Name: "Elijah" - is a recognizable collection of sounds somewhere in the middle of his full name Age: 22 Earth years - Harridan equivalent of middle aged Gender: Male Origin: The Polaris system
Craft Specialization: Aegis II Space Superiority Fighter Callsign/Codename: Spock Kills: 27
Psychological Analysis: Eccentric and jumpy, Xi'raliajahna Hx'anaka'raha Merahnelha (approximate phonetic spelling) - better known as "Elijah" or "Spock" by his comrades, is truly an oddball amongst the 144th Direwolves. Unlike most Harridans, Elijah is neither docile nor obedient, and can be flighty and dynamic. Highly intelligent and curious, Elijah is still relatively new to Terran technology, and is unsocialized and relatively new to most human colloquialisms and interactions. Analytic and calculating, Elijah's brain processes information quite quickly and he has a very logical disposition. He appears to have a deep seated hatred of Varaxians and could be considered a freedom fighter amongst Harridans. In battle, he seems to relish the idea of shooting down Varaxian pilots- strike craft pilots being attributed to the Empire's warrior caste, and reserved exclusively for those of the Varaxian race.
Military Record: A relatively new addition to the Terran Systems Navy, Elijah was originally an engineer on board a Varaxian cruiser. When the Varaxian battlegroup was defeated in combat, Elijah led his fellow Harridans as they defended themselves against Terran boarders. When the Varaxian officer onboard the ship demanded Elijah take his Harridans on a suicide mission to set up an ambush, Elijah refused, and surrendered himself and his fellow Harridans to the authority of the Terran boarders, where they were taken as prisoners of war.
While a prisoner with the TSN, Elijah was onboard the TNS Wellington as him and his fellow Harridans were being transported to a prison facility. During a Varaxian surprise attack against the Wellington, the ship's life support systems were damaged as the ship made its escape. Rather than taking advantage of the chaos, Elijah and his fellow Harridans aided the humans in repairing the ship's life support systems, and through his and his comrades ingenuity, were able to repair the Wellington's life support system.
As both a sign of gratitude and a necessity of being shorthanded after the attack, Elijah and the Harridans were added as auxiliary engineering crew on board the TNS Wellington. While working on the systems of the Wellington, Elijah came across a flight training sim. After his first flight, the commander of the 144th Direwolves Marcus Knight- currently stationed on the TNS Wellington- took an interest in Elijah. Taking him, and several other talented Harridans, Marcus Knight incorporated them into the support crew of the 144th Direwolves, with Elijah being the first Harridan pilot in the Terran Systems Navy.
Though a controversial decision, The TSN was stretched thin with the growing war, and the defecting Harridans were slowly incorporated into a few Terran military units. Elijah has spent the last year as a pilot of the 144th Direwolves, and has earned the begrudging respect of most of his wingmates. Elijah 'aka' Spock has thus far expressed no reluctance against shooting down Varaxian Empire strike craft- exlusively piloted by Varaxian pilots, though he views the destruction of Varaxian naval vessels- with his indoctrinated comrades- as necessary, but regrettable deeds. Over the course of his year alongside human pilots, Elijah has earned the nickname 'Spock', both due to his status as alien, as well as the fact that his four-fingered hands, in their resting position resemble the 'Vulcan salute' from a centuries old classic series.
Name: Knight, Marcus Age: 34 Gender: Male Origin: Oriana Station - Vega System
Craft Specialization: Albatross Heavy Assault Fighter Callsign/Codename: Steel Kills: 49
Psychological Analysis: Confident and mature, this light-hearted pilot is a generally good natured man with strong feelings of camaraderie towards team mates. Prideful and loyal, Marcus holds the pilots under his command to a higher standard than most, but would never ask his men to do something that he wouldn't do himself, and is unafraid to break protocol and regulations in order to support his subordinates. Level headed and quite confident, Knight likes to maintain awareness over every situation he's in and is quick on the ball and able to make snap judgements and react to a constantly changing situation. Capable of operating at peak efficiency, even during times of great stress, Marcus can be quite analytic and can be very perceptive and intuitive in regards to people. The respect he holds for himself and those around him, has earned him several fans both in and out of the Navy.
Military Record: A TSN Squadron Leader, Marcus was an only child, son to Admiral Knight and a civilian mother. With a strong military background, Marcus had a fairly rigid childhood, as his parents sent him to military academies for most of his youth, hoping to straighten out mischievous and troublesome tendencies- with limited results. As a youth Marcus was well known as the school clown and jokester, and made friends easily. Nevertheless, Marcus got good grades, and upon graduating from the esteemed U.S. Naval Academy, he was sent to Mars to become a Aerospace Pilot.
At the Mars Aerospace Academy, Marcus' humorous habits seemed to mellow out. Maturing into a fine flight officer, Marcus had a talent for quickly learning aerospace maneuvers, and a knack for making up more unorthodox, but effective techniques on the fly. With such high promise, Marcus graduated near the top of his class, with high levels of mastery for the Albatross, and the then-state-of-the-art Aegis I fighters. Marcus was assigned to the 24th Fighter Wing after graduating.
During his four year tour with the 24th Fighter Wing, Marcus was quick to make a name for himself, easily scoring 10 kills against various pirates within his first year. During this tour Marcus also qualified with the M-85 Osprey bomber as well as the PAF-41 Super Stinger, clocking in hours of both simulation and actual flight time. It was also during this tour that Marcus earned his callsign, 'Steel', for his resolve, as well as his last name.
After a short leave period, Marcus was reassigned to the 144th Direwolves, where he exclusively flew Aegis Is for the next three years. While with the Direwolves, Marcus took part in the Siege of Cerol. This was a battle which took place between the remnants of the 16th TSN battlegroup, consisting of a carrier, a cruiser and a pair of frigates, attempting to break through a massive blockade/siege by a combined coalition of pirate factions. Cut off from reinforcements and facing the destruction of both the battlegroup, as well as the TSN colony, the beleaguered TSN ships were forced into employing a risky plan. Using a diversionary tactic, the remaining frigates and cruiser rushed the enemy lines, while the carrier deployed a small unit of fighters to destroy enemy capital ships and key structures. Stripped of most of their armaments and equipped with nuclear warheads, the small flight of 144th Albatrosses flew wide around the enemy lines in an attempt to strike the enemy from the rear.
During the attack, Marcus and his flight launched a total of six nuclear warheads at the pirate fleet from close proximity. The success of the 144th resulted in the destruction of the the pirate flagship as well as several other capital ships. Without the leadership keeping the pirate factions in line, the resulting infighting and disarray allowed the remaining TSN ships to hold out long enough for a relief fleet to rescue them. While the fleet had been decimated and reduced to a single carrier and cruiser, the 16th Battlegroup was decommissioned and its remaining parts reassigned to other military groups.
Earning a medal for heroism, Marcus was granted several months leave to lick his wounds and heal his injuries, during which the Varaxians revealed themselves to the Galaxy. Returning to the 144th Direwolves, Marcus took part in several skirmishes against the Varaxian Empire before war was officially declared, and was present to watch the destruction of the Tau Sigma colony. Three years later, Marcus now commands the 144th Direwolves as they prepare to strike back against the Varaxians.
Name: White, Logan Age: 21 Gender: Male Origin: Serra City, Mars, Sol System
Psychological Analysis: Brash and headstrong, Logan is the kind of person to talk with his heart, and damns the consequences when it comes to his opinions. Stubborn but earnest, Logan gets heated fairly quickly, but is a kind soul despite his temper. Despite having gotten into a lot of trouble for his aggressiveness and lack of language discipline, Logan is far from a wannabe hotshot pilot. Logan posses a a considerably low reaction time and combat sims suggest that he is able to react to changes quickly.
Military Record: [Extremely Condensed because NPC and I'm tired.] A rookie hailing from Serra City, Mars' capitol, and the largest city on the planet, Logan was born to a working class family and has a history of getting into trouble. Throughout school, Logan was a known troublemaker and got into fights often. With his middling grades, and extensive school record, Logan didn't appear to have much hope- or even desire to go to a typical university.
Instead, Logan signed on for the Navy, originally planning on becoming a marine. However, after receiving his aptitude test scores- considerably higher than most expected, Logan was offered a slot in the Mars Flight Academy. Immediately accepting, Logan threw himself headlong into his efforts in flight school, outperforming many of his peers through a combination of aggressive decisive action, tenacity, and luck. Graduating from flight school with high marks, Logan was assigned to the 144th Direwolves, who were rapidly taking on new pilots to replenish their numbers as they prepared to return to the front.
