Libertonian Servicemember's Bar & Grill

[Jane Hartman]

"Captain Marshall and Lakewood, is it?" Quite the meteoritic rise for our young Captain. Hartman remembered Marshall as an ensign, all enthusiasm and innocence. Casualties at the front must have been heavy indeed for her to rise so high so quickly. Then again, the fleet had always been one for rewarding aptitude over experience, a relic of the command system. Age hardly carried the same constraints when orders were beamed from ship to ship, instead of screamed over a hail of shells. On a warship it didn't matter what you looked like, as long as you sounded confident. Then again, wasn't that leadership in a nutshell? Sound confident. Sound confident, and hope like hell that folk didn't see your hands shaking. Perhaps she was merely old-fashioned. Damned if she'd accept that meant she was wrong, though.

”That old tub's still flying? Number of times its been shot up, I'm surprised command ain't taken to using it as a strainer.” Logistics craft had a right remarkable ability to draw fire. There was something about that Liberty Logistics Ship identifier that set every neighbourhood thug with a Stunpulse chomping at the bit. Something about having a navy ship, any navy ship, that they stood a chance of putting a hole in. Never mind that the Logistics Service wasn't intended for combat, some local tough got to crawl back to the sewers and tell the other cockroaches how he'd crippled a warship. Poor fools never quite seemed to realise the truth of the matter until the real warships turned up and started vaporising living quarters and roaches alike. “And they say there ain't such a thing as miracles. Knew the pair of them when they weren't more than lines on a datapad. Seems a right while back now.

Captain -” Storms, but it felt odd to call her that. ”Marshall's taking care of the Corps, I trust?” She damn well better be. Hartman had put too much of her own blood into the Corps for anything less. ”It's a tough job. Something some folk don't appreciate.” She flicked a glance over to the bathroom door with the remark. Still no sign of Kent. ”Answer a question for me, Lieutenant. Say you're aboard the Lakewood, bound for Severn. Crew of, oh, call it five or six. Let's say you come across a Universal transport. Commercial supertanker. Two rogues, bombers, tearing chunks out of it. Shields down, one or two breaches in the bay. Atmo's holding though, don't look like it'll hold much longer. You can cruise on by, or open up on those two bombers yourself. Ain't saying those're the only options, but look to be the main two. How're you going to deal with it, Lieutenant?”

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