Captain Pendragon leaned back in his chair. Creaking as it did he turned, and gazed out of the window which covered the entire wall of the relatively refined office, and looked out over the landing pads of Ising Vision. Stubbing out a cigarette, he stood and finished buckling his flight suit, checked over his issued Captain’s pistol, and strode out of the door.

It had not been an easy journey for the Captain. Raised on Sol within a small farming community, he had finally left home at the tender age of 16, seeking adventure in a battered 4th hand sidewinder. It had finally taken him, limping on one drive by the time it finally gave up the ghost, just over 55 light years from Earth and with little choice he sold his broken ship for scrap, and found lodgings within Ising Terminal, in the Neto system.

Much to his shame, he spend the first few weeks living rough on the streets, having to steal what he could to survive. He has spent the majority of his credits on making sure his ship could bring him this far and now his entire list of assets boiled down to 152 credits, and the clothes he stood up in…

As he moved down the corridor the PBSF officers straightened and saluted. He nodded back to those he knew, spent some time getting to know those he did not. The PBSF was an ever growing beast of late, even Anaidni with his recent promotion to Admiral couldn’t be expected to know all of their names, but Pendragon did what he could, before leaving the corridors of PBSF HQ, and stepping out onto the streets of Beckton Palace

Walking through the streets of Ising he found, both figuratively and literally, a sign. Within the damper, darker corners of Bredon Docks, the industrial capital, the black and gold of the PBSF caught his eye, and he followed the directions down to the local recruiting office, and signed his life away to the halls of the Pixel Bandits Security Force.

His time as a cadet passed quickly, and before he realised it, his passing out parade had come and gone, and with it a promotion to Warrant Officer, a salary, and an upgrade to lodgings. It was far from the clean and vibrant (and above all singular) quarters of the higher ranks, but the dorm room was free from damp, the bunk was more comfortable than the floor, and his fellow WOs were pleasant enough it seemed

Beckton Palace held no surprises, the political capital was bustling with life as ever, though the winged uniform of a PBSF Captain was certainly known to help the crowds part, and he was soon on the metro and just a few moments away from the launch pad, where his newest ship, the E.S.A. Pamoja, was waiting for him

He had quickly learned to keep his head down, and his nose clean. Internally, the PBSF was not exactly the shining beacon of hope which it had seemed from the outside. Instead, corruption was deep rooted in the halls and ledgers. He had only one fellow officer to confide in, CMDR Reynolds. Young, and with a moral compass you could steer a ship by, they had often spoken of the back alley deals and shady contacts which came and went through the Ising offices. Both agreeing something must be done, and both waiting for somebody else to do it.

The signs on the metro seemed the same as ever, but Pendragon was always proud to see the black and gold of the PBSF stand out, and to see the reaction of the citizens as the officers on the beat made their way through the districts of the station. It was the same reaction he saw in every station which had voted the PBSF into office, one of recognition, and gratitude. A force he’d once been ashamed to be a part of

On the day he was promoted to Midshipman, Reynolds had been transferred to another station. He had requested, many times, for a forwarding address or GalMail address so he could contact his old friend, but as time grew on, and the official responses became more and more cryptic, he started to suspect the worst. While his days saw the same corruption his nights were dedicated to rooting out what had happened to his friend, and as the weeks progressed it became clear that Reynolds had been taken “out of the system”

It was known as Ganking. He’d heard of it before, officers “not suited for duty” were removed from their posts either politically, or by force. It seemed Reynolds had been removed using a mixture of the two and the nights grew long as he followed the trail looking for his old friend. With a glass of rum by his side, he followed every lead he could find on the VuePad, before succumbing to the warm embrace of sleep

Approaching the landing pad, the Captain was greeted by the now familiar ground crew. As ever they seemed to have things perfected, and he expected no less, but old habits die hard and he took a turn around the ship, checking the ports and manifolds himself, before thanking the crew, and heading into the ship himself. You didn’t tip ground crew, not these days. Anaidni had ensured they were paid more than enough for their services, and because of this each had worked far beyond what was expected of them. “Look after the spanners”, he had once said, “and the spanners look after the pilots”. Pendragon chuckled to himself, and started the boot sequence.