Name: Grayson, Clint Age: 20 Gender: Male Origin: Lombar, Sirius System
Craft Specialization: T-22 Dirk Interceptor Callsign/Codename: Rookie Kills: 0 In-Field, 27 Simulated (Note: One case of destruction of a friendly in simulation).
Psychological Analysis: Affable and easy-going, what Clint lacks in wits he makes up for in a generous helping of good mirth. Largely untouched by the ravages of war, the naivety of youth still clings to Clint like a blanket, and contributes to his continued optimism even in the face of adversity. It may have also, alongside his rather provincial upbringing, imbued him with an almost endless sense of wonder that displays itself most prominently when he is faced with some of the stranger aspects of the wider universe.
As of yet, Clint has shown no inclination to unconventional thinking when faced with combat scenarios. His willingness to follow orders exactly and precisely has however, endeared him to his superiors who have praised his dedication, if not his intelligence. Additionally, his sense of justice and concern for innocent lives may prove too idealistic in a time of war. Occasionally clumsy (see note above), with the right guidance and experience, Clint could grow into a fine and able pilot.
Military Record: Born on the planet Lombar, Clint was the son of colonists who made the journey from the core worlds to one of humanity’s newest settlements, seeking a better life for themselves on the agricultural planet.
Simple farmers, in both mind and profession, Sara and Graham Clintson eked out a comfortable, if not glamorous life on the fertile plains the stretched for miles in each direction. At the very least, it provided a safe environment for their new son to grow up in, away from the crime and poverty that often plagued many of the inner systems. Seeking to protect him from the worst elements of humanity, the boy was raised on a strict diet of hard work and discipline, spurred on by the occasional smack of a belt from his father; the stern gruff figure dominated much of his childhood while his mother travelled off world to trade. Believing a bit of elbow grease could fix most problems, Clint was a happy child for most of his youth.
However, raised in relative isolation from the wider affairs of the Terran Federation, Clint grew increasingly fascinated by the world beyond his planet as the colony developed and more and more travellers visited, bringing with them tidings from across the galaxy. Although his parents tried to discourage him from growing too curious, fearing it would lead to restlessness and the desire to travel, they were not blind to his desires. Deciding it was best to satisfy his hunger for travelling in some capacity, they allowed him to travel off-world occasionally when his mother needed to trade.
As time went on, Sara and Graham placed more trust and responsibility in their son, and began teaching him the basics of piloting. Under strict tutelage, Clint’s abilities grew, albeit slowly; his parents were reluctant to teach him too much too fast, fearing he might use his new skills might help him find a way off world. Unfortunately for them, fate had other plans for their son.
With the outbreak of war, Terran Federation presence on the planet grew drastically, and the sight of their ships hanging in the sky grew increasingly common. Concerned with maintaining the flow of vital foodstuffs from the outer worlds inwards, they guarded vigilantly against pirate incursions that threatened to disrupt the trade routes that Clint and the people of his planet had used for years. Their appearance fascinated Clint, and each time he passed one of their sleek hulls piloting his family’s now rusting merchant vessel, he gazed in wonder. It was during one such moment of marvel that they attacked. Without warning the Interceptor he had been watching zipping effortlessly around his vessel was obliterated. Varaxian raiders swarmed the Federation ships acting as an escort to Clint, determined to destroy his cargo and disrupt the flow of trade. Desperate to protect his family’s livelihood, and realising he could not hope to fight the raiders alone, Clint turned the ship quickly and manoeuvred it deeper within the group of Federation Interceptors, desperate to reach safety. Although not an expert pilot, his skill was enough that he was able to navigate the crossfire to reach a safe distance. Realising they could not hope to reach their quarry without significant losses, the Varaxians retreated, leaving the Federation pilots, and Clint, to lick their wounds.
Having witnessed the danger the Varaxians posed first hand, Clint now knew he had to do something to protect the peaceful life his parents had built for themselves. Although he did not previously grasp the significance the war held for his planet, seeing how the Federation fought to protect that which he held dear inspired something within Clint. He knew he had to take action.
The very next day he left home to sign up to the nearest Federation Naval Academy. Unable to face the tearful faces of his parents, he left a small note explaining his decision, vowing to return once the war was done and he had seen the universe. After a few years of training, during which his skills as a pilot developed far more quickly than they had at the helm of the merchant vessel, Clint emerged a fresh faced and fully enlisted pilot, assigned to the 144th Direwolves aboard the Galatia.
Psychological Analysis: Kira Lawrence, also once lovingly referred to as the 'Starchild of Eden Prime" was for lack of a better word a pilot prodigy. She is the daughter of the well respected Calvin Lawrence, a Colonel for Eden Prime's naval detachment -- the 207th Sentinel Watch. Being from a military heritage, the pressure was on from a ripe young age and throughout her days in pilot academy. Kira did not disappoint, acing all her school work and excelling beyond expectations during field exercise. Her fame (or infamy) made her a house name for all aspiring pilots on Eden Prime, even making word to some of the most ranking officers in the Navy. During this period she behaved much in the way as her father did: cocky, stubborn and risquè with a cheeky humor that landed her on the bitter end of the brass. However, the similarity breaks there, for where Colonel Lawrence was always respected for the healthy relationships he developed with those in his squadron, Kira often allowed her natural piloting talents to cloud her judgment. Recce mission after recce mission she pushed her luck with dangerous maneuvers and formations throughout Varaxian infested space. Her luck finally ran out when her orders -- controversial to this very day and commonly quoted as cardinal grievances in the chain of command resulted in the death of her entire strike wing, with herself the lone survivor. She was stripped of her rank and thrown into military confinement while undergoing the full stretch of Navy justice under two charges:
Failure of conduct becoming of an officer.
Failure to provide the obligations begotten of an officer to his/her wing.
After a vicious legal cycle Kira was acquitted, much to the outrage to Navy brass and enlisted alike (many think her father's connections was what allowed this). Nevertheless the damage had been done, and the prodigy once code-named Starchild was transferred to the 17th Communications Batallion teetering a fringe world that rarely saw action. Her duties usually amounted to catching stray radio waves and the odd supply run. Kira fell quiet at this point, a shadow of her former self. Though she still maintains a sarcastic composure during her exchanges with familiar faces, her dark past had taught her to hold her tongue. Emotional reservation saves lives, and to stay quiet means not a wrong word spoken.
Military Record: Right after graduation Kira was transferred to her father's regiment the 207th where she immediately took up the role of Pathfinder in Eden's highly renown reconnaissance division. Pathfinder’s were specialized wing sections whose primary focus was to establish intel ahead of the fighting fleet. They served secondary purposes as well such as linking navigation coordinates to bombardier cruisers, determining landing zones for drop pods when the Federation had boots on the ground, and guerrilla inspired tactics disrupting enemy communication lines. With such an emphasis on clandestine operations, Pathfinder's rarely amounted a numerous amount of kills. They were the Navy's eyes, not their gauntlet. Kira was the youngest Pathfinder ever commissioned, and while many had their doubts she consistently proved them wrong. Her daring formations and risky behavior rewarded her with a pristine mission success dossier (It was under her command several Varaxian transmissions were intercepted, saving countless of convoys from ambush). That is however up until her fall from grace.
Her tarnish came during a recce mission situated in the Veronius Delta, a quiet though strategically profound objective in galactic no-mans land. The Veronius Delta was unique in that it was unclaimed despite representing an excellent staging area for the Navy to launch future attacks. Kira's task was nothing short of what she had been doing for any of her past missions: identify nav-points and relay signature coordinates to command. The Veronius Delta was different however, for the Pathfinder to navigate that quadrant would essentially set a spearhead assault against Varaxian occupied space. It was, as far as she was concerned, a chance to permanently etch her name in Navy memorandum. She pushed onward with a recce team of seven including herself despite the constant warnings from her superiors about a Varaxian strike patrol heading into their vicinity. Even her 2IC begged her to consolidate, but once again she refused. It was inevitable fact that they would soon get surrounded, and Kira, the only survivor barely escaped with her life.
