Taurus Corsairs - Internal Communications and Reports.

[Enkidu]

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Errant Ident: Ramey Florinda Torres
Errant Outbound Node: <scrambled - nonlocal node selected>
Topical Proclamation: Repairs.

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Solomon six, reporting in.

Most of the hard repairs are done for. Our scout drones recovered the last remains from the Intermares. SAR indicates no change from the first after-action assessment - only her message pods and FDR was launched before she sab-quenched her cores. The crew made their final rite - nothing of the gunboat was left to the Indols. Her crew died as Corsairs - I pray that someday we'll get the same chance.

We're still uncertain as to how the LSF found our convoy. There was no information leak, and the convoy flew as efficiently as astrogation would allow. There's Un putero unknown variables, but a best guess would indicate that we tripped an unseen pinger when transiting through Virginia. The enemy here is alien to most of the crew here - they're terrified of nebulae and asteroid fields - they cling to their infrastructure, their gravity wells. It difficult to anticipate the minds of the Alliance. Still, we got a morale boost: the picket gunboat served their purposes and martyred themselves for Crete. The rest of our fighter screen outflew the Indols and have regrouped with the convoy, cheering as they went. As shipdeath's go, it was a honourable one.

We're moving to fix up the last busted stellarator, manually. We tried running the nanobots over them, but they're aftermarkets - ripped from a indol corporate transport. Apparently their firmware wasn't reformatted properly - they didn't have the right pattern sets, and started printing superpolymers with all the wrong resistances - double thick and rigid enough that we would have cracked a seal under cruise stress. The little bastards chewed through about a third of the hard sealant we brought with us, printing all the wrong structures. By votive council, we decided to play it safe. Currently, we're shacked up in the wet-dock of the local junker hole - Beaumont, isn't it? They looked like their skin was going to crawl off of their backs when they were told their dock was going to host a patch-up party for a Hogosha hull. The credits must have swayed their spirits. Still, I have four Sicarios types guarding each airlock, warding away any Vac Suits away that arn't ours. It doesn't take a bright man to figure out what we're carrying, or who we're going to vend it to.

Bull willing, we'll be clear of this salvage rig turned watering hole before the Prod's learn that there's two treasure ships this far into Gommorah. Junker silence has a price tag, and they won't get a credit they don't deserve.. La mona aunque se vista de seda, mona se queda - we'd be fools if we expected any more.

We will head for the fence point the moment the other captains send me the go-ahead. I've ordered an extra ration of rum for the crew. They were high spirits as they watched the Intermares's reactors implode. A true Cretan cremation. Only the blessed risk their all, as our mothers tell us.

Morale is stable. I'm doing my best to keep the local whores out of the quarterdeck. You can never tell when the nightlife out here carries a cardamine burner with them. Ugh. The gutworlds are a nest of vice. Moor here too long, and they'll eat you alive.

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Ofrezco mi carne al cuerpo de Creta. Ofrezco mi corazón a su pasión, mi sangre transfundida al pueblo. Ofrezco mi todo para conocer mi alma; Entonces sabes que estoy realmente vivo.

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

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