns anything and everything to power the chemical processes needed to purge the alcohol from your system. Your liver in particular takes a beating in the process, but livers regrow. Allegedly. I've had to air lift a lot of questionably obtained livers that makes me dubious of that medical fact.
In any event, I woke up today 10 pounds lighter with a splitting headache and night-sweats from a nightmare. I had a vision of New London, the surface completely engulfed in flames at the hands of a Gallic super weapon. The defensive lines were smashed, the stations all venting atmosphere, the proud battlecruisers listing into each other, exploding, and raining down on a cinder of a planet. I saw the remnants of the fleet coming in to make a last, desperate stand against Gallia, throwing anything with wings against the invaders to keep them out of Cambridge. They weren't successful. Bretonia fell. I don't know where my dream self was or why he didn't help, but it was a terrifying sight. All urban worlds are speckled with the lights of their cities, but New London glowed with the light of a dim star. She wasn't destroyed or conquered, she was glassed that nothing of worth would ever come of that world again until the star goes nova and scatters her remains to the cosmos.
I woke up, groggy and unsure of what was dream and reality, and in that strange moment of mental twilight I felt... relieved. Not relieved that it had only been a dream, I hadn't fully come to yet, but relieved that Leeds had already surrendered and thus wouldn't share the same fate. I shook myself out of it, checked the messages that I had been cleared to receive, and saw nothing had changed in reality. New London is holding the line. The crown survives. The war continues. I stared up at the pipes supporting my hammock, and honestly? I felt a twinge of disappointment. Which I know is a terrible, terrible thing to think. I missed a holocaust of my people and my first thought is being bummed at the thought of having to report for work on Monday. But, for a few moments this morning, I got to feel what it would be like to survive this war should his majesty prevail. It went down easier than I would have liked, and certainly much easier than those damned Liberty ales.
Time to get going, I have a busy day of waiting for Hudson to get back from whatever camping trip he's on out in the desert to debrief me and clear me for flight. Part of me wants to say he's pulling some SIS interrogation technique to soften me up if he thinks I've gone rogue. My credits are on him just being busy. We have a lot of tasks and each day fewer and fewer hands to take care of them.
Interesting fact: Liberty ale is NOT made from h-fuel residue as is commonly rumored. However, it is formulated to be metabolized quickly as it was first created by the Liberty Navy to be consumed by pilots between patrols. In particular, they came up with these lovely little pills that can sober a man up from the effects of the ale in less time than it takes to prep his fighter. However, there is no such thing as a free lunch, kicking your metabolism into overdrive wrecks havoc with your body as it burns anything and everything to power the chemical processes needed to purge the alcohol from your system. Your liver in particular takes a beating in the process, but livers regrow. Allegedly. I've had to air lift a lot of questionably obtained livers that makes me dubious of that medical fact.
In any event, I woke up today 10 pounds lighter with a splitting headache and night-sweats from a nightmare. I had a vision of New London, the surface completely engulfed in flames at the hands of a Gallic super weapon. The defensive lines were smashed, the stations all venting atmosphere, the proud battlecruisers listing into each other, exploding, and raining down on a cinder of a planet. I saw the remnants of the fleet coming in to make a last, desperate stand against Gallia, throwing anything with wings against the invaders to keep them out of Cambridge. They weren't successful. Bretonia fell. I don't know where my dream self was or why he didn't help, but it was a terrifying sight. All urban worlds are speckled with the lights of their cities, but New London glowed with the light of a dim star. She wasn't destroyed or conquered, she was glassed that nothing of worth would ever come of that world again until the star goes nova and scatters her remains to the cosmos.
I woke up, groggy and unsure of what was dream and reality, and in that strange moment of mental twilight I felt... relieved. Not relieved that it had only been a dream, I hadn't fully come to yet, but relieved that Leeds had already surrendered and thus wouldn't share the same fate. I shook myself out of it, checked the messages that I had been cleared to receive, and saw nothing had changed in reality. New London is holding the line. The crown survives. The war continues. I stared up at the pipes supporting my hammock, and honestly? I felt a twinge of disappointment. Which I know is a terrible, terrible thing to think. I missed a holocaust of my people and my first thought is being bummed at the thought of having to report for work on Monday. But, for a few moments this morning, I got to feel what it would be like to survive this war should his majesty prevail. It went down easier than I would have liked, and certainly much easier than those damned Liberty ales.