Her duties in the 17th Batallion were extremely limited. She was restricted from flying combat aircraft, only ever piloting communication and signal pods to and from relay vessels. After a year of this the 17th superiors deemed her fit to transfer to a craft repair division where she learned a bit of the trade from enlisted blue-collars. While her edge may have dulled her past accolades still remark on her talent as a pilot, but it was to say the least. Kira had finally achieved a modicum of self respect with the 17th and was perfectly content with maintaining a career there. Strangely enough, after finally getting settled her superiors had told her she was to be transferred to the 144th Direwolves.
Ensign Reeds is as fresh from the academy as pilots come, admittedly she started a little late but that only added do her eagerness to succeed - not necessarily a good thing in her case, however, for a reason which we'll cover later. Psychologically she's all there, no marbles missing and completely capable of an independent and rational thought process; an important note is that while rationality and independence are not mutually exclusive in Reeds' actions, she does often lean towards one of the two so-called "options."
Yes, you may have picked up that Reeds is what we call a risk-taker, which is why we assigned her to a T-22 Dirk during her flight training. A decision which we quite quickly came to regret. It turns out that you can take too much risk in those things. In the case of Reeds she ran into a cloud of micro-debris, and instead of bringing her bird to a halt she tried to turn that thing through 180 degrees something which she clearly didn't have the skill to do. By some luck, she didn't hit anything vital and managed to bring herself back in, albeit, full of holes. Her classmates did quick work of giving her a new nickname for that one.
As you might expect from a candidate as new to the field as Reeds, she still holds that irritating sunny disposition that some people manage to keep this far in life. As much as she loves shooting down aliens, she somehow still likes to think that everything will work out just fine - we're confident that this will sort itself out in due course as it always does. Expect her to be highly impressionable and vulnerable during the earlier duration of her career.
Military Record:
Reeds, Elizabeth. Born on the research station orbiting Eden in the Alpha Centauri system, originally commissioned to study the double star phenomena of the star Rigil Kentarus, however, in later years it was repurposed to measure radiation levels from Proxima Centauri instead. Her parents were both domestic workers - a cook and an on station gardener to be precise. While she always showed an interest in flying it was never in the military that she wanted to do it. More so in the typical fly out and pick up some rock samples, or if she was lucky the odd import delivery.
You might think that if you were a pilot that one might want to do something slightly more exciting than picking up rock samples from irradiated asteroids, and you would most likely be right. The reason Elizabeth had set her expectation in life so low was due to the stations schooling system. You see, living on a station requires enough people to fill all of the roles, and it's very rare that people want to leave planetside to live in what you can only describe as close conditions. So finding people to come to a station is hard enough as it is, the last thing anyone wants is people shooting off to explore the stars or some other rubbish.
After trying her best to spend her life flying those ships, she only lasted a year in the station's integrated flight school she had given up with it. The flying was what she had always dreamt of, but it was boring to her, nothing ever changed. She thought that perhaps flying wasn't for her, ended up working in the domestic sector for a few months, staring at the people who kept going.
Elizabeth had almost entirely resigned herself to the dull daily toil of station life when a recruiter made his rounds to Eden, stopping off at the station. Clearly, he had never had much success around there before; he didn't give any thrilling pitch. More of an "if you want to join come and see me," deal. Elizabeth wasn't particularly interested in the military. Dying was nothing she wanted to be part of, but on the other hand, the military always needed pilots. Also, military piloting could never be as dreadful as what Eden offered.
The decision was one which Elizabeth had to mull over for a few days, leave everything she knew for something she might very well hate, but would be stuck with for the foreseeable future. She was almost convinced that it was a bad idea before the stations waste disposal broke down. For a week. For most on the station, it was bad. For Janitor understudy Elizabeth it was hell. Rubbish piled up in the halls as maintenance gave the constant excuse of "it's the next thing on our list we swear!". She signed up after the sixth time they said that the same day the recruiter was supposed to leave.
Training in the academy was hell for Elizabeth, she wasn't as good as a pilot as she thought she would be. She was rash and naive, things she thought were clever were in reality suicidal. What she lacked in talent she tried her damned hardest to make up for in effort. The first year of her training pegged her as the hardest working in her cohort, but also the least damned successful. The theory went over her head, and her piloting was, to quote her instructor "stiff, almost like you're reading from the damned manual as you go,". It hit her hard, she started working twice as hard, and while she started to climb in capability, she started to lose herself. It was too much, and she wasn't making enough progress.
Then one day she really fucked up. She was flying a test flight, first time in a Dirk Interceptor. Some asshole flying in that area of space had blown an asteroid up, or some shit like that. Micro debris was everywhere. Any sane pilot would have stopped, but being overworked had made Sera sluggish and ignorant. By the time she noticed the cloud. The only thing she could think of when she saw it was to make use of the Dirks inertial dampeners, switch them off, swing her round and fire full thrust. Perhaps it was a lack of skill that meant she failed, maybe it was a lack of time. It was luck that got her out in one piece, however. One, Swiss cheese like piece.
That ballsy maneuver lead to two things, a new nickname from Elizabeth's peers. "Holes," a fitting name, if a bit tongue in cheek. Also a realization that she may be able to get through the academy on quick thinking rather than completely following the manual. She got more sleep out of that, and lower grades in the theory side of things. Her piloting made leaps and bounds, not to the top of the class of anything, but it was enough for her to graduate from the academy eventually. Assigned to the 144th Direwolves as a fucking newbie no less. But that didn't make her any less determined to prove her own worth.
Name: Williamson, Moe Age: 52 Gender: Male Origin: Canadian
Craft Specialization: F87 Aegis II Callsign/Codename: Gramps Kills: Thirty Nine.
Psychological Analysis: Fancy talk for 'Personality'. Give me a good paragraph or so describing your character's personality. Rule
From the Office of PhD. Julie Vzak, file number Alpha-Six-Charile-Nine-Delta-Five-Tango
From the on-set of training to the day Moe was in space his personality has changed and altered. Over the course of active deployment, training, warfare and simulations I’ve noticed main changes in his psychological mindset but also his views and morals.
Moe when he first signed up was one of your average “The army is the best thing ever” kind of male. His military file and training records were above average and overall he was more brighter and more upbeat, uptempo. He had a few sessions with me and most of them were under thirty minutes in length. No concerns existed for me then and I signed him off with relative ease and worry. Yet I did write a few concerns in the file and potential warning flags that may arise if he was exposed to warfare.
At the age of twenty four, Moe experienced his first active engagement in the Direwolves . The growing pirate insurgency in the Vega system had raised alarms in the Terran organization and ships were deployed. The situation was messy to say at best with a lot of lives lost. Civilian convoys looted and hostage rescue missions gone wrong were commonplace in the first parts of the operation before the Direwolves was deployed. Once the Direwolves was deployed and began active combat missions the situation changed of course for the better on paper, but in reality it was still messy. One of the notable Operation’s Moe recalls is Dark Horse where the Direwolves were moving after a cell of pirates who had been terrorizing a civilian convoy route for months. The Direwolves arrived as the cell was in the middle of a raid. Active combat ensued before finally after a few hours all hostiles were down…. But for a price. That day over 43 civilian casualties were reported which changed Moe’s outlook on war. One of the key quotes I picked up from the therapy sessions after the war was. “I don’t know if I want to fly again.”
His first few meetings were mere recounts of the whole operation and his role in the war. The Direwolves was involved in a lot of the hard hitting stuff which scarred Moe at his young age of twenty four during the whole war and pirate insurgency. From those two-three’s his physiological output and his view on life was damped severely. After the Direwolves was sent back to base I ordered Moe to take a leave of absence and put him on a light dosage of antidepressants for his case of depression. He also booked more sessions to overcome his case of PTSD caused by the fight. To this day he’s known to be a light sleeper and occasionally resorts to alcohol to relieve his problems.
After the Pirate insurgency and once I gave Moe the greenlight things started to get better. Notably during this time he began to smoke as a way to relieve his stress and is prone to often over-stressing if he doesn’t have a cigar or a drink or something to calm his nerves as he says. He enjoys flying again and in my eyes but also is he’s ready to serve. His sense of loyalty is back and he often shows that during his training sessions with the recruits. Many of the key traits he exhibits these day’s I feel is respectfulness, maturity but also a sense of humour. In one sense the pirate insurgency helped him become a better soldier and understand the complexities of modern day warfare.
His last session was when the war with the Varaxian Empire was declared. He felt that he was more ready for this war. He truly felt that his mind could handle the grueling hours of conflict, the bloodshed but most of all the pressure and the choices that war brought along with it. Something he couldn’t handle when he first fought an enemy during the pirate insurgency.
