The Britanov, named for its brutally insane commander, Admiral Viktor Britanov, sat motionless in deep space, awaiting its contact for a very secret mission. A snub ship glided by, buzzing over the control tower before initiating communications.
"Mission accomplished. That Corsair son-of-a-bitch is dead. Zehn out!"
The Admiral leaned back in his seat. The Commodore had proven his worth, and his loyalty, by executing his best friend. Funny, really... he had put money on the young ex-Corsair winning, but well, you can't win them all. At least one of High Command had kicked it.
He realised that he had better give Zehn clearance to dock, so that he could congratulate him on his victory and give him a new, disgustingly visceral, mission. He enjoyed giving his subordinates horrific jobs to do. It was hilarious.
Dieter Zehn, Coalition Commodore, clambered out of his cockpit, refusing assistance from the deck crew. His leg wasn't that bad. Yeah, he was effectively crippled, but he wasn't going to have some two-bit Ensign think that he needed help. He was made of tougher stuff than that.
Still, he needed the painkillers to stop himself passing out. No amount of willpower could stop that, it was only natural, really.
He injected a little more than the recommended dose, coming to the conclusion that he needed an extra boost for what was coming.
March. March, dammit!
He marched, without too much of a limp, towards the bridge. The crew had a bad countenance to them. They were afraid. That wasn't bad in of itself, but there was something lacking. They didn't have the same fear that his own boys and girls in the Fighter Corps. had. This was different. It was probably linked to the Admiral's reputation as a Grade-A lunatic and mass-murderer...
On his way to the bridge, Dieter Zehn saw that the crew were at wits' end. They jumped in terror when he so much as looked at them, lacking the courage that his own men had attributed to them. This was possibly the first time that he toyed with the thought that perhaps things were too strict.
Nah, that would be ridiculous. He prided himself on having disciplined troops. But, then again, Britanov was an arse and a coward himself, relying on others to do his dirty work, like the recent order to Zehn to kill Captain Ares. Yeah. Couldn't do his own dirty work.
The door to the bridge was but meters ahead. The marine on guard halted the approaching officer.
"No weapons on deck, sir," grunted the marine. He looked like he really didn't give a toss, to be honest.
"Why not, filth!?" snapped Zehn, not known for his patience.
"Admiral's orders," replied the marine slowly, obviously not approving of the situation.
"Pfft. Fine."
Zehn had no time for this bullsh*t. He removed his pistol, and a knife, and handed them to the guard.
"Sorry, sir," apologised the guard, being interrupted with a harsh "Piss off," from the Commodore.
He ignored the agony from his leg, and limped onto the bridge to confront Admiral Viktor Britanov, terror of Sirius.
It was sickeningly loud and unearthly. The medical term would be 'batsh*t-insane'. The bridge crew looked terrified, attemting not to make eye-contact with, well, anyone.
When Viktor Britanov laughed like that, bad things happened, normally of the summary execution variety of 'bad things'.
Zehn didn't get the joke.
"What's so funny, Viktor?"
He ignored the minor insubordination from Dieter Zehn, who had obviously intentionally not called him 'sir' or 'Admiral'.
"Well, I'm just wondering how you shot down your young protege, Commodore... imagining the look on the bastard's face..." he mused playfully, expecting Zehn to elaborate on how he executed the mission.
Zehn, quite a bit shorter than the Admiral, and not a naturally intimidating figure, put on a cocky smile before explaining.
"Actually, I killed him on his bridge, not in a fighter."
Britanov raised a not-quite mentally-stable eyebrow, urging Zehn to continue.
"You see, he had his crew living in an atmosphere of pure terror..." he stopped, as if to attempt to accentuate the difference between fear and terror, "now, I'm all for fear, so long as it's coupled with respect..."
The fighter-pilot turned Commodore gazed across the bridge, taking note of not the fear in the eyes of the deck crew, but the hatred.
"You see, Admiral, this commander had the fear of his men, yes, but not the respect. They hated him. They wouldn't raise a finger to save his insane hide now, would they?"
Britanov might have been insane, but he saw where this was going, and reached for his pistol as Zehn, with reflexes that only the leader of the Fighter Corps. would have, plunged a hypodermic needle into the Admiral's throat.
He didn't reach for his gun anywhere near quick enough as Commodore Zehn continued to explain,
"Ten times the recommended dose, Admiral. Ironically enough, it's fatal, and excruciatingly so... funny, that painkillers can do such a thing, eh?"
If Zehn had been a Commodore of a more maritime fleet, he probably would have noted how fish-like the dying Britanov was. He flopped on the deck in a rather desperate, pathetic fashion.
Zehn, leaning on a control console for support, bent down and retrieved Viktor's hat. An Admiral's hat, of course. Kind of stupid-looking, but it did the job.
The officers on deck actually smiled. They didn't know whether to salute or applaud this little coup...