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1. Our History

Drake never drank alcohol before a trade run, especially not with two racks full of Leathery Eggs. He knew plenty pilots did, but even as a much younger pilot he never enjoyed the feeling of waiting under RemLok,  surrounded by the wreckage of your pride and joy, for a rescue that might never come. "Damn pirates," he spat. He'd even given up flying for a number of years, but while you can take the commander out of the Black, you can't take the Black out of the commander. So here he was, forty-five years old and back to drinking the ink. It was not so much that life planetside didn't agree with him, it did, but he needed that something extra that he'd only ever found in space. His old flight suit, worn around the edges, still fit - just barely. His Cobra Mk III, the Golden Hind III, fit like a glove if one were to ever wear a glove for almost thirty years. He took another sip and grimaced. That was enough of that. He threw an overly generous handful of credits on the table and left the shady bar, stepping out onto a wide gantry, overlooking the curved station interior.

It wasn't the galaxy's most interesting vista, all docking space-comm towers, and loading lanes, but it always sent a tingle down Drake's spine. That view was the prelude to a universe of possibilities. He leaned on the real rail Potritian rosewood; fancy, he thought, watching for a while. Another pilot stood a couple of feet away, clearly doing the same. Drake recognized the man, Commander Dell Tarrant. He greeting him by way of nodding and acknowledging the shared feeling that they were soon to be going...somewhere.

The slightly-older pilot tipped his head in recognition, "Commander Drake," Dell said.

"Commander Dell Tarrant, how are you?" Icon replied.

They were interrupted by a couple of pilots in shiny red non-standard flight suits stumbling out of Copacabana IV. The pilots laughed loudly while embracing their arms on each other's shoulders. They looked like clones, but Drake surmised this was a choice, rather than familial. They had the plastic look of having altered their looks to match each other. Ugh, he scowled in disgust. As the pilots staggered away he noticed the huge Distant Worlds Expedition patches that almost covered their backs. NoGod preserve us, he thought. Dell's face evidently agreed.

"They're a self-satisfied bunch, aren't they?" Dell commented.

Drake turned to the other pilot. "Well, I suppose sixty-five kylies is a chunk of Black to cover," he replied. "Plus I can't imagine their 'puter systems were a hindrance."

"That's true," Dell nodded. Both Drake and he used the less-powerful XB1 internal consoles, while most of those who'd journeyed to the other side of the galaxy to Beagle Point used the more powerful, and more technical, Peesee setup. They both knew this caused them to be viewed with some pity or condescension by many Peesee users, but they both also knew just how much more accessible the XB1 rig was. Besides, it wasn't like they and the Peesee guys lived in different universes! Their exhausts fumes stunk just the same. "You know, we should do something like that. I mean us XB1 commanders. Show them we can match them," Dell continued.



Drake rubbed his bushy chin, "Well the Pilots Federation is finally letting us land on rocks again, so it would be perfect timing, I suppose." This was another difference between XB1 users and Peesee commanders. The Pilots Federation had taken a decision to allow planetary landings once more, the so-called Horizons Project, for the first time in years following the Thargoid Incident. All self-sufficient planets had been in quarantine, while those reliant on outside aid had strictly limited cargo fleets ferrying goods to and from a nearby station or outpost. While it was generally, yet grudgingly, acknowledged that the more powerful Peesee systems did allow a greater degree of fine control, for many, the decision was another example of the quiet discrimination that XB1 users faced. "It's been mooted many times before though. No one's ever done anything about it. Maybe now is the time," Drake said.

"Well, I've been wondering when someone would suggest an XB1 Distant Worlds. I know some XB1 commanders tagged along with the Peesee brigade, even if they couldn't directly instance with the...master race. But a private group of a hundred or so XB1 commanders? Yeah, I'm in. Maybe we should start a new group, separate from Distant Worlds? What do you think? I'm looking forward to seeing what's out there, Drake." Dell looked wistful for a moment, clearly picturing the scene. As he did, in a quieter voice, as if talking to himself, he added, "I'd like to attempt an expedition in the same vein as Distant Worlds in the future, teaming up with lots of other commanders."

Lost in his own thoughts, Drake stared absently at the other commander for a moment. The idea tickled his sense of adventure, as well as appealed to his appalling addiction to righting things he perceived to be unfair in any way. Maybe the XB1 guys should show the Peesee pilots what they could do? Maybe they should put on a discussion thread on the XB1 extranet forum? He thought to himself. Something clicked or maybe snapped, depending on who's view one took. The same thing that had clicked a few months earlier when he had suddenly, and with finality, decided to take to the spaceways again. "I'll do it! I think it only fair. I got a little tired of watching Distant World's videos and all the Peesee speak. A group of commanders who all share the same controller foibles, and who share a newly-discovered sense of wanting to explore more, thanks to the possibility of landing to investigate things? Yeah, I'd be up for that. Watch for the thread," he announced excitedly. Dell beamed a smile, even as Drake abruptly turned on his heel and strode off towards Bay 18, and his waiting ship.