Military Record:
Top Secret - Clearance Level III/V
Training Portfolio Moe Williamson
-> From America, Homeworld : Earth -> Enrolled directly out of high school -> Training Scores Flying - 85/100 Risk and Reward - 78/100 Weapons - 96/100 Mechanical ability 63/100
-> Notes by Training Lead Gerald Roberts.
Moe is an above average training candidate. For starts he exhibits various good traits in a pilot. His flying skill, angles of approach, retreating and evasive maneuvers are good for most of the candidates in his class. He showed various mature choices when flying and commanded his ship well. Also he knew the intricacies in his ship and how to fully utilize it for whatever situation that arises.
In terms of risk and reward situations his choices were above average. For a pilot he shows a decent gasp at what is presented to him and how to deal with it. His decision making is often reserved and logical but at times he seems like he may be blunt and willing to go out all depending on the circumstances.
He placed topped in the weapons category, having a full knowledge of the ship's various gun capabilities, missiles but also how to appropriately use them depending on the battle situation but also how to adapt when given a different weapon set and use it to it’s full capabilities.
The only area of worry is mechanic ability. While he didn’t score the lowest he was simply classified as “below average”. For starters his knowledge of the ship's functions in terms of repairing itself, how to transfer power and other engineering but also basic mechanical functions was limited. He knew some but more learning and potentially more flight time is needed to understand these functions and how they’d work. He should be enrolled into a extra class to understand the intricacies of ship mechanic ability.
Debriefing Report - Vega Pirate Insurgency by Commander Victor Camden
Moe had a successful mission in the Vega zone. His first active engagement under the Direwolves was an overall success for him due to his notable skill and valour among his fellow squadmates. For starters he showed courage during the whole extended run of combat. His deployments were common and at times he had a quick turn around from one deployment to another. Handling the various scenarios thrown at him but also the instructions given to him at the same time,
Key notable occurrences for Moe were during Operation D-Z1. The Direwolves were assigned to take care of a pirate known as “Ruby”. Ruby was responsible for the destruction a civilian trading vessel and a military escort ship a few months back. A scout ship reported Ruby;s small pirate group nested around an abandoned asteroid mining base, going in for routine repairs. The Direwolves were responsible for capturing or eliminating Ruby and securing the mining base free from the pirate insurgents. This operation was led by Moe who led a group of 9 fighter ships towards the asteroid belt were the abandoned base was. Using a clever tactic of diversion and hitting them from all sides, it made the pirate group seem like they were facing overwhelming odds. Only forty-five minutes into the assault the pirates surrendered and were taken into custody of the Federation.
After Operation D-Z1 Moe was stationed to protect a valuable supply line from insurgents along with 8 other fighter pirates. Sporadic combat existed but overall Moe held the supply line to the standards that the Direwolves live and die by.
After the Vega Insurgency, Moe was given a year's leave at the request of a medical psychologist and a chance to clear his mind. Once he came back Moe resumed training duties and served mainly as a weapon and armament trainer while usually teaching about flying and landing the various models of ships.
Medical Report for Moe Williamson
Subject -> Moe Williamson Age at Report -> 50 Years Old. Height -> 6’3 Weight -> 234 Pounds Body Fat % -> 9.5% Severe Injuries? N Scars? N Hair Color - Black however some grey spots exist Beard? Y -> Turning Grey. A five o’clock shadow Other? A tattoo on his right arm and his neck. His neck has a tattoo of Earth while arm has a tattoo of the logo of the 144th Direwolves.
Various medical documents and applications are enclosed in the file folder, Moe’s alcoholism and his new fondness of cigars has been noted in his file, underneath the various tests is a few notes by Dr. Gerald Yam
Moe’s health over the year has remained relatively stable. The only medication he is on is to help him sleep and that’s only if he requires it. His prescription history indicates that he isn’t overusing or could be addicted to the medication. The only reason of worry in my eye’s is his new habits of Alcoholism and smoking.
The root cause of this has been identified and tied to past events associated due to war. Yet right now I feel it isn’t at the point where he should be placed in any rehabilitation program of any sort. He’ll be observed for a few months and a check up will be done once more.
Credit Name: Travers, Adrien Age: 32 Gender: Female Origin: Myrrh Station, Deneb System Craft Specialization: B34 Redeemer Callsign/Codename: Mother Kills: 3 Confirmed Capital Class Ships, 5 confirmed Cruisers and Destroyers, 14 confirmed lighter ships of the line, 8 unconfirmed Strike Craft
Psychological Analysis: Travers is well known by higher ups aboard the Galatia as somewhat of a hot-headed troublemaker, but she'd beg to argue that she's just misunderstood. She can normally be found in a mess deck screwing around with her crew and other personnel or practicing combat tactics in a simulator. Overly sarcastic and known to not beat around any proverbial bushes, but instead to get right to the heart of any dispute or topic no matter who she cuts off to do so which, unsurprisingly, is at the heart of her earned reputation with the higher ups among the ship. However, to the lower ranked members of the crew and the rest of the 144th Travers is seen as something of a mother figure. Known for fiercely defending her squadron on board the Galatia, comforting those that find themselves missing major events back home, losing friends or families, and even their entire cities to the war. Due to this nature she was unanimously voted at a meeting she wasn't informed of as the one to drop any fresh meat that shows up to the squadron on for a tour of the ship and the squadrons areas. This reputation has lovingly earned her the callsign of "Mother", much to her distaste.
Military Record: Adrien Travers was born to Isaiah and Almira Travers on the station of Myrrh in the Deneb System. An asteroid, hollowed out for its mineral deposits and re-purposed into a habitable station, it had been spun up in the single largest engineering effort Deneb had ever seen and its population had steadily grown since. Her parents families were among the first to settle into Myrrh and have lived there since. Her immediate family lived a relatively easy life aboard Myrrh, her father being the space age equivalent of a farm hand working in the large fungal vats of the station, while her mother worked as the secretary for the governor of the station. Although her parents were well off, Travers ended up being left with her elderly grandmother Ione, who was barely strong enough to chase the growing toddler across the living room, let alone anywhere outside of their modest living space on the station. Due to this Adrien spent the first few years of her life in almost complete seclusion from the rest of the station, knowing only the inside of their home as her entire world.
Once Adrien was old enough she was sent to preschool, were her little mind was simply overwhelmed by everything that existed just on the other side of the door her mother and father left and returned from work through. The realization that her version of the world she lived in was far more vast than she had ever thought never left her from that point forward. As she aged her want to know what was beyond the next wall grew and grew, which during the later years of her education saw her frequently sneaking off to the docks to watch freighters, construction ships, and even the occasional small TSN patrols docking and undocking.
This fascination with the world beyond led Adrien to take a welding apprenticeship out of school. There she learned the tricks of the trade, starting first in gravity and on smaller jobs and projects before she was deemed ready to move to the more delicate and far more dangerous job of welding in vacuum. Her first experience stepping off the station, tethered as she was, could only be explained as a recreation of the realization that the world was far more vast than the walls that confined her. Except now it was the universe and not just the fraction of a rounding error that Myrrh station represented.
Working until her nineteenth birthday as a welder on Myrrh, Adrien, with the blessing of her parents, took a job as a welder on a shanty old freighter known as the Cordoba. To say she was an aging ship would be an understatement,she was larger than a skyscraper, and had been around since the initial colonization of the Deneb system. Her age was starting to show in just about everything she did. It was the evident aging of the ship that landed Adrien the job, as another vacuum qualified welder on board had quit after a near death experience on the outer hull of the Cordoba. This did not faze young Adrien, and she worked aboard the ship for three years seeing first hand many of the systems that humanity had colonized as the freighter went about its work. Near the end of her formal contract with the Cordoba Adrien began taking an interest in what it took to pilot such a hulking beast. With a little bit of persuading of the captain and a lot of begging of the current pilot of the Cordoba Adrien found herself learning to fly the massive freighter through the depths of space.
Adrien terminated her contract on the day it was set to do so, and ended up resigning with the Cordoba as it's new Co-pilot for another two years. Here she became well known for her keen perception of the magnitude of the Cordoba, which many contributed to her many years working outside her, and her skillful handling of the lumbering skyscraper sized vessel in tighter areas and during delicate docking maneuvers.
