[OLD ERA] PERSONAL LOG #12 - 19 AUG 3305
19 Aug 2019Kaparov
Starting DISCOVERY.LOG...Opening telecomms to SYNTEINI:LAGERKVIST GATEWAY...
[OK] Telecomms connected to SYNTEINI:LAGERKVIST GATEWAY.
Forwarding traffic to BRECA:BLACKBOX...
[OK] Connected to BRECA:BLACKBOX.
Writing to CMDR.KAPAROV.12...
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The log opens with the familiar voice of CMDR Kaparov on the line, his tone confident and usual, a ways away from the shaken resolve of his previous entry:
"This is Mathias Kaparov requesting connection to Patron Kaparov's private line."
The line hums a quiet, electronic noise before an Imperial accented woman replies with the succinctness one could expect from a station's communications handler. "Welcome to Lagerkvist Gateway, Commander. Please hold while I resolve your query."
Impatient fingers drum on the hard surface of some wood-plastic composite as the ever-listening log latches on to the Commander's mumbled syllables. "Hi, dad. No, no. Hello, father. Too formal. Nice to hear from you, Patron. Fuck's sake. How about... greetings? It's, ah... it's been too long?" The log snatches a quiet sigh.
"Commander Kaparov," the handler returns, "adjust frequency to one-eight-three dot four-nine-one. Your Patron will be on the line in due time."
"Understood." Air moves with the shifting of spacesuit as the Commander begins to adjust frequency.
"Enjoy your stay at Lagerkvist Ga--," the handler is cut off and the same electronic noise idles in the recording.
"Alright, alright," Commander Kaparov mumbles, "how about... glad you found the time to receive my call, Patron. Yeah, that'll do. Appreciative. Simple." He waits. The air space is empty for what seems to be minutes.
...
"This is Patron Kaparov. May I ask who I am speaking to?" An old and formal voice breaks the silence, his words practiced.
"Ah! Patron, pleased to--good that--fuck. I'm glad you found the time to answer my call, Patron. This is Commander Kaparov of the Breca, reporting to--..."
"Boy? Is that really you?! It's been years!"
"Yeah, Patron, it's me. Mathias."
"Too long, Mat! Too long! I taught you better than to dip off the face of the galaxy, yes? Where have you been? What have you been doing? What brings you back home, boy? To call me, today of all days?"
"Yeah, Patron, ah..."
"And Patron, boy, Patron? Drop the formalities! I'm your father, titles aside; Commander or not, you're my son. Flesh and blood. Don't tell me that your new title has gone to your head!"
If sound could record a blush, it would. "No, dad, but this is all new to me, you know? Last we spoke was, what, thirty-three oh-one, right? I had just---..."
The old man laughs gleefully, "You had just gotten back from that trip to Sagittarius A, yes! I remember. Space madness and all of that. When I flew, it was no more than a few thousand light years from Sol. You new Commanders have the drives and the drive to go with them, but... I do not know if we were meant to go so far from home. It was no good for you, boy; that time alone for so long put you in hospital for months."
"It was just a couple of weeks," Kaparov mutters.
"Months, weeks, it could have been years, even. Too long. The data you earned from that voyage pales in comparison to what others have been pulling since. A shame, you know, to have gone out prior to the discovery of these Guardian's technology, yes? And before the standardization of frameshift injections. Carbon, germanium, arsenic, niobium..."
"Yttrium, polonium, yeah, I know. Really did my head in. Listen, it's all well and good to be talking again, dad, but I've not got long to be here. Things on the Rim to be seeing to, okay? But I wanted to ask you something..."
"What of, boy? You seeking a favor from your Patron father?"
"No, nothing like that. I wanted to know... I wanted to know how you dealt with... with, ah, losing... with losing mom."
The electrical hum buzzes enthusiastically, awaiting a widow's reply.
"Ah. That is one for in-person. Why do you ask?"
The Commander balls a fist, spacesuit fingers sticking to spacesuit palm. "I've lost someone recently. First time under my command."
"Tricky, son. The first loss is a tricky one to overcome. I remember my own, my first encounter with failure. We had pulled the Courier out from here--not here, but from William Sargent--and had started for a voyage to Sol. These parts were not so civil, then, and I was green. Too green to deal with pirates. Too green for interdictions. The whole crew was depending on me, a child for all intents and purposes, a child with license to safeguard human life, and I couldn't handle it." The old voice speaks thoughtfully, clearly searching for a memory likely decades old. "The Recua Mob, if I remember correctly. Demanded I jettison an escape pod with one of our VIPs. Patron at the time. I refused, tried to boost away against the suggestion of my first officer..."
"Something like a hundred people died. Innocents. Cruise-goers that were promised a safe and fun time, boy. My officer to something in the ensuing cabin fires. It was by the skin of my teeth that I managed to hole up on the bridge with what survivors we could cram in; like meats packed in a cargo hold, humid with cold air and sweat. We were lucky that SYS SEC managed to pull us out in time. Lucky, indeed."
The old man offers a low tone, not much different than the background's noise, "I didn't board a ship for a year or more. A dark time. The funerals, the paperwork, the guilt. But ultimately we can't stagnate, no matter how hard we try. We keep going, doing what we're doing, until we decide it's time for us to do something more. And so I did. I moved on, met your mother, had you. I flew for years longer. We meet--I met Commanders that are long dead, son, and now I am a Patron. I represent the people for the better. Or, what I hope is better, you see?"
...
"You see, son? You can idle for a time, get your bearings, but know that you must get back to work. You can't squander the privileges that you've been given, boy. Whoever you lost would surely not see you quitting now, would they?"
...
"Boy?"
...
"Yeah, I... I get it. I'll take you up on that offer of yours. To meet." The Commander replies.
"Then so be it. Get out of that ship of yours and meet me on Hydroponics Nine. I've an office here. You won't be able to miss it."
"Understood, Patron. Kaparov out."
The line clicks quiet, but the recording continues on with ambient noise. Distant moving of cargo and quiet comms chatter, vessels in and out of mail slot, the near-silent spin of antennae, and, before closing, the sharp exhalation from a captain's seat aboard the Breca. A hand moves, a shifting spacesuit creaks, and the log ultimately comes to an abrupt end.
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[OK] Written to CMDR.KAPAROV.12.
Disconnecting from BRECA:BLACKBOX...
[OK] Disconnected from BRECA:BLACKBOX.
[OK] Terminating telecomms connection to SYNTEINI:LAGERKVIST GATEWAY...
[OK] Telecomms connection terminated.
Stopping DISCOVERY.LOG...
[OK] Stopped DISCOVERY.LOG.