Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Anvil Control this is Razor callsign, Sage. We are currently under direct fire from Union flyers. Requesting priority air support designation Shakespeare. Flight level 320, we have a full tank with three souls on-board. Repeat.
Mayday, Mayday ...
Five hours ago, Dr. Rufus Weller boarded a Polity aircraft en route to pick up two members of the gen:LOCK program and report back to Anvil HQ for debriefing. Three hours ago, we received this emergency broadcast message strapped with ELT location data. I immediately dispatched a Search and Retrieval squad with instructions to bring back what they could.
Dr. Weller's body was found. His head was not.
"Colonel Marin," Able mixed into my quarters. "Should I cancel the gen:LOCK candidate transfer? They are currently set to arrive in nineteen hours."
I ignored him for the moment and pulled the whiskey and glass from the top drawer of my desk. With Rufus dead or missing, I have no direct way to lead the gen:LOCK team. Their mechs are useless for now, and they still need basic training. Removing the cap, I counted to six, nearly filling the smaller cup.
A nice long sip burned my mouth and throat.
Dammit, Rufus.
"Colonel Marin, should I cancel the."
"No, Able" I interrupted and sighed. Leaning forward into my hands, I was long to continue."Don't cancel the transfer; expedite it. We have Union forces intercepting carriers. I want them here ASAP."
As I stared through the bottom of my drink, the echoing shatter of Able mixing out of the room is the only acknowledgment I receive. Alone, at last, I refilled my glass to the brim
You crazy man, what would you ask next of me? To raise your kids?