Adrien ended up re-upping with the Cordoba for the majority of her middle and late twenties, eventually succeeding the original pilot in the wake of his retirement. It was around this same time that the Varaxian Empire was first encountered and her ever hungry curiosity for the great unknown beyond her familiar walls pushed her to seek a commission in the Terran Systems Navy to try and be at the forefront of the confrontation with the new alien empire.
Although they would be hard pressed to admit it, the TSN was in dire need of experienced pilots even before the official declaration of war against the Varaxians, and as such the Terran Navy happily took Adrien in. Attending Naval flight training in the Delta Serpentis system and to the surprise of none of the instructors, Adrien showed a knack for the larger craft in the simulators and would be assigned to train and eventually fly the M-85 Osprey, the now outdated bomber of the TSN. Following her successful graduation she was assigned to the 144th Direwolves as a replacement for a pilot lost during one of the 144th's initial skirmishes with the Varaxians.
At first replacing a pilot slot that many in the 144th would rather have left unfilled, Travers slowly earned herself a name as a pilot that could be trusted in even the most bleak situations, downing multiple Varaxian Frigates and a still unconfirmed compliment of strike craft in her first few years of skirmishes with the 144th. It has now been six years since she commissioned and Travers finds herself as one of the most senior Redeemer pilots still in the squadron, having successfully requested to remain with the 144th until her termination from service or death in the line of duty does tend to make you a senior rather quickly in a large military machine like the TSN.
"He lit the night he brought with the fire that puts out the planets when time ends." - The Ramayana
Name: Varakjit, Anuri Age: 30 Gender: Male Origin: Mumbai, India, Earth
Craft Specialization: F-87 Aegis II Callsign/Codename: Rama Kills: 45
Psychological Analysis:
Anu could be quite frankly considered one of the most tactically brilliant and ambitious pilots on the squad. He is constantly seeking out the bigger picture, always trying to find new strategies to be applied on the wider scale. He is never without the latest information from the front, and actively strives to keep track of other military movements of other units besides his. He is always concocting up new ideas, thoughts, and inspirations, leading him to be known as a man of novelty. However, his wide scope of things has also led him to be brash and arrogant for such an accomplished soldier. He has what some would consider a superiority complex and many counts of insurbodination, often resulting from disputes with his superiors over courses of action taken - the primary reason why a skilled fighter like him has risen up the ranks that slowly.
Military Record:
Anu hails from a long and distinguished line of Indian military men. He enlisted in the Terran Navy through at sixteen and graduated at twenty with flying colors. He was deployed first as part of a squadron sent to eliminate pirates in the Beta Aquilae system, and quickly gained immediate respect for saving the life of a fellow wingman when his fighter's oxygen supply was hit by a missile, causing Anu to have to temporarily exit his own ship in deep space, connect the downed ship's oxygen tank with his own, and tow it back through hyperspace. He was honored with a promotion and a special celebratory event back on Terra, and his story was unofficially incorporated into Terran military doctrine as an example of brotherhood. Many would however note this as part of Anu's slow decline.
His fellow squadron members noted Anu's cockiness and arrogance in the months - even years - following his deed. He also began a long chain of insubordination charges against superior officers. His irreverence, to the dismay of many, however, still had backing. He continued winning victory after victory against pirates - his favorite enemy - in many systems. All of those victories, however, were won with different squadrons - many of Anu's fellow pilots described his character as being rather toxic, and no one really grew fond towards him. For many, Anu regarded himself as a one-man army: somethig many great soldiers know cannot exist.
Seven years on, and the Varaxian Empire found its way into Terra's sights. Back in India, Anu's younger brother, Nashi, was a brilliant xenobiologist working for the Terran Federation. Though he did not get to see him often, Anu loved Nashi very much. But Nashi was one of the scientists on board an expeditionary ship that unknowingly headed deep into Varaxian territory. Nashi was also one of those scientists who were engulfed in a fiery plasma ball that was the expeditionary ship. Nashi was one of the few people that Anu felt a close connection to, and that connection was gone. Anu had never felt so helpless in his life.
So Anu redoubled his efforts. He sought refuge in his faith, delving deep into Hindu mythology, earning his nickname 'Rama' from the books he was always buried in. Many of his colleagues noticed a sharp decline in his cockiness, removing the arrogance from his skill - which again earned him respect and eventually landed him with the 144th. But Anu, deep inside, would forever hold a deep-seated pure hatred for the Varaxian Empire. Whoever they were, he would kill them, he would kill all of them - just as they killed his brother.
Name: Severin (Rin) Renault (Formerly Severin Tain/ Incept 92A-CRN)
Age: 32 at time of death / 6 at time of incident
Gender: Female / Female appearance and persona
Origin: Athoek Station / Classified
Appearance: Severin is fairly small, somewhat shorter than average for a woman - a benefit at the dense, tightly-packed controls of military equipment. Her frame is slim and strong, taut and feminine. She keeps her hair - wavy, dark, and threaded with silver - in a messy tail to just below her shoudlers, her face framed more by accident than design. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, and slightly mismatched: one a dark, crystal green like a polished gemstone, the other a couple of shades paler and surrounded by tiny surgical scars. Severin's lips are full and expressive, and even now tend to find their way to a gentle smirk that suggests she knows something you don't. Her right hand is marked with scars, many clearly from working with her hands, others following the precisely drawn lines of medical procedures.
At the back of her neck, leading into her hairline, are a large number of variously-precise surgical scars, some extending down beneath her shirt collar toward her left arm. Most visually striking, Severin's entire left arm and parts of her shoulder, chest, and rib cage have been entirely replaced by a neuroprosthetic. The artificial limb follows normal human anatomy, but is obviously artificial, the sculptural lines picked out in the white of advanced ceramic plating and accented with matte-black alloy. She is extensively otherwise reconstructed and augmented, but those machines are less visible.
[File access restricted. Last modified by Tanner, J.]
Prior to the events of [Redacted], Severin Tain served in a non-military capacity aboard several Terran Naval Service stations and vessels, primarily under contract from Raleigh-McDonnell during the deployment and validation of the next-generation strike craft. In virtually every unit she worked with, Ms. Tain was considered exceptionally valuable, though several officers noted a and a near-total lack of deference to the chain of command, exacerbated by a pointed, acerbic wit. Despite several formally-lodged complaints, no commander had Ms. Tain removed from their unit, citing feelings that she was worth more than the trouble she caused, and that pilots and craft she worked with outperformed their peers and even fighters from the same contract batch.
In her personal life, Ms. Tain was ferociously intelligent, with an unexpected playfulness. Though she was friendly, at times gregarious, and often flirtatious, Severin had few close friends; very likely due to her tendency not to stay in one place for long. In general, she had a cool, even temper, save for (perceived or actual) impugning of her work or capabilities. She was not given to excessive drinking, but did occasionally miss appointments by being absorbed in a book. She treasured new books, old music, and good tools, and believed in the fundamental positive value of the Federation.
Severin Tain is deceased.
[Attending physician’s note: Bullshit.]
—-
Incept 92A-CRN, a Kaller-type artificial intelligence, was incepted on [Redacted]. Of nine entanglement attempts, 92A-CRN was the third to attain consciousness, from a total of five successful entanglements. Of those three, two iterated to the point of metastable complexity where they could be commissioned as Navy artificial intelligence constructs. During her service, 92A-CRN was generally well-liked by service members she interacted with, and functioned well when integrating with other AI constructs. Unusual for constructs in general and particularly those of her nousotype, 92A-CRN manifested a playful, surprising wit, and, unexpectedly, developed an extraordinary sense of humor. Based on her serial number, Incept 92A-CRN preferred to be called 'Corona.'
This construct possessed an exceptionally stable personality, not unusual among Kaller-type AI. She demonstrated a fierce interest in human-machine compatibility and interaction, and took a close, personal interest in the case of Severin Tain, one of the most-completely reconstructed individuals in the Federation. General guidance for AI is to remain distant from their crews and human counterparts, but Incept 92-CRN developed a number of close friendships. In at least one case, thise affection appeared to be developing into something more. It is unclear if these feelings were reciprocated.
In her intended capacity for the Federation, Incept 92A-CRN demonstrated remarkable tactical skill. Alone among her incept batch, 92A-CRN's aptitudes fell most in line with the coordination and operation of fast, direct-fire ships. Initially intended for installation aboard the TNS Galatia, she was instead scheduled for installation aboard the destroyer Curie, which would not be completed for some time after the Galatia's launch. `
However, due to [redacted], Incept 92A-CRN no longer exists.