Time to get going, I have a busy day of waiting for Hudson to get back from whatever camping trip he's on out in the desert to debrief me and clear me for flight. Part of me wants to say he's pulling some SIS interrogation technique to soften me up if he thinks I've gone rogue. My credits are on him just being busy. We have a lot of tasks and each day fewer and fewer hands to take care of them.
I am officially convinced that my luck is no more. Run out. Kaput. My good ship Unnamed Vessel had an unlucky run in with the frogs.
I was returning medical supplies from Cambridge when our intel network reported that frogs were on the prowl in Leeds. We can't monitor every jumphole, but if your ship is on an official manifest coming through a gate or docking ring, we'll know when you enter and leave the system. A French vessel called La Vigilance was making its rounds, but Leeds is a big system and I had no idea where the ship was or what its capabilities were. As I sat in the debris field near Trafalgar, staring at the jump hole to Leeds, I considered my options. If the ship was making a patrol, I was ok. A freighter can outrun a gunboat if they see it coming. If the ship was standing vigil, well, Leeds has five jump holes leading into it, any one of which they could be observing. What are the chances that the ship was on guard duty AND was protecting the one hole I was about to jump in through.
Pretty high, apparently.
I jumped in to the familiar smog of my beloved Leeds along with a very unfamiliar light show. The Vigilance was right behind me, doing its best impression of an aurora. For a ship affiliated with Gallic intelligence, it wasn't terribly subtle. Then again, the Charlie Wilson was dressed up gaudy as a circus in patriotic red, white, and blue, so what do I know about how to win a war. I started flying casually, hoping nothing would come of things. Alas, it was not to be a quiet day. A woman named Emeline Coste hailed me, asking about what I was doing and where I was going. Fortunately, I was honoring my parole with Mounier, my hold was full of medical supplies and nothing else. I said I was bringing bandages to the far side of Leeds aka the part that has trouble pronouncing Agincourt. She was not terribly thrilled with me, but at least we were talking. And I might not be able to fight or run, but I can still talk.
So I played the Mounier card. Let me live and if I was lying, then you've denied a hold full of bandages to the resistance. Kill me and if I'm telling the truth, and you've silenced your government's in with the resistance. That gave her pause. I don't think she believed me entirely, but she was willing to escort me to Leeds. And we flew home together in one of the oddest flotillas I've ever been a part of. She transferred her communication codes to me so that I could keep her informed about the resistance. I think it will be best to forward her requests to Mounier in the navy and let the spirit of Gallic cooperation and unity sort it all out.
That was sarcasm, future historian reading this. The Navy and GRI are bitter rivals, as branches in any military are rivals, and I hope to use that to my advantage for once. You want intel on the resistance? Go to your brothers in arms for it, Emeline. This puppet can only dance on one set of strings at a time.
In any event, I got to Leeds safely. The bandages got offloaded and maybe I've stumbled upon a bit of grit I can throw into the gears of the Gallic war machine. The new ship hit a snag, but she manged to fly away from the encounter, unlike the last sortie of the Charlie Wilson, so I guess fortune smiles ever so slightly upon her.
Took the scenic route with a bunch of refugees today.
The Gallic Navy was out in force, so getting supplies to and from Leeds seemed like tempting fate. I wanted a route that would give me an excuse to spend some time away from the prying eyes of the Gallic Navy, and a bunch of refugees gave me a good one. They wanted out of Leeds, I can't blame them, but while most future expatriates are content to settle in Liberty with the eventual hope of returning home or others looking to make a new life aim for the labor starved planets of Rheinland, this group wanted to go farther out.
Seems they had finally had enough of the perpetual squabblings of house space and wanted to make a go of it in the Omicrons on the edge of human civilization. Most historians in the past use that term metaphorically but in this day and age, the Omicrons mark the boundry between what our species has accomplished and what others are doing with the universe. If they're looking for peace, they are going to be disappointed. Between the nomads, Core, Order, Junkers, and others, you have a lot of forces trying to eek out an existence on the fringes of "habitable" space. They fight hard for what little they have, and they are hesitant to take on outsiders. Still, the leader of this group had a contact on Freeport 9 and promised to finance the other aspects of the resistance quite nicely. So, we headed for Omicron Theta via Kusari.
