--CMDR's Log--13 Jan 3305--In Memoriam: Prince Hendriks--
13 Feb 2019Raumfahrer Spiff
War is never kind or generous. Even to the warriors. That does not mean we never crave to bask in the chaos and carnage of battle. It does not mean that we never find levity in the camaraderie of battlefield brethren. But war is always hell, and never fair. Again, I did my duty for the Emperor without question. Some... did much more. This time in Paresea; to tighten ALD's grasp on a rattled Empire. And while the Empire mourns it's faceless dead in the rosy gleam of victory, I mourn my loyal SLF-pilot and friend, Prince Hendriks.
I don't remember what rat bin outpost I pulled him out of over a year ago--certainly nowhere palatial--but over that time we had grown close. I suppose there's not really a choice when you spend weeks on end cooped up in a tin can, 500 light years from the next-nearest human. The crushing loneliness of staring out into the vast empty expanse cannot be overstated. Though I had hired civvy pilots before, who were little more than overpaid errand slaves. With Hendriks it was different. Over time, through countless battles and close calls, we grew to rely on each other.
Before Prince--to whom I gave plenty of shit for his name--I had never really relied on others in battle. Even in my faction, I had always been more comfortable working in the shadows with no umbilicus. Yet as I was training him in the finer points of combat and my fight tactics, he was exposing me to the finer points of leadership and teamwork. He inched his way up the ladder toward Elite while we were cutting a swath through space for Imperial glory. As a reluctant crew captain and newly minted wing leader, my combat vocabulary was greatly expanding, leaving us writing tomes in the hulls of enemy fleets.
We had only just toasted to his promotion a few weeks ago. We had been really pushing ourselves against as many of the most dangerous pirates and low-lifes we could find, anxious to affirm what I already knew about Hendriks' skills. Hell, I remember this one fight in some odd war where it was just Hendriks and I in a wing with one other friendly CMDR against a wing of 4 hostile CMDRs. We won handily. In no small part due to the quick and seamless flow of my well practiced maneuvers with Hendriks.
But every warrior feels immortal in the heat of battle. We certainly did as we gloriously smacked down the resident insurgents of Paresea. In and out of battles all day, facing wave after wave of spec ops and determined traitors without a single slip up; we felt unstoppable. And then the spiteful hand of Mars reached out to pull us down from our confident perch into the grinding, tearing gears of his consecrated war machine.
I should have jumped as soon as I sensed something was wrong. I had just dropped into the combat zone, finding an almost empty battlefield. Almost empty, except for the FDLs of the two CMDRs who had ambushed us. In a moment of blind insanity, I thought we could take them--at least long enough to leave a mark and escape--but I was dead wrong. Even through my painstakingly tuned defenses, the fight was lost as my modules quickly began malfunctioning from the onslaught of their engineered hardpoints.
If I had been a bit faster, maybe my FSD could have spooled up in time. If I had realized the danger sooner. If I had been a better captain. If I hadn’t panicked. If. Any one of a million ifs could have saved him, but I had none of them.
I'm so sorry Hendriks, this brandy is for you. o7
To CMDR Tal Aldris, wherever you are: The way I see it, you spilled the blood of my ally. My commrade. My friend.
You owe me a debt of blood.
Should we meet again, you will learn that the Empire never forgives a debt.
--Spiff out--