[Attending physician’s note: Also bullshit.]
—-
[Addendum: Added by Tanner, Juliana; Chief Medical Officer, Mercy of Tama]
Since the events of [Redacted], it has been my duty to examine what appears to be a gestalt being; a wholly new intelligence that displays aspects of two individuals, further influenced by emergent behavior. The larger part of the patient’s personality appears to be derived from that of Incept 92A-CRN, though of course an exact quantification is impossible. The patient’s self-identification seems to share commonalities with what we would normally consider human baseline behavior - she retains a sense of sexuality, of personhood, of an expectation for a particular image in a mirror. Other aspects, including an immense ability to process and handle sensory information or parallel consideration of intellectually intensive tasks, closely match those of existing Navy intelligence constructs. The patient possesses and displays metal and physiological responses to memories specific to Severin Tain, including a preferred mode of dress, a dislike of certain foods and sexual preferences. Indeed, the patient arranges her living quarters, in a similar way to Ms. Tain, however she now writes with the opposite dominant hand. The patient’s moods are somewhat more volatile than they have been recorded in the past, and there is a previously-unreported tendency to introspection and self-reflection during quiet moments. However, there are no indications of suppressed emotions or a reduced capacity for social interaction.
It is important to note that the separate personalities of Severin Tain and 92A-CRN appear to no longer exist; the patient does not hear voices from a subsumed consciousness or experience discrete mental states. The patient recalls memories as a single linear narrative, even when those memories are self-contradictory or exist multiply, without any kind of identity dissociation while discussing them.
At present, the patient has passed every psychological evaluation given by Navy staff, and seems to be emotionally stable. Detailed observations, including multiple brain scans appropriate to her current physiology, do not suggest an impending mental breakdown. The patient is intelligent, self-aware, and possesses consciousness to every degree to which we can test. Despite the fascinating implications this presents, it is the opinion of this officer that the conditions resulting in the patient’s current state virtually cannot and certainly should not be repeated.
Military Record:
A bright room, the light even but diffuse enough to cast soft shadows and not hurt the eyes. She looked to her hands, still somehow unfamiliar and intimate all at once, then to the door. They had been subtle about it, but she'd heard the lock's bolt click home the moment the orderlies closed the door. They weren't ready to trust her, not yet. She wondered if they were right to. She wondered if they knew something she didn't. Still, at least they hadn't cuffed her to the chair this time.
The machines in her body fed information into her mind, invisible information crawling across her awareness - wireless signals, communication traffic, the spectral output of the lamps. Eveyrthing managed by a sense she understood and controlled, but that part of her still found somehow alien, something like deja vu or the chaotic moment after waking where you're sure you should remember how to fly. And she didn't feel any guards, the endless chatter from their communication equipment always stood out against the background noise of mobiles and environmental automation. She was certain she would know if they were standing sentinel. Leaning back in her chair, she instead felt the swirl of an approaching mobile comm, one that was more-connected than a standard-issue device. Another specialist, of course. There had, after all, been no end to the interviews, the interrogations, the demands. If she had to guess, this would be another one of the Navy’s military psychiatric personnel.
She straightened when the door opened and leaned forward to lace her hands together on the table, then arched one eyebrow in surprise. Tall, lean, with a mane of greying hair, this new arrival was very much not the tweed-jacketed, bespectacled bureaucrat she had expected. She moved with an easy grace, each footfall lazily confident. Her clothing was dark, and at her throat, a white collar.
“Good morning,” the new arrival said, her voice made crisp by a slight Slavic accent, “My name is Zhana Mashir.” She pulled the other chair away from the table and sat, precise without being prim. She set a thick, well-thumbed folder in front of her, and put on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“I convinced them you were very likely tired of taking cognitive aptitude tests,” Mashir said, a smirk in her voice, “There are only so many times a person can be asked the same questions before going mad, I think.”
“I appreciate that,” she said, “Though I’m not sure I require the services of a chaplain at the moment.”
“Ah,” Mashir said and flipped open the file, “You would be surprised how often I hear that. Well, maybe you wouldn’t. But I don’t expect you have anything to unburden your soul with at the moment, of course. I’m not here to take your confession, or to tell you how all of this is God’s great plan. No, rather, I’ve read quite a lot about you,” and here she tapped her finger on the folder, “And I’ve noticed something I don’t care for.”
“And what would that be?” She said, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“You’ve been through four psychological evaluations,” the priest said, “Four batteries of ethical and critical-thinking questions, which is three more than we require for commanding a warship and four more than we require for enlistment. I’ve watched all of the recordings, and do you know what I’ve noticed? They treat you like property. Like a...thing, yes?” Her finger poked down onto the folder, “That worries me.”
She made a sound low in her throat, not exactly a laugh, “Admiral Tanner…explained that to me.”
“Did he?” Mashir said, dubious, “And what was his reasoning?”
“He explained that, legally, at the moment I’m dead - and that means I have no rights in this matter,” she said, affecting a parody of a Southern drawl, “And that the Terran Navy will decide what to do with me. Before then, I’m his problem, and he doesn’t like problems.”
“I see,” Mashir said, “Well. I think I will have a chat with the Admiral when we’re through. But for now, with your permission, of course, I would like to…get to know you a little.”
She raised an eyebrow again, felt the tiny scars around her eye tug at her skin there, “Are you going to buy me dinner?”
“Mm, I would not discount the idea,” Mashir said, with the ghost of a grin, “But, well. I suppose, to begin with, I would like to know who I’m talking to.”
She blew out a small sigh, with the tiniest piece of a lopsided grin, “You have that information in front of you.”
“I have information on two individuals,” Mashir said, “Neither of which, I think, is the person I’m speaking with now.”
“Well,” she said, “That’s the question, isn’t it?” A small grin spread across her face, “I have…memories, and they’re all my memories, but I know they’re from different places. I remember conversations from both sides, do you see? What I felt when I said something, and what I meant when I replied. I remember seeing myself cry and and wanting more than anything else to be able to reach out and hold someone that I know is…was…me.”
She looked over at Mashir, and tapped her own finger on the folder, “You’re right, there are two names there, and I don’t know which one I am. I don’t…I don’t look at myself and say ‘this part was from that person, this part was the other.’ I only see myself.”
“Mm,” Mashir said, “All right, we’ll pass over that for now. Now…you worked closely with the Federation, and the Navy in particular. Can you tell me what you remember about your time with them? What you did?”
She sighed, “I have…had…worked with the Navy for the last eight years or so, directly, anyway. My company designed and built different kinds of military hardware, especially fighters. My usual position was in the field, making sure that new ships and weapons operated correctly when we delivered them. I trained maintenance crews, and I spent a lot of time with pilots - a lot of them hated that. Some civilian telling them what to do? Please.” A smirk, “I also handled demonstrations when we needed to show off new hardware. I was good at it, too.”
“As for what I remember…” Her voice trailed off, “I remember the first implant I ever had, the company paid for it. I have a degenerative nerve disorder, but they laced machines in my brain to take care of it once I was diagnosed. I remember the sound of the clippers when they shaved my head, the first time I heard the saw against my skull. I was ‘worth it,’ they told me. I never knew how to feel about that.”
She cleared her throat, eyes drifting to one side, “Things were different after we met the Empire. I remember a lot of scared kids suddenly realising that their jobs would be so much harder, that they’d be using the ships I brought them to fight and kill and die. Bases hadn’t been designed with the idea they’d be attacked from orbit, and I saw ships burn, venting oxygen into space while we huddled in escape pods. I remember the helplessness, the fury. They tried to recall me to headquarters, but I said they’d only bring me back in a body bag, because people out here needed the knowledge I had and that a weapon you don’t know how to use belongs to your enemy.”
“And there was a night, on the base on New Melbourne. It wasn’t supposed to be front-line, more of a training school and logistics hub.” She swallowed, “I was delivering new fighters, and we’d just taught the mechanics all the little tricks of keeping them flying. I was about to start training flights with the pilots…but then we heard that sound, the sound Varaxian engines make in atmosphere, and then the cannon shells started falling like rain. I dragged everyone I could to the hangars, made sure the new ships could fly. We opened the launch doors, and I saw the fighters scream into the sky, I saw one of the Varaxian ships go down, but there were always more. And it didn't take them long to figure out where the counterattack was coming from, but the ships had to come back to re-arm and we couldn't close the launch doors. I pulling a pilot out of a fighter, he'd been shot through the cockpit glass but was still breathing. We'd just gotten him to a stretcher, then I lost my balance and there was this...feeling in my chest, and a sound like God had kicked the door in."