We could have gone via the more... interesting Omicrons. I've made the journey before. When Gran Canaria fell, I felt like I owed them. I know what it's like to have your planet stolen from you, and my attitude on the subject isn't tempered much by the occupiers wearing red rather than blue uniforms. The zoners of that world also wanted off to try their luck on Pygar in Omicron Theta, and I was willing to help with the passage. That journey is always... interesting. Neutron stars. Alien Gunships. Massive structures as ancient as they are enigmatic. One trip I chanced upon the wreck of a fighter that dropped an experimental weapon (sadly lost with the Charlie Wilson. But I didn't feel like running a Gallic blockade just to have the privilege of rolling the dice in the Omicrons.
So we instead took in the sights of Kusari. It truly is the most beautiful region of Sirius, and I regretted my new ship lacked the glass enclosed lounge of its predecessor. The oranges and purples truly are beautiful, and I could see myself shuttling people with OSC after the war to take in the sights. But we got through Kusari without complaint (they're a little distracted with Rheinland right now) and through the sigmas. I offloaded the former Bretonians at Freeport 9 and watched as they renounced their former allegiance in exchange for the limited protection of the zoners. One of them asked if I wanted to give it all up and join them. The zoner life wouldn't be so bad, it's basically the exact same thing I'm doing down only no one's actively trying to kill you (well, except for nomads, and they don't count). But, truth be told, they give me the creeps. They don't have the mercenary drive of the bounty hunters or the profit obsession of the Junkers. They just have a thousand yard stare from gazing into the void, protected by an existence whose entire MO seems to be to stay out of the way and avoid drawing attention. Maybe they're hiding something deeper in their freeports, and the TAZ seem like good people for finding something to fill that void and drive them onward even if it's just a bunch of shiny crystals. But for now, I have something to fight for and something to defend. I have an allegiance to the crown, and I hate other houses and corporations as a result. I'm poor material for a zoner at the moment, but should I find myself houseless, well, they're always recruiting on the Freeports.
Sidenote: Rheinland has a battleship in Kusari House space... technically. Honshu is a weird diplomatic situation. The GMG has sovereignty (well, whatever sovereignty it can enforce) out in the sigmas and Aomori station in Honshu proper is still considered GMG territory. The Westfallen is right on the edge of those jurisdictions. Under other circumstances, it would present an interesting case of fringe diplomacy. However, because the Rheinland Navy is at war with Kusari and has been in a state of open hostility with the GMG since the embarrassment of the 80 years war, the reality on the ground is less diplomatic loop hole and more force of arms. The Westfallen's armor is steel, not parchment, and for now it seems to be holding. I welcome anything that gives Liberty and Bretonia an excuse to ignore their other borders for a bit.
Well, not really lost. And I guess even the word "friend" is a stretch. Skyhawk contacted me that he is being reassigned to California. No more bizarre jaunts with nuclear explosives across enemy lines. I can't say that I'll miss serving as a messenger boy. But it did help break up the day, even if half the time he was threatening to reveal the LRF's deepest secrets to our supposedly mutual enemies or just threatening to blast me out of the sky proper. I think he's been playing spy for too long. He's forgotten what it's like to be around an ally.
I'm bummed about the whole thing, I won't lie. Partially because this means Liberty is re-jiggering its assets in light of the debacle with the super gate. Instead of Skyhawk poking around Edinburgh, he's now doing... something in California. If Liberty starts pulling her fleet closer to home, Bretonia will fall. Even with our dearest allies sacrificing everything at our side, you'd be a fool to bet even money that the Crown will survive all this. So yeah, I am saddened at the prospect of losing an ally. But more importantly, it was nice having someone in the universe notice when I wasn't around. Someone who addressed me as "Drake" rather than "privateer." A personal connection that made the void of space less... voidy. Even if he was always threatening to turn me into confetti, at least someone in Sirius would know the story behind that particular debris field.
So safe travels, Skyhawk, wherever fate ends up bringing you. I hope our paths cross again. Until then, "the wolf always howls at midnight."
Sidenote: MRG is taking more notice of our puddle jumper operations. This is both good and bad. Bad, obviously, in that it further lowers the chances of me seeing another Christmas. Good in that every ship that is dealing with us is one fewer ship threatening New London. Leeds, as a system, is already of zero economic value to the crown, Our only exports are refugees and casualties. His majesty is already reaping whatever blood he can draw from the stone that is Leeds. However, we can make him pay for the privilege of that extraction, we can make it so expensive to hold down Leeds it becomes difficult or (gods willing) impossible to push any further.
Farther? Farther... I think. Bloody hell, English was never my strength.
![[Image: 143g6sg.jpg]](http://i65.tinypic.com/143g6sg.jpg)