Awards ceremony for anti-xeno pilots
29 Jun 2019Vallysa
Senator Marc Caio stood at the head of the ornately carved podium in his Imperial full dress regalia, resplendent in his tailored white breeches and fitted blue waistcoat. He was an aged, minor functionary in the royal house of Lavigny-Duval, but he was the perfect mechanism to enact the recognition ceremony happening on polished deck plates at his feet. Assembled amidst one of the courtyards of Poliya Coliseum in the Aymifa system were several dozen commanders, a subset of the 511-pilot strong acclaimed Lavigny’s Legion. They were here to be recognized for their selfless service in defending humanity from the tidal wave of Thargoid vessels that were slashing their way through the Bubble. Caio read through his obligatory speech to the commanders and assembled spectators, his cerebellum handling the task in an instinctive way, freeing his higher cognitive functions to studiously examine the contrast of elements before him.
First and by design, above all things in both the eyes and hearts of every person, was a recorded hologram of the Emperor herself, towering behind the pilot formation and smiling benevolently upon all in an overt gaze of generosity and love. Surrounding the rich, grassy courtyard stood towering palm trees, forming a concentric embrace of fingers sprouting from every angle of the inverted horizon comprising the inside of the giant orbital station. Packed between these trees on either side was a flock of Imperial citizens seated on rising bleachers, dressed in a sea of blue and white as they displayed the emblems and designs of their minor houses in a show of pageantry and patriotism. Last, of course, was the wing of 528th Commanders in formation.
Caio studied them closest of all as his spine was reaching the end of its automated commands to his mouth. They were not technically Imperial Navy, but a private wing of elite guards. They stood silently in three rows behind their Legate, wearing what constituted more of a closely coordinated dress code rather than a uniform of an official Navy. Streaking through the collage of blue and white were bold slashes of royal Purple, a color proudly worn by those dedicated to the service of the Emperor.
But, Caio had not survived all these years as an Imperial Senator by missing the subtle details, the underlying truths that formed the foundations of his beloved Empire. The Legionnaires, underneath their luxurious and tailored outfits, had dark, hollow eyes that were spent to and beyond the point of exhaustion. Those eyes with their thousand-klick stares had stared into the maw of death itself, scorched with memories of the numbers that were here today only as echoes of lives cut short in the terrible black. Those eyes sat in sunken dark relief in their heads, cloudy monuments to the ghosts and horrors that would accompany them that survived for the rest of their lives.
Caio’s brain finished the speech and he walked to the Legate at the front of the formation. He was not acclimated to the way the orbital stations created their rotational “gravity” and had to pay more attention to maintaining a natural gate than he had the speech. He had briefly reviewed the awardees’ files the previous night and was satisfied that while he couldn’t give any official military medals or honorifics for their service, he could at least provide tokens of appreciation from the Lavigny-Duval family and shake each and every hand before him.
An assistant floated a carved wooden chest behind Ciao and handed him a 15cm box with a gold-leaf Imperial Eagle etched neatly onto the top. Caio took the box and opened it, presenting the contents to the Legate. It was beautiful: a ceremonial dagger with a sharpened blade of steel twisted in the ancient earth Damascus tradition, with a carved bone handle and pommel carved from pure sapphire in the royal emblem.
The Legate received the knife. “Hail the Emperor”
Caio moved down the line, presenting each pilot with their award, trailed by his assistant and the 528th Legate.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Hail the Emperor.”
“High speed hugs,” the next woman said, completely straight faced. Caio started, but then noticed the small, almost imperceptible smile peaking from the corner of a couple neighboring pilots’ mouths, and simply smiled himself. It must be an inside joke. These people needed a reason to smile. He continued down the line.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Hail the Emperor,” in a thick accent somewhere between Scottish brogue and Imperial. This pilot Caio realized was in a back brace, and must have injured herself in the thick of battle in the preceding weeks.
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Bask in Her glory.” Caio presented the next dagger, almost surprising himself when he saw the carved pommel. This was not the rich blue of sapphire, but an inky black of a void opal. Caio’s assistant whispered something in his ear. Ah. This one had funded and used his own Imperial Cutter vessel, risking even more than the others of his own personal fortune for the defense of humanity. High risk deserved distinguished award, after all. Caio moved on.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Hail the Emperor.”
Silence, and a curt, respectful nod. Caio waited a moment for the expected greeting until the Legate leaned forward and whispered in his year: He can hear you, but he can’t talk. Caio nodded back to the man and continued.
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Hail the Emperor.” This one had a reputation even outside of the piloting world, a known big-game hunter of exotic creatures who risked his life in battle with reptiles for sport. Just the kind of person suited to fight Thargoids.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Bask in Her glory.” The Centurion before him was plainly dressed, serious, and to the point. He also had a reputation for his ability to clinically assess the battlefield and make sense of an otherwise chaotic environment.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Bask in Her glory!” This woman had a wild and a bit crazy look in her eye, and an unusually ebullient attitude compared to the rest. Best to never get on her bad side.
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Bask in Her glory.” This woman had a carefully rehearsed Imperial accent, a practice common for those born outside the Empire but making it their adopted home. She clearly had had a recently cloned leg replacement, and had not quite gotten used to it judging by her off-balance stance.
“Bask in Her glory.”
“Hail the Emperor,” this man said quietly. Caio knew this one, ethnicity hailing from ancient Earth’s eastern European continent. Strong, silent, and had apparently chalked up an unheard amount of bonds for Thargoid kills from the Pilot’s Federation.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Bask in Her glory.” In the last rank of pilots now, and Caio recognized this one from previous reports and last night’s file as an outside-the-box thinker, a tactician who could offer definitive strategies for victory against the Invaders. Caio was glad he survived.
“Hail the Emperor.”
“Hail the Emperor.”
Caio finished the walk and returned to the podium. His brain gave more congratulatory words and dismissed the formation and assembled audience. His mind was already occupied with the next task in a never-ending cycle of reports and updates as the war continued to rage. At least these pilots here, now, would receive a 48 hour liberty pass before being recalled back to active duty.