Mashir waited a moment, “Then? What happened next?”
“I…the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital, machines shoved down my throat, and a nurse telling me I was lucky to be alive.” She took a breath, deep and shaky, “I couldn’t talk, so I couldn’t tell him that my right hand wouldn’t unclench or that I couldn’t turn my head, and nobody told me that they’d had to take off everything from my left shoulder down for almost a week. I couldn’t breathe on my own or regulate my body temperature or manage my own heartbeat, and I remember an officer from the Navy coming to tell me that they commended me. But then it took six months for them to approve my application for prosthetics and implants and neural bridges to put my brain and my nerves and my body back together.”
“And…and I remember coming aware in darkness, filled with purpose, with a desire to...help. To be useful.” Her voice was still quiet.” I knew I was intelligent, but that I wasn’t the same thing that the people I spoke with were. I remember understanding, knowledge, a careful expansion of myself. Lessons, of a sort, and guidance, of a sort. They didn’t give me a name, just a serial number, at least to start with. I knew when they were talking to me. And…mm. I remember meeting…mysel, at the Tyrell Institute, in the Invasive Neurosurgery ward. Broken, lashed together with metal and wires, holding onto sentience by the barest thread. I knew I would need help to recover, and I requested to be assigned to..." she waved a hand.
“This…gets confusing,” She said with a quiet laugh, “There’s so much I remember twice.”
“I’m following,” Mashir said, “Please, continue.”
She took a long breath, “I helped myself understand the machines they put in me, the nerve staples and the cortical bridges and the prosthesis interfaces. They didn’t think I’d recover even with those, but with my help, I did. My brain learned to move in different ways, and I helped develop direct interfaces that let me teach the machines better ways to talk to my neural maps, even though more surgery was the last thing I wanted. It took a year to recover to the point where I could live on my own, but I was never far away. My family wanted to see me, but the only place I could stay was somewhere under strict security access, and the Navy wouldn't let them. After a while I went back to work, still attached to Naval commands, and I was always with me. After a while, I could leave the Institute, and the company started relocating me less and less often. For the first time, I started being able to spend time getting to know the soldiers, the crews.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile, “I even took a vacation - and when I went home, I met my parents for the first time and I hugged my sister for the thousandth time. I remember that things always felt too cold on my prosthetic arm. My mother knitted a sleeve over Christmas just for it.” She blew out a sound, something close to a laugh.
“How long did you work…together?” Mashir said.
She smirked, “Six years. I was the first assignment I had. I helped myself get adjusted to the machines in my body, but after that we were still close. I invited me into my home, and I saw my life through two sets of eyes. I watched dates go well, and a lot more that went badly. Wherever I was, I wasn't far away, by my own choice. I did other things for the Navy and Federation, of course, but I always had some of my attention on myself. I was always there to talk to, which I wasn't used to. I made myself laugh, I offered the comfort I could when I cried. I shared my thoughts, first the ones I spoke, then a more intimate connection. I already knew my implants in a profound way, and felt...right. I...cared, very much, for myself. And that only deepened until Tiang Shen."
“Ah,” Mashir said, “I wasn’t going to ask about that, but…”
"The Navy arranged to have my intelligence core moved to the shipyard there, and I was excited. I hadn't been moved in a while, and Rin had settled down just far enough away that the superluminal communication speed was a little annoying. And..." She grinned, a little sheepish, "I was going to be installed on a ship. We don't have rites of passage, not really. I'd never have a first kiss or a first drink, you know? But a ship...well. It's close. I was looking forward to it - Tiang Shen was well-defended, and there were other ships, even other AIs there to coordinate a response to any kind of threat." She looked to one side, her expression again turning thoughtful.
"We're not very big, did you know that?"
"Pardon me?" Mashir said.
"Artificial intelligences. Before us, there was so much space, so many resources necessary to only approximate consciousness. Some of those systems are still around too, but we're something different." She focused on the priest, "Entanglements on the quantum level, carefully-coordinated bursts of light and electricity and probability. Billions and billions of interconnects, all suspended in a flexible matrix the size of a fist. All it takes to move one around is a power cell. We can even survive for a couple of minutes without, if we have to - but we'll start to de-cohere after that."
“I had no idea,” Mashir said, “And you were at the shipyard that day?"
“I had just been delivered when…it happened,” she said. “There was the explosion, of course. Two dozen AIs in the network vault vaporized, six others directly installed in combat exoskeletons burned out by their own powerplants. Security protocols hadn't advanced to where they are now, it only took a couple of people bought off by the Empire."
"I hadn’t connected to the base network yet, and communications locked out once it started. Even in my own Exo I couldn’t get a good idea of what was happening. I…” Her voice trailed off. She took a breath to speak, but couldn't find the words.
“Are you all right?” Mashir asked. She leaned forward, her fingers touching the back of the other woman's hand across the tabletop.
“I…" She started, "My memories feel…washed out. I don’t remember things twice, I remember…chaos. A swirl of…images, emotions.”
Mashir nodded, “Can you tell me what you do remember?”
"Fire," she said, "Explosions, the sound of cannon impacts and screaming. I remember the pulse from the AI vault locked up some of my implants, and I couldn't stand or see out of my right eye for a minute. I heard calls for pilots to their stations, and nothing could hide the panic in the dispatcher's voice. When I could stand, I looked out a viewport and the sky was filled with Varaxian ships, light rippling across their hulls from weapons fire. A minute later, the hull a dozen meters down from me buckled in while a boarding party breached the station's hull. I hauled myself up, pulled along a leg that didn't want to bend, tried to scramble away from the boarders."
She swallowed, "I heard Rin calling for help, heard her voice over the radio reporting the boarders. She was scared, but wasn't panicking. I could hear the sound of the station's hull tearing behind her, heard the decompression alarms going off when they got through. I realized I could hear the signals from her implants, and I ran toward her, calling for help the best I could. I couldn't tell if anyone heard either of our signals or if anyone else was coming, but I had half a ton of combat exo around me and I had to do something."
Her voice got very quiet, "The station's automatic compartment doors had closed before I could get to her. I could still hear her on the radio, and I told her I was coming." She looked down, her eyes glistening, "I remember feeling the bullet, the way my head snapped to the side, the loss of balance. Then...everything just..." She closed her eyes, the tears started to fall.
"When I got the doors open, I ran up to Rin and her eyes wouldn't focus, she wasn't moving, and there was so much blood, on the deck, on the corridor wall. I could see the metal laced in the back of her head. Only one of the interfaces in her brain still worked, but I could still feel it. I started to regulate her heartbeat, tried to manage her breathing, but there was so much damage, and I..." She paused, her breath shallow, catching in her throat. Mashir stayed quiet.
"I didn't want to be in a world without her," she said, "And I thought, this shipyard, there was a hospital ship on the manifest. It was loaded to go for forward deployment, with invasive-neurosurgey wards, surgical machines, neural bridging hardware. They were for putting pilots and soldiers back together." Her voice faltered, words coming thick around tears that she tried to brush away with the back of her hand.
"I...I had a live map of Severin's neural maps from a few hours before, and I thought..." She sniffled, "I had to try. Something, anything, even something insane. I picked her up, and I ran through the station, shoving people out of the way. I ignored the comm chatter from people organizing a response, calling for backup or position relay. I didn't do my job, I didn't do what I was made for; I didn't help the Federation. I killed people." She looked up at Mashir, and what touched her face wasn't a smile, "Free will has a hell of a price, doesn't it?"
Mashir reached into her coat and pulled out a white handkerchief. She handed it across the table, but remained silent.
“There were so many machines in her head already, so many systems replicating and interacting with brain structures. I thought that…I thought there would be a way to fix her, to use that technology to string the parts of her brain that still worked together. But there was so little left, between the damaged implants and the bullets and the swelling…but I still thought I could feel her somewhere in there, hear her voice. I probably wasn’t rational, but…” She looked up at the priest, her eyes still wet with tears.
