The concept of a night shift was absurd to say the least. A remnant of an old habit, just to keep a semblance of normalcy. No proper day and night cycle was to be had on a space station, especially not in a densely packed asteroid field. Even so, the night shift somehow seemed to last longer.
Hours passed by with painful sluggishness, while we waited for the previous patrol to reach the station. Most of the time they got back within two hours of the expected timeframe. In the event of an incident the patrol leader sent back a message, to which the patrol dispatch usually sent out a second set of fighters to help or relieve said patrol.
The incidents could be easily categorized:
• Freight vessel in distress. Lack of fuel/Engine damage
• Freight vessel under attack. Nomad scouts/AI drones/Core harassers
• Clashing with another patrol. Usually Core/Corsairs.
• Escort of a friendly capital asset returning for refit.
These were the most common incidents. Sure, at times there were raids or larger concentrations of aliens, but these were few and far in between. The Core had a tendency of handling whenever this happened, in hopes of salvaging technology. Most everything they salvaged either blew up in their faces, or melted away the moment they tried to hoard it away.
There was something unusual to this alert. In all my years serving as a patrol pilot, the dispatch was just a bit more lax. You had more than a couple of minutes to get to your vessel, and organize your squadron outside. This time we had 5 minutes. In 5 minutes all of us were already out and formed on our squadron leader, headed towards the perceived location of a distress call.
Our squadron consisted of five ships. Three Ospreys and two Vultures. The patrol lead being one of the Ospreys, while I piloted on of the Vultures. The fact that any of these hybrid bombers were deployed meant that there might be heavier resistance ahead of us.
Radio chatter was at a minimum, the atmosphere was a lot more tense than usual. Nobody wanted to be the first to break the silence. Some two minutes later, our flight leader played a recording. The distress call we were sent out to investigate.
Distress Call Wrote:
This is Livadia Patrol 6. We are under heavy fire by unidentified AI ships. If anyone can hear us, send reinforcements! Our cordinates are Bravo five posit̷i̶o̵n̵-̸-̸-̵-̸-̵-̴-̶-̴-̷-̴-̸-̶
The message was cut off. Our group headed in the general direction of the transmission.
• Used to be a pilot for the Rheinland military, flying snub crafts of various sizes. He’s got experience on around 16 different ships, testing some of the civilian models during government trials. Disillusioned with Rheinland as a house, he left shortly before the civil war broke out. Seeing that the options weren’t much better out here in the Omicrons, he decided to join Livadia’s security detachment.
• He is very strict and by the book. If there ever was a living stereotype, we found it. Having someone calm and collected as a squad-lead is at least a good choice. Not to mention the technical know-how. Just don’t expect him to hold a lengthy conversation. I was told he’s got a sense of humour, but if so its buried way to deep for me to bother.
• He was given the callsign “Oberst” at first, but another pilot from Rheinland kept calling him Obst. I don’t think he enjoys this nickname, but he’s got no choice in the matter.
Pilot Officer Amelia “Doxy” Tanner | Ship: Osprey
• Ex OS&C pilot trained on light escort aircraft and shuttles. She was mostly employed to do scouting missions, or fly alongside liners in the rougher patches of space. After the evacuation efforts of Freeport 14, she decided to join the Zoner Defence Forces, and somehow ended up with us here at Livadia. She did tell us her reasons for leaving the corporate sphere, something about the cutthroat nature of it. How most of the corporate world is a façade. I can most definitely relate to that one.
• Easy going, easy flying. Always trying to pull the tightest turns, except these ships are not really made for the job. Which usually leaves her with wide sweeping turns right after a tight hairpin. Always fun to be around, she can light up the hour-long patrols when we got nothing much to do.
• Her voice would be perfect for Space Traffic Control.
• As with most callsigns, “Doxy” refers to the implied two sided nature of being an OS&C escort.
Pilot Officer Alexander “Solo” Lynch | Ship: Vulture
• Born a Zoner, raised a Zoner. In most cases he’s given scouting missions which he performs admirably. The moment he got old enough, he sat behind a flight stick and started learning the art of flying. Joining the trade division first, and eventually got passed down to security.
• He just wants to be left alone. Tries to keep distance in a fight too, making wide turns to not even fly close to an enemy target. Never seen him hit a mine.
• I think this one is pretty obvious. Solo, because he just wants to be left alone.
• Did I mention he wants to be alone?
• No, seriously.
Pilot Officer Andres “Narc” Núñez | Ship: Osprey
• A curious case of a Corsair. He’s from Crete originally, trained to be one of the usual raiders and warriors we meet out here in the Omicrons. He was shot down during one of the clashes with the Outcasts. Instead of taking him prisoner or outright killing him, one of the Outcasts decided to get him addicted instead. They would have kept him around, but due to some stroke of luck, he managed to escape from his holding cell and board a Zoner freighter. The rest is history.
• I don’t think I have to detail his flying style all that much. Barbaric rage and unrelenting savagery. Tuned down by a notch lately, but he used to be one of the most aggressive fighters out here. He’s usually kept as backup only doing the mandatory patrols.
• He is a man of heart and soul. For his origins, there is plenty of goodwill and benevolence to him. Surprisingly approachable, will drink you under the counter any day of the week. He starts barfights for fun.
• The callsign is a jab at his affliction, but he seems to be completely unbothered by it. A good man.
Pilot Officer Anthony “Hawker” Davis | Ship: Vulture
• Yep. That’s me! You are probably wondering how I got into this situation. Quite simple actually. I worked for Interspace. Trying to shill insurances, chasing down those that didn’t buy them in unmarked fighters. No, really. I was an off the payroll mercenary, making sure people regret not getting that overly expensive piece of paper. I was decent at my job, until I had to shoot up what was effectively a school bus. Suffice to say, I didn’t do it. I fled to greener pastures, that being the Omicrons. Realizing the Core does just about the same *****, I became a hippy for life. I mean Zoner.
• I’m a bit too reckless, or so they say. Though my track record is relatively clean, so there’s that. Can’t say much more about my own flying.
• Callsign “Hawker” painting me as a door-to-door salesman. I sort of wish I was that.
We were getting closer to the last known location. Cleaving through the asteroid field as it slowly shifts into the infamous jagged ice field close to Gammu. The call came just from the edge of it without passing into the field. Something was off. Just 10 clicks away from the designated coordinates, yet not even a stray blip was seen on radar. The field they were headed towards was known for all sorts of treachery. Anti-ship mines disguised as ice chunks. Multiple sensor jammers hidden across the path. Taking a glimpse into the field was the hardest part, while whatever was lurking inside could easily peer out.
A slice of cosmos that was eager to return any gaze, with extirpative intent.
At this point, we considered the other patrol to be missing in action. Even as we got a little closer, there was no sign of them. Until…
A piece of an Osprey. Torn off by a rather clean cut. Plasma burns or something similar near the edges. No doubt it was the missing patrol. Scans revealed as much, the piece being the top right fin of the ship. They are out there somewhere.
Missing piece of the damaged Osprey.
Our wing leader was given a few choices concerning out approach into the ice field. The one he has chosen was: