Personal Log 155: 15 February - 4 April, 3303
08 Jul 2017Jemine Caesar
15 February - 4 April, 3303I spent several hours on my homeworld, roaming the countryside around the place where I had given birth to Bekka precisely thirteen years before. Sam kept a tactful distance, allowing me to lose myself in my memories. Memories of a beautiful little girl whose life ended all too soon.
It was mama who had suggested I name my baby Bekka after grandmama. At the time, of course, I hadn't known that my grandmama was actually my real mother, or that my mama, Eleanor Caesar, was my half-sister. It would be a little over ten years before I would learn the full facts of my own family.
Ten years. That was how young my daughter was when she died of the genetic disease bestowed upon her through me by her father. Bekka's all-too-short life had ended in another part of the continent, far to the east of where it had begun.
I knelt on the grass at the spot where, thirteen years earlier, I had suffered the agony and joy of giving birth. I pressed my hands to my stomach, feeling its flatness and imagining the bump created by the unborn baby that had once writhed within. Gasping in ecstasy at the recollection, I lay down on my back, closed my eyes tight, and remembered my Bekka.
And wept.
*****
When Sam and I returned to Ross 720 the next day, there was a new request from Crimson Mercenary Dragoons waiting for me.
"We need you to bring in some supplies," said Bogdan, my CMD contact. "Personal weapons. Handguns, pulse carbines, that sort of thing. Our agents at Roberts Enterprise will take them off your hands, no questions asked."
I raised an eyebrow. "So now you're building an army of the revolution, hmm? I hadn't realised CMD had garnered such an extensive following."
"We haven't," replied Bogdan. "Not yet, anyway. But the day will come when we will rise up and show we mean business. It is good to be prepared."
"And stockpiling popguns is the way forward, is it?"
Bogdan frowned at me. "Look, commander, do you want to further the cause of the glorious Dragoons or not?"
I held up my hands in mock surrender. "Don't worry," I said. "I made a promise to a friend that I'd help out, and I'll stick to it. For a little while, at least."
"Good to hear," said Bogdan, with a curt nod. "Now, we have teamed you up with another pilot. A mercenary, like yourself. His name is Mathurin. Flies a Diamondback Explorer. Here— " He took out his dataslate and tapped its display. "I've flashed his details to you. Good luck commander, we're counting on people like you."
He raised a clenched fist to shoulder height in a sort of salute. "For the Dragoons!"
"Yeah," I said, shaking my head as I watched him striding away. "Whatever."
I took my dataslate from my bag and called up the newly received details of commander Mathurin. The accompanying holo-image showed him to be a rather solemn-faced man of about the same age as myself, with dark brown hair and a full beard. I sent him a message suggesting a pre-mission meeting in the Pilot's Lounge in one hour. When I walked into the lounge at the appointed time, Mathurin was already there, sitting drinking coffee.
"Commander Mathurin?" I said, extending a hand in greeting. "I'm commander Caesar. How do you do?"
"I'm good, thanks," replied Mathurin, returning the handshake with a firm grip. "So, Crimson Mercenary Dragoons; what d'you make of 'em?"
Punctual and straight to business.
"I think their heart's in the right place," I said, with a shrug. "There does appear to be a somewhat weird power struggle going on in this system, and CMD seems keen to make a difference. But..."
"But...?"
I smiled, wondering if Mathurin was testing me in some way. "Well, I'm no expert in politics, but I'd say their methods seem a bit haphazard. They are lacking in organisational ability. They have a broad idea of what they want to achieve, but their coordination and communication skills leave something to be desired."
Mathurin nodded. "I would say that's a pretty fair assessment. I've come across outfits like this before, all eager for change and spoilin' for a fight. I give 'em a month, tops."
"You don't have a lot of confidence in your employers, commander Mathurin," I said.
"I don't need confidence in 'em, lady," he replied, with a scowl. "I only need to know that they'll pay me when the job's over."
Mathurin had already done some research for our mission, and told me we would find a good supply of personal weapons and landmines at Buckland Arsenal, a planetary base in the nearby system of LTT 7421. His research proved to be accurate, and Buckland Arsenal's stocks were plentiful. Our return trips to Ross 720 were marred only by long waits for docking permission at Roberts Enterprise outpost.
