A month had gone by, word had probably reached the rest of the Admirals and lord knew who else. Isaak felt uncomfortable in the face of his own command, something gave him the impression they had already known as well - but he wasn't entirely certain. He tried not to let it change him but underneath all his emotions he was afraid of being angry, of showing any sign that he was anything like his mother.
The wind was as powerful as ever, the temperature freezing, and the view ceiling as low as usual. None of that really made him afraid though, flying came naturally. Isaak laid back in the seat of his Templar as the ship ripped through the sound-barrier on approach to the new settlement. As he leaned back he took out the two photos of his mother, one from before, and one from after. Studying them, he got into the awkward habit of doing this every-time he was underway doing nothing. He even made a journal, documenting every piece of evidence and history. The same one he used before as a child to try and unravel his past.
What happened to you? He said to himself as his thoughts took him further and further away from the moment. On one end she looked beautiful, and on the other she looked physically and mentally beaten. A good portion of her old looks were there, there was a similarity, but there was also a distinct difference.
Communication chatter quickly pulled the young ensign from his thoughts and back to reality. As his Templar cleared the ceiling of clouds he could make out the settlement below. Not much, but neither was any other settlement on Exeter these days. The landing pads appeared cleared for him already, not communication from the watchtower or anything - must've been anticipating him for some time.
Secure facility in the protectorate occupation zone.
The banner of a most peculiar polity within the Sirius Sector fluttered rather violently on its pole this morning. It marked the quasi-sovereignty of perhaps the most unusual band of multiculturalism the Sector had to offer, between Selim's original Coalitioners turned personal loyalists, the few Libertonian or Bretonian house nationals who supported the polity, otherwise indisposed Rheinlanders, and Gauls from both sides of the war who sought either a more respectable form of governance or penance for years of sinful fighting.
The landscape surrounding this light-duty spaceport and military complex was quite idyllic, it was rugged, but still perfectly cold and livable enough for Selim. The privateers (though their M.O. was seemingly increasingly due for a change) base was isolated a fair distance from 'Crimean' civilian settlement, if only due to the low population density of the region compared to the main Bretonian zone.
It was true that since this landing had been thoroughly pre-planned, there was no communications intercept from ATC. Instead the facility's automated landing control system was beaming the telemetry to Ensign Heinrich's board computer and rapidly flashing lights marked his intended destination.
The personnel on the landing pad directed his ship down to the last second, Isaak began shifting through the controls. Powering down certain functions while leaving others active, as he did so and took off his helmet, the quartermaster walked on the deck with another officer at his side.
Catching wind of the people walking up, Isaak began to make haste. Rushing a few more things before stuffing the photos in a pocket underneath his flight suit. The cockpit opened just after on verbal command.
Good morning, I'm here to see Premier Selim. Do you know where I can meet him? The quartermaster was close enough Isaak stood at a bit of a formal stance while the two persons approached him to speak with a bit of a lower tone.
Secure facility in the protectorate occupation zone.
Selim's officers certainly looked no worse for wear in their current positions, though a few scant months had one little to shift their accents and mannerisms away from the rough, Siberian-frontier flavor that their rare breed of former Coalitioners had to offer. Further distancing them from Bretonian style was their choice of uniforms in the form of military work fatigues, and surely, Bretonia's own were fancier. The quartermaster spoke up first. Privyet. I am here to see to the provisioning of your strike fighter. He gestured to his compatriot. My comrade here will take you inside, the Premier is expecting you in the control room. The second officer, who would be escorting Ensign Heinrich, brushed off his shoulders before speaking himself. He's expecting you imminently, pilot. We should get moving.