Cirrsseeto Quez
Feb 3rd, 2014, 01:39:35 AM
These were the strangest days.
Here he was, on a shuttle to rendezvous with an Imperial Star Destroyer, to parley with the Enemy in the shadow of an even greater threat at the gates. Millions were dead already, and every minute that passed drew the possibility of billions to follow.
And all Cirrsseeto could think about was a broken claw.
Broken to the quick. Bleeding. Now covered with a bandage. It stung, even now. The pain wasn't bad, but it was a persistent reminder of the cost. The tip of that broken claw was still buried deep in the arm rest of his chair on the Novgorod. Such a trivial thing to remind him of the five thousand men, women, and children he'd sent to Traanjirra or whatever other deity would take them.
Five Thousand
It was a best-guess. Nobody would ever really know. There wasn't time to account for them. But he'd seen the multitude and heard them scream for help. For mercy. The two, it seemed, were not the same. Glayde had done his best to argue the subtleties. Mutiny had nearly come out of Cirrsseeto's mouth, and that wasn't an accusation thrown lightly. Instead, he fired on a ship adrift in space, and in a flash, it was done.
"Captain."
Blue eyes blinked, still looking down at his hand. That persistent ache. The flash of explosion, then nothing. Rules of War dictate that when capable, you deny resources to your enemy. Weapons, fuel, other useful commodities. It was a prudent tactical decision. Five thousand human batteries the Ssi-Ruuk could no longer use to fuel their war machine. Five thousand units of fuel the enemy could no longer rely on. The Enemy had been wounded. It was a victory. A prudent tactical decision.
"Captain."
Cirr's head rose, startled. The shuttle's pilot, Lieutenant Kenstal was addressing him.
"We're here, sir."
Cirr looked around. He was the only person still aboard the shuttle. His senior staff and landing party members had all debarked to head to the Thunderchild's bridge for the joint briefing. Carefully, he unbuckled himself from the crash webbing, and stood up. Nodding as an afterthought to his lieutenant, he disembarked from the Comet into the landing bay, taking the long walk to the turbolift that would carry him to discuss the next step to take. An Imperial deck officer looked up from his duties as he walked, and they looked at each other. There wasn't a look of unease or suspicion. It was the same grim resolve he'd already seen on the faces of his crew. It was the look of a man who knew exactly what was coming.
They were both in this fight together, and it was going to be a fight to the death.
Here he was, on a shuttle to rendezvous with an Imperial Star Destroyer, to parley with the Enemy in the shadow of an even greater threat at the gates. Millions were dead already, and every minute that passed drew the possibility of billions to follow.
And all Cirrsseeto could think about was a broken claw.
Broken to the quick. Bleeding. Now covered with a bandage. It stung, even now. The pain wasn't bad, but it was a persistent reminder of the cost. The tip of that broken claw was still buried deep in the arm rest of his chair on the Novgorod. Such a trivial thing to remind him of the five thousand men, women, and children he'd sent to Traanjirra or whatever other deity would take them.
Five Thousand
It was a best-guess. Nobody would ever really know. There wasn't time to account for them. But he'd seen the multitude and heard them scream for help. For mercy. The two, it seemed, were not the same. Glayde had done his best to argue the subtleties. Mutiny had nearly come out of Cirrsseeto's mouth, and that wasn't an accusation thrown lightly. Instead, he fired on a ship adrift in space, and in a flash, it was done.
"Captain."
Blue eyes blinked, still looking down at his hand. That persistent ache. The flash of explosion, then nothing. Rules of War dictate that when capable, you deny resources to your enemy. Weapons, fuel, other useful commodities. It was a prudent tactical decision. Five thousand human batteries the Ssi-Ruuk could no longer use to fuel their war machine. Five thousand units of fuel the enemy could no longer rely on. The Enemy had been wounded. It was a victory. A prudent tactical decision.
"Captain."
Cirr's head rose, startled. The shuttle's pilot, Lieutenant Kenstal was addressing him.
"We're here, sir."
Cirr looked around. He was the only person still aboard the shuttle. His senior staff and landing party members had all debarked to head to the Thunderchild's bridge for the joint briefing. Carefully, he unbuckled himself from the crash webbing, and stood up. Nodding as an afterthought to his lieutenant, he disembarked from the Comet into the landing bay, taking the long walk to the turbolift that would carry him to discuss the next step to take. An Imperial deck officer looked up from his duties as he walked, and they looked at each other. There wasn't a look of unease or suspicion. It was the same grim resolve he'd already seen on the faces of his crew. It was the look of a man who knew exactly what was coming.
They were both in this fight together, and it was going to be a fight to the death.