Here it is
13 Oct 2015Desert Fox CXVII
[There is a tapping sound]Test, test.
[A brief pause]
Alright...
My name is Commander Cassius Fox, stardate 12 October, 3301, 0205 AM. Currently I am docked aboard Marker Depot, orbiting New Carthage in the Carthage system. I'm making this log because the wonderful and caring Pilot's Fed psychiatrist is worried that I'm "showing symptoms of severe stress and possible borderline psychopathy." I told him he must be mistaken... but he insisted. So here I am, recording my thoughts.
It's funny... I spent most of my life in the navy, making peanuts and getting ridiculed by my superiors and I'm fine; but the moment things start going right for me, the moment I start making a real impact on the galaxy, the shrinks think I'm cracking. well, not "funny," per se. At least not "ha ha" funny. Its interesting, I suppose.
Well, lets get down to brass tacks then shall we? I left the navy about a year ago; I was an eagle pilot for 6 years, and before that a marine aboard the Hesketh Duval. All in all I spent ten years in service to the throne. It was a good life, I suppose. The pay wasn't so bad, despite what I said earlier, especially after I got out of flight school. But it just wasn't what I wanted. That's not to say I don't like the Empire; I would think my actions since then would prove that I'm loyal. No... there was just something missing.
[There is the metallic clink and rasp of a lighter being ignited, followed by another pause]
So I went home; My family owns a small mining outfit in Azrael. It does pretty well; a couple mining ships, fighter escorts. We can even afford slaves for the household.
Yeah I know, most Commanders have some sob story about growing up on the frontier without two credits to rub together. No. That wasn't me. I was pretty well off.
But that's beside the point. I went back home. My parents were ecstatic to see me; after all, I'd been gone for a decade. Almost immediately, my dad offered me a job as a fighter escort in his company. My mom didn't like that; she said that I got into enough trouble with the navy, that my dad should give me a safer job. But he knew me; I wouldn't be happy behind a desk or handling paperwork.
So I got back into the cockpit of an eagle. I flew for the company for a while. The pay was good, I got to do what I liked, and I got to be with my family. But still, something was missing. Day in, day out, shadowing a hauler, waiting for some strung out pirate to make a dumb mistake. To this day I still can't put my finger on it.
So I handed my resignation in to my father, and two weeks later I hopped a transport for the nearest official Pilot's Fed Licencing facility and didn't look back.
Commander, I'm picking up a carbon monoxide contamination in the cockpit. Is everything alright?
Yes Lisa. Everything's fine. I'm just having a cigar while I record this log.
Understood commander. I will be returning to standby in case you require anything.
Yeah thank you Lisa.
Where was I? Oh right; Pilot's Fed. The training wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Turns out the Pilot's Fed will give a ship to any Tom, Dick or Harry to ask for one. Most of them don't survive their first day out in the black. The ones you hear about on the news are only the ones who've managed to survive long enough to do anything noteworthy. It was a pretty eye opening experience, actually. To be honest, kind of reminded me of the navy. But I doubt the Fed would appreciate me speculating any more than I have already, so I'll leave it at that.
Turns out the Fed has a sense of humor though, and the day I finished my training, they shipped my ass all the way into the ass end of Federation space. Said that they were taking us to our graduation ceremony, stuffed thirty of us into cryo pods, and then dropped us off at Dalton Gateway in LHS 3447. They handed us the keys to our very own, shiny new (pre-owned) sidewinders, wished us luck, and flew off.
Kind of a kick in the pants, wouldn't you say?