"Security sure is shit around here," commented Mathurin as we waited for our landing pads. "The stuff we're carrying is illicit in this system, but no one seems to give a damn."
"That's just as well," I replied. "For us, I mean. I wonder if any of these weapons will ever be used?"
"Oh, they'll be used," said Mathurin. "But whether by CMD or someone else, who knows?"
Four gun-running trips were enough to raise my rep with CMD from Cordial to Friendly. Bogdan was happy with our contribution to the cause, and Mathurin was happy with the payment he received for services rendered. So happy in fact, that he insisted on buying me a drink to celebrate.
He even managed to crack a smile.
*****
Bogdan was conspicuously absent for several days, which meant no further instructions for me as to how I could "further the cause of the glorious Dragoons". A civil war had erupted in the adjacent system of Aeternitas, so I took the Flower there and picked one of their causes as an interim measure. I didn't bother to record which side I fought for, but the combat bonds I gained were very welcome, as was the increase in my combat rating to Competent+60%.
The twenty-third of February was Sam's birthday. As well as messages of greeting from his family, Sam was delighted to receive a k-cast from a Captain Legarde,
"Captain Legarde is an ex-naval officer," Sam explained. "Forty years in the Federal Navy. He and my grandfather Alf served together, and became good friends. Legarde retired from active service twenty years ago, but still keeps in touch."
Remembering how much Sam had enjoyed the little surprise I had given him on his last birthday, when I had turned up at our Stevenson Base apartment in a fancy dress policewoman costume, I had decided to adopt a similar approach. The very short and revealing nurse uniform I wore as I tottered into our sleeping quarters was more than enough to peak his life signs.
Almost two weeks passed with no word from Bogdan. Not wishing to be idle, I ran a number of cargo deliveries for CMD to various neighbouring systems. Fresh civil wars had broken out in Aeternitas and Lokitaka Mu, providing me with more opportunities to sharpen my combat skills and increase my rating. But then. on the fifth of March, I received a call from Bogdan.
"We are at war!" he said, with evident glee in his voice. "Natural Ross 720 Focus have been making raids on McQuay Oasis, so we have decided to take the fight to them. Victory will secure Roberts Enterprise for our cause. We need all our combat pilots to join the fight."
"I take it all diplomatic efforts have been tried and have failed?"
"Diplomatic efforts?" said Bogdan. "Of course! But these people do not understand diplomacy, commander. They understand only violence."
That makes two of you, I thought. And many more besides. It really was a cruel 'verse. I took a deep breath.
"Very well," I said. "Send me the coordinates for the combat zone and I'll leave as soon as I've prepared my ship."
An hour later I was sitting in the cockpit of the Innocent Flower, powering up for take-off, when my comms beeped an incoming hail. Simon Datura's image flickered into view on my comms panel.
"Hey, Jem!" he said. "You still supporting the noble cause?"
"I am indeed," I replied. "For the glorious Dragoons."
"Haha! Yeah, the 'glorious Dragoons'. Personally I leave all that sort of shit to the fanatics. They can fist-pump all they want, just so long as they pay me."
"Another fellow said very much the same thing to me a few days ago," I said. "You'd like him."
"Heh. So what've they got you doing this time?"
"Fighting," I said. "CMD are at war with Natural Ross 720 Focus. I'm about to head out to the combat zone. Do you want to wing up and come with me?"
"I'll pass," Datura replied. "I told you I'm not keen on kill jobs, remember? No, I'll stick to running cargo, thanks. But you go and have fun. Knock 'em dead!"
"I wouldn't call it fun, Datura. People die in wars."
"I know. I was being facetious. Look, Jem Jem, you want to be a merc? Well, killing people is part of what being a merc is all about, like it or not. Mercs go where the jobs are, do the jobs, then take the money and move on."
"But what about the people they kill along the way?" I asked, a nagging doubt beginning to creep into my mind about my chosen career. "What about the families whose lives are changed forever?"
Datura shook his head. "You can't afford to think like that. Not if you want to be successful as a merc or a bounty hunter. Or even as a pirate, come to that. It's harsh, but that's the way it is. Either get used to it or go home."