He woke up… elsewhere. His increasingly refined Midshipman’s quarters were gone, instead replaced with the grey, dripping walls, of the Ising Gulag. There had been no charges, and of the guards on duty most wouldn’t even look at him, let alone answer his constant questions on where he was or why. He knew, really. He had pulled to hard at the string leading him to Reynolds. The Gulags of Ising Terminal were notorious, and within his tiny quarters he knew the answer nobody would tell him. He had been ganked.

He spent many years in those camps. Now, at least he knew how the districts of Ising operated, how their water was heated, and how their energy was created. While he had learned much about the tasks the inmates had, each working in isolation, over the years of solitude  he had forgotten much of his old life, even now, he could not remember his own name. And while he couldn’t remember anything else about her, the name of his old friend, Reynolds, echoed around his head during the long days. Devoid of any other human contact, he clung onto his mission, one day he would find her again.

The ship started with a familiar whine, as did his loyal companion, Gaspode. The epitome of a police dog, the larger than life Alsatian approached the pilot’s chair, leading the newly hired fighter pilot into the cabin. The dog had been rescued from the streets of Pratchett’s Disc as he had taken his first exploration excursion in the E.S.A. Light Fantastic, his first real R&R since joining the force. The pilot had been hired this morning, an extra protection on the new Keelback while hauling cargo and passengers for the elections in Seddon Dock. The thrusters came online, and with ease and precision, the ship threw off the various tubes and wires, and moved towards the exit

The revolutionary forces stormed the gulags in 3300. Led by Lieutenant (soon to be Captain himself) Christopher Anaidni, the citizenry of Ising Terminal had toppled the corrupt organization, and the innocent political prisoners were freed. After 20 years in solitary confinement, one man was reluctant to step out from the relative comfort of his cell. Anaidni had approached himself, and wrapping the duty and mildewed uniform with the standard shock blanket, he had led the man out and into the fresh air of the Waystation district

Fingerprint and iris recognition had got nowhere, seemingly the man had never been admitted to Ising Terminal, and though he wore the uniform of a PBSF Midshipman, no record of him ever joining the force could be found. No sense could be made, other than one phrase which he kept repeating, like a VueScreen stuck in an endless glitch, “Must find Reynolds. Must find Reynolds”.

Anaidni ordered the man to the nearest infirmary and psychiatric installation to the PBSF HQ, and the unknown man was transferred immediately to the officer’s sanatorium in Beckton Palace. Within a few days the man, though sedated could talk and he and Anaidni spoke for hours, catching up with events from the past 20 years, and how the now Captain had overthrown the corruption. Cap offered the man employment once more, within the reborn PBSF, which he had promised would be a force for good once more in the world, and the Midshipman, in need of employment and still determined to find his friend, agreed.

Anaidni had asked the man to consider becoming a council member, for the new OWSLA forming at the time. A position of power to ensure the wheels of democracy and justice ran smoothly but of course, this came with a cost, he must first have a name. It hurt to be reminded of all he had lost, he could not remember his childhood, his parents, anything about his origins. All that had come with him into the gulag had been lost, all but Reynolds. After much deliberation, and determined to one day discover his roots, an agreement had been made, rather than a name, a codename (for now), and the man from the gulag was re-enlisted within the PBSF as Captain Pendragon

As the ship glided over the control tower towards the exit, the familiar voice of Dmitri came over the comms. *ccht* “Departure Authorised, Captain. Please submit flight plan” *ccht*. Pendragon laughed, Dmitri was a stickler for the rules these days. He keyed in his current projected course, straight from Ising Vision to Seddon Dock, on an election campaign, but he smiled to himself. Who knew where he’d end up today.