“We’re pretty resilient,” she said, “Humans and AIs. And I’d had a thousand, thousand people talk to me, ask me questions, help make plans or get them dinner or whatever. But in all of that, there had only been one person who treated me the way Severin did. We’re not supposed to get close to people - we’ll probably outlive them, after all. But I was close to Rin, and I’d have given anything if only I wouldn’t lose her. And I tried. I did. And I made a decision, and I thought that at least, maybe it would save her. Maybe I could give Rin her memories, her laugh, the way she sang in the shower. I wanted more than anything else for her to kiss someone or taste her coffee in the morning. Maybe that would be enough. Do you understand?”
“So I reconfigured my intelligence core,” she whispered, “I knew what parts of Rin’s brain were damaged, what had to be removed, and I had synaptic scans. I gave myself up, piece by piece. I saved as much of both of us as I could, and…” she sighed, “I built new interface hardware, found ways to install it, I found ways of making my intelligence core understand such intimately-connected equipment. It took hours. I had to lock the door to the surgery ward, but there were others, and the yard's staff had enough to worry about without bothering me. Then I programmed the surgery robots to remove my core and fit it inside Lara’s skull. There was so little left of me by then, so little left of her, too.”
She swallowed, looked down and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, her voice still low. “I felt the links between my core and her brain connect and adapt and learn. There were more hours when I didn’t know what was going on - when I didn’t know who I was, what connected to what. I lost a…lot of time. And then, when it was over, when I could breathe on my own and see out of both eyes and I could feel my hands and my face and my lips, I knew…” She looked down, opened and closed her hands on the tabletop.
“…It didn’t work. Not the way I wanted. Not the way she…I…deserved. I looked in the mirror and I felt…like I didn’t know the person looking back at me. Not just the scars, not just the shaved head, not just the bloody sclera. Everything was familiar and alien, I knew how to walk but I didn’t know why.”
“And now you are here,” Mashir said, her voice quiet and even, “Where you feel you are between life and death, yes?”
She nodded, her eyes blinking back more tears.
“Mm. May I make a suggestion?” Mashir said.
“I can’t believe you’d have anything to say,” she said with a small, brittle laugh, “I can’t think of a religion that has words for something like me.”
“No, not religion,” Mashir said, leaning forward to look the other woman in her slightly-mismatched eyes, “Philosophy, perhaps. I didn’t spend all my time reading one book, hm? You think you stand between two worlds, and I think you are right in that. But you don’t stand between death and life. You said yourself, neither of those people are you. No, my child. You stand between your old life - those memories you carry, those people you are not - and a new one.”
“But I don’t even have a name,” she said, sniffling.
"Then give yourself one," Mashir said, "Or keep Severin's. You loved her, yes?"
"I-" She looked up, leaned back.
"Whatever you are, it is something new. Informed by the past but not bound by it. Not quite tabula rasa, but enough to matter." Mashir smiled, gestured with one hand, "You have a new life. Beyond these walls, what do you want to do with it?"
She blew out a huffing breath, "Now that is something nobody's asked me yet."
"And do you have an answer?" One of Mashir's eyebrows arched over her glasses.
She paused for a long moment, "I want...to remember them. I want their lives to have mattered. I want their deaths - or their loss, I suppose, to have been more than chance and despair and rage and desparation. I don't want to live out my days here, having my brain scanned for documents so classified that nobody will ever read them." She looked up at Mashir, "I want to fight."
"Careful," Mashir said, her voice gentle, "Living for revenge is a road that leads to only one place."
"No, not that," she said, "At least...not only that. I can help. I know some of those ships more intimately than anyone else ever could. I can fly a bomber - hell I designed the new one. The Navy needs pilots, I know that much. I don't want to be trapped here, knowing that I could have kept another set of parents from getting the letter mine did. And...I want to..." She blew out a sound, this time closer to a laugh, "...I want to live. I want to kiss someone. I want to eat one of those things from the colony on Caliban that looksl ike a lobster but tastes like kiwi fruit while reading one of Severin's old books, I..." She looked up again.
"I want to grow old, and make sure there's nothing else like me. At least, not for the reasons I'm here."
Mashir nodded, a smirk tugging at one side of her lips, "I'm very glad to hear that. I...mm, I would not say I expected as much, but I hoped."
"And what does that mean?" she said.
Mashir reached down, pulled another thick folder out of her bag, "Paperwork. Of course, hm? Civilization runs on paperwork." She pushed the folder over, "An identity. A new place in the world. And an assignment. It will be...complicated to explain what you are, but I know how to use very small words. Officially, you'll be a Federation AI, which means that you won't exactly have a rank. Your fellow soldiers certainly won't know what to make of you." She grinned a little, "This is your new beginning. Do you understand?" She took a pen from her jacket, slid it across the table.
She looked down at the papers, read them carefully, her eyes moving over the pages with flickering saccades. After less time than Mashir had expected, she picked up the pen, unscrewed the cap, carefully brought the nib to the paper. Her ceramic fingers clicked against the pen barrel while she wrote in a quick, careful, flowing script.
"Renault?" Mashir said.
"Sev...Tain's favourite movie was Casablanca," she said, and grinned, "Besides, I like the way it sounds."
"Well then," Mashir said, and stood with a smile, "Welcome back to the fight."
Craft Specialization: F-87 Aegis II Space Superiority Fighter Callsign/Codename: Bugger Kills: 23 confirmed kills
Psychological Analysis: Rezzik is a smart, outgoing, strong, has good perception of things and a talented pilot that wishes to command his own fleet one day. He hates anything that would want to hurt humanity and will fight to the death to protect human kind. He is always found in the archives studying enemy tactics, practicing simulations or getting to know the other pilots so he can learn how to fight with them more efficiently. He is loyal and if your fighting on the side of the Federation you are good in his books. After a fight you can usually find Rezzik in the bar having drinks with whoever wishes to have a drink with him.
Military Record: Rezzik was born into a small colony on the space station called Prometheus, he grew up learning and admiring the pilots that would stop by the station to refuel and take some leave while on a campaign. He would often help his parents clean the ships that would stop at the station and talk to the pilots, listen to their stories, getting to visit the cockpits and learn about the ships. As he grew older he kept his focus on becoming a pilot, after proving himself by standing out in a number of group simulations where they had to complete missions against an ai or some of the staff, he was accepted into a junior academy program that would train kids in military training, the engineering and creation of ships that were currently in the fleet and allowing for simulations that would be against the other students and academies.
Through hard work and paying attention to his classes he worked his way up to becoming one of the top 10 in his academy. By reaching this honour he was able to get into the actual academy without having to pay for any of it. He continued his work ethic into the academy, the work was tougher and the battles were far more complicated to work with since some of the other people had more experience and were older than he was and found it more difficult than the junior academy. One of the new rules, was that you were able to issue a challenge with a red flag. Rezzik would challenge every person at the academy, every day and would lose over and over again but kept handing out the red flag challenges. It was his first win that earned him the call sign Bugger, the boy he beat had a thick accent like you would see in the ancient archives. It was a simple game, one team had to reach the others in a certain amount of time and destroy the Flagship that was placed where each player wanted it. The ai was set to its highest, it was a fierce battle but it was clear Rezzik was going to win. He made sure it was a clear victory, when the two got out to shake hands the boy came out yelling "You little BUGGER, you had me yet you toyed with me!" He had never heard such a word, and apparently neither did his other classmates. From then on whenever he would play, be involved in a team simulation or anything competitive for that matter he was met with being called Bugger.
Eventually Rezzik worked his way to be respected by his fellow men and women at the academy. As he grew and became more experienced he would help the newest members to make sure they were doing well and taught them if they were having trouble learning anything. He graduated from the academy with many friends and fellow soldiers. They would soon become pilots for the Federation, Rizzek's dream was getting closer.
He spent the next 8 years as a pilot fighting whatever needed to be fought, mostly pirates at first. Whenever they would be ambushed or feared the threat of attack Rezzik was one of the first in line to get out their and take care of the problem. It was a short time after when the Federation had declared war on the empire. Rezzik was then thrust into a new style of warfare with an enemy he had not been able to study for long. So he had to adapt, his skills kept him alive and even got a number of kills during this time, not as many as his pirate fighting days but still was able to take down a number of them.
After some had passed Rezzik was told that he was being transferred to the 144th Direwolves, they were in need of pilots and he was worthy of getting the call. He took the transfer with honour, thanking and saying goodbye to all his friends he got onto the transfer ship and began his new life as apart of the 144th Direwolves.