My mind went back to the recent occasions I had vehemently declared that bounty hunting was what I wanted to do. The spark for it had been ignited within me at Pegasi, with my first tentative steps as a reaper under the tutelage of Matt Lehman. Since then I had found myself concentrating more and more on learning how to fight, actively seeking out combat zones and pirate attacks on mining ships. Each victory had strengthened my resolve to become a better bounty hunter. A better killer.
But there had been a cost. I was no longer the trusting, naive woman I had been when I left my homeworld. I'd seen more of the galaxy than I'd ever imagined I would as a gypsy girl on LHS 3447 A5. I had learned many valuable lessons in life on my travels, the most notable one being the advice given to me by Marty Aston; "Make shit happen". That advice, ironically enough, had given my life a new direction.
I had changed, because I had to change. And I would have to keep changing. I couldn't start doubting myself now.
"No," I replied. "Going home isn't an option. Not any more."
*****
The civil war with Natural Ross 720 Focus raged on for over a week, culminating in victory for CMD and the acquisition of control over Roberts Enterprise. Datura and I had each engaged in combat with more than a dozen enemy ships, rewarding us both with substantial amounts in combat bonds and raising my rating to Competent+90%.
More missions followed over the next couple of weeks, though it was becoming increasingly clear that CMD's cause was beginning to wane. System influences were all over the place, and rumours were rife of underhand tactics by Empire-backed groups lending support to the incongruous Chowei Limited faction.
Nevertheless, I continued to perform missions for CMD out of my friendship with Suzanne Telford. There being no more wars to fight, these missions were run-of-the-mill cargo deliveries and data drops. Occasional interdictions in neighbouring systems provided me with combat opportunities, however, and, on March the twenty-fifth, I received notification from the Pilot's Federation confirming that my rating had been raised to Expert.
Suzanne came to see me two days later, a glum look on her face.
"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch with you more, Jem," she began. "The fact is, things with me and Noah have taken a bit of a dive lately. He's so wrapped up in the Dragoons that I think he's lost all interest in me."
I gave her a hug. "I'm so sorry, honey. What will you do?"
Suzanne shrugged. "There's nothing left for me here. CMD is weakening, in any case. The odds are too stacked against them. The leaders have become fragmented, and lines of communication are getting worse. There's no real coordination any more. Ross 720 Gold State are still in charge with a 52% influence rating. CMD is second at 19% and falling fast. No one seems to be able to do anything about Chowei Limited, despite messages of protest to the authorities. It's hopeless."
"Look," I said, "CMD is a lost cause, at least until someone steps in who really knows how to run a faction properly. Forget CMD, and decide what you want."
"I'll go back to Swigert Port," she said, "and see if I can get my beautechnician salon back. At least I knew what I was doing there." She took my hand. "Thanks for your help, Jem, even though it was a waste of your time. Keep in touch, eh?"
"I will," I replied, adding, "That's a promise."
*****
CMD's failing leadership stumbled on for a few more days, until finally reaching the conclusion that the game was up. Handing over the reins to a group of more moderately-minded citizens, the revolutionaries gave their last fist-salute and disappeared on April the fourth.
"And that's that," I said to Sam as we prepared to leave Ross 720.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Another faction flaring into existence, only to come face to face with the harsh realities of an unforgiving 'verse."
"That's very poetic," I said.
"It was a quote," Sam admitted. "Marcia Bannerman, of all people, on her satire show."
"I thought you didn't like Marcia Bannerman."
"Meh, she's grown on me lately."
I reached up and intertwined my fingers behind Sam's neck, resting my arms on his shoulders. "You know, I've been thinking lately of all that's happened to me since I left home. The things I've done, the ways in which I've changed... I've put you through such a lot."
Sam smiled. "I've changed too, my love, and for the better, thanks to you. You made me what I am today."
"Oh, you deserve a far better woman than me."
Wrapping his arms around me, Sam lifted me off the deck and carried me towards the sleeping quarters of our apartment.
"There's no such woman exists in all the galaxy, Jem," he said.
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Author's Note
Thank you to commanders Simon Datura and John (Xeknos) Mathurin for their ingame assistance and their support for my Thinging.
A huge thank you also to commander Tisiphone Moreau, whose Crimson Mercenary Dragoons player faction provided the backdrop for this arc.