Casualties
13 Mar 2023Smoht
I met pilot Ortega in Picenile.During the evacuation of Hadfield Observatory, I encountered a group of pilots near the hangars. There were about seven of them, I estimated with a quick glance. They were sitting on storage crates or on the floor, in one of the hallways of the lobby. I saw some bottles being passed around, and others already empty placed against the wall.
"Commander!"
The pilot who caught my attention raised one of the bottles towards me, in a gesture of offering. He was sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall. I approached and took the bottle, nodding my head. I didn't even look at what was about to go down my throat. I filled my mouth with it and let the liquor begin to burn my tongue before swallowing slowly. I then returned the bottle to the pilot, who immediately passed it to the person next to him.
"Seems like it's all coming to an end," he said.
"Well, here, maybe. But believe me, there's plenty of fight left if that's what you want."
"We really gave that Basilisk a good pounding, didn't we?"
I looked at him for a moment, deducing that we had fought together the day before.
"Were you out there when it came?" I asked, even though I knew the answer was obvious.
"Yeah, of course. It was my turn to patrol. I'm the pilot of the Dust Surfer."
I remembered the name. A Vulture that participated in the skirmish against the interceptor.
"Oh, you did well out there."
"Thanks. I've fought against scouts and a few Cyclops before, but that was my first Basilisk."
"Well, you're going to get plenty of them, I assure you."
He lowered his gaze for a brief moment, enough for me to realize that he didn't like the idea of encountering the large enemy ships. I was sitting on the floor next to him when the pilot to his right touched him on the shoulder with the bottle.
"Ortega," she called.
He took the bottle, took a sip, and passed it to me.
While I drank, another pilot addressed me.
"Where are your Federation of Pilots colleagues, Commander?"
I looked him in the eyes, hoping to see reproach in the question, but I only saw concern.
"Who knows," I replied. "But if you want to know if they're fighting, the answer is yes."
"But not here."
I pondered the answer for a second.
"That's correct," I said, "not here."
And I offered him the bottle.
For about an hour, the pilots continued chatting, more animatedly now, while Ortega told me some things about his life. Then a patrol of guards approached us.
"Commander, we've received orders to completely evacuate the station," said the highest-ranking one. "All pilots still here have 20 minutes to leave."
"You heard him, boys," I said. Then I turned to the officer. "Have the evacuations been completed?"
"We, the controllers and guards who still need to board, will do so as soon as all their ships have left. The patrols outside will jump to another system in 30 minutes."
"Okay, thank you," I replied. The officer squared off, saluted, which I returned, and left with the rest of his soldiers. The group of pilots gradually dispersed with handshakes and wishes of good luck. Ortega headed towards me.
"Where will you go now, Commander?" he asked.
"I've been looking into it a bit. I might go to Peirce Base, in HIP 29596. It's not far away and the Thargoids are hitting hard there."
Ortega nodded. "I... don't know where to go now. But fighting alongside Federation pilots might be safer. Do you mind if I come with you?"
"It would be an honor," I replied with a smile.
It was the third day of the battle for HIP 29596. The cabin pressure alarms were sounding incessantly as I headed to the station for repairs. The hull integrity was at 31% and the shields still had not recharged, but at least the caustic damage had been removed and there were no enemy signals nearby.
After landing, I left the repair services to do their job and headed to the lobby. Some of the workers offered coffee and food to the pilots returning from combat. I waited to see Ortega among them, but after an hour, I decided to approach one of the controllers to try to find out something.
"A Vulture, named Dust Surfer," I said.
After checking it in the tracking system, he looked at me with a gesture that didn't bode well. "Explosion registered at 14,000 meters altitude, nine kilometers heading 154."
For several hours afterward, search and rescue services combed the surroundings of the station for survivors. They reported finding an escape pod, empty and damaged, with the registration number of Ortega's Vulture. No trace of the body. I never knew his full name.
Later i saw someone that was engaged in writing names and dates on one of the walls. I approached and asked for the marker.
Pilot AX Ortega.
Peirce Base surroundings, HIP 29596
12-03-3309.