It was a simple plantation, orange grass wafting in the light breeze. The sun was setting, and the changed lighting set the fields aflame in brilliant colors. Paths criss-crossed the razor-sharp stalks, paths so that the workers and slaves could maintain the field without cutting themselves on the crop. Like working a field of knives, each honed to a perfect edge. A simple house lay on the far east side of the lot, which was surrounded by wooden fencing that was dark with age. Too many Maltese days had burned those wooden posts, much as the house looked old simply by the aging effect of the sun.
Among the rows of beaten earth, a young child ran with a toy Sabre in his right hand. He was shorter than the golden ambrosia of Malta, and his legs carried him far and fast. When his mother called for him to come in, she knew she would have to physically enter the fields and search for him in the maze. He made noises much like the Outcast particle or tachyon guns, while in his left hand was a toy Titan - the vessel of the dreaded Corsairs, those dregs of Sirius. It was rather obvious that the Sabre was winning.
Suddenly his mother stepped out from around the corner ahead of him. "There you are, Gio. It's getting late, come in. Supper's ready." Making an explosion noise, he dropped the Titan to the ground and left it there.
"I won again, mom."
She made a sound that feigned interest in his game, but she was only worried about him. He was her only child, and like all Outcast mothers, she was over-protective. The low birthrate wrought by Cardamine made it a necessity.
The smell of recycled air was thick in the air, but Giovanni paid it not a mind -- he had long since gotten used to it. The deck of Corsica was lined with Sabres, armed to the teeth with the best of Outcast weaponry and fitted with the most cutting-edge technology. One of them was Giovanni's... or was going to be his. Training to join the 101st had been difficult, as they accepted only the best of the best. Dedication, skill, hard work, and talent was all required to advance to this, the final test. All he had been told was it was to measure his obedience to orders.
His trainer approached him. A grizzled man in his late eighties at best, he had been a beast. Expecting no less than perfection, he squeezed and bent you into shape, and when you thought you had nothing left, he managed to unearth new reserves of energy. He spoke in a raspy wheeze.
"Are you ready, Cordova?" he said. The instructor eyed his pupil with a measure of respect and pride. The young man thought he had heard his teacher use the word 'prodigy' while describing him to someone else.
The greener man nodded. The old man pointed at a Sabre. "I want you to fly out to the black hole."
Giovanni couldn't help but stare at this tough-as-nails man. The black hole? Fly out? Into it? He had heard stories, but nothing substantiated. He had no idea what would happen, but his outlook was grim -- black holes were usually nothing more than places of death, where nothing could exist.
Then he remembered how he had been told it was a test as to following orders.
"I'm sorry sir," he grated out, doing something he hadn't done before, "but I can't do that."
The old man turned from worried to happy, an unusual grin breaking out across his face. He clasped a hand on Cordova's shoulder, and said, "Welcome to the 101st, kid. You did good."
Giovanni looked at him askance. "But I didn't follow the order..."
"You weren't supposed to! We don't want brainless robots flying our ships, it's all about judgment calls. You pass, like I was hoping you would. There are great things ahead of you."
The decline of the Cordova plantation was a slow thing. Fewer workers and slaves were working there as the Cardamine market started to be undercut by such groups as the Blue Lotus Syndicate. The yield of Cardamine harvested began to steadily drop, until five years after the start of the decay it was finished. The plantation lay in disuse, its former tenants forced to move into the capital city of New Sicily.
In his third year in the 101st, Giovanni received the communique from his mom telling him of what had happened. A year passed before he took leave and went there. The fields that had once held the golden Maltese grass were now barren, over-grown with wild Cardamine that was at odd with the crisp and domesticated variety. As he walked the fields and felt nostalgia hit, he stumbled over something. Looking back, he saw it was an old model of a Titan. Picking it up with an amused smile, he recalled how he had lost it all those years ago. Funny how things come back to you...
Entering the main farm house, his eyes scanned the interior, and latched on to the loft. A single tear sprung to his left eye, the hardened fighter pilot's lip trembling for what was lost. All the stolen kisses. The promises by moonlight that soon became impossible to keep. Reminiscing, he climbed up the rickety ladder and set his back against the wall. The loft was about ten feet from wall to edge, with about five feet to the eaves.
And so Cordova slipped into memories of the fiery redhead, the love they had shared, and the fun they had. It had been amazing while it had lasted.
Cordova looked through the cockpit window at the orange gem of Omicron Alpha, his Switchblade Heavy Fighter cutting through the last green wisps of the Siniestre cloud. He had walked out of the Council of Dons some time ago, had left with nary an explanation, and had wandered the galaxy for some time. Cordova was much older now, an experienced man. Yet so much was unsatisfactory... he had been from one side of Sirius to the other, had experienced so much.
When he left, he had resigned his commission as SIC in the 101st fighter wing, had gave back his standard-issue Sabre, and had flown out in his personal Switchblade. What had brought him back, he knew not. Some might say he had gone out to die, to throw himself against numerous opponents. There was, however, a certain... something. He could feel it, yet not explain. As if some nagging purpose dragged his itchy feet from hither to thither, one which he could not begin to comprehend.
As his ship set down on Malta, he knew that he would not go back to the 101st. He had friends, ones he hoped were still around, but had no drive to join any hierarchy besides that of being in submission to the will of the Dons.
Something momentous had happened to him out in the black, but he couldn't begin to guess at what.
The red strobe wasn't meant to soothe -- its purpose was that of pumping adrenaline, of raising awareness, of war. Giovanni bolted to a sitting position with a start as the siren began its first peal, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed before the second. By the fifth his long stride was carrying him down the short hallway to the command center of the Giustizia, the famed Outcast Destroyer. In that insignificant amount of time he had managed to don his uniform and shake the daze of REM sleep. On the bridge, he barked for a debriefing. Many voices called out at once, drowning the others out and offering no useful information.
"One at a time! Tactical!"
The tactical officer yelled to be heard over the ambient noise. Corsair Dreadnought off the port bow, closing fast. Palermo responding with a ten minute delay for reinforcements. Escape hopeless. Cordova steeled himself for the engagement, cognizant of the fact that they would not long survive such an encounter. He barked orders; the crew responded with alacrity. And the Corsairs hailed. Cordova reluctantly agreed to view the transmission, and the face of Esperanza Larez appeared. She looked ravishing, and... alive.
"You could have saved me, Gio. You let me die."
He awoke with a start. Perhaps his past was more with him than he would like to believe...