Gaspar de la Vega

[TYHPilot]

Prologue

A lone Combat Service Vehicle whooshes through the blue vortex of hyperspace and arrives on the other side of a jump hole in the Omega-3 system. The grayish and yellow hull is worn and weathered and the engine clunkers forward with a resolute hum as impulse engines slowly start and begin pushing the freighter forward. The CSV was the signature ship of the Junkers, known more for its reliable and durable nature than its stellar performance and agility; the workhorse of an entire people. Those people who live on the edge, perhaps both sides of the law, Junkers.

This CSV in particular, "The Lucky Defiant" was well beyond what you could consider a ship's prime. No, it was somewhere between the end and scrap. Years of running from Police, dodging Bounty Hunters, and flying through fields of dead and abandoned ships turned the Defiant into something of a patchwork quilt. Junkers were their own breed; not loved enough by police and civilians to be legitimate, not hated enough to be criminals. Of course the Lucky Defiant was called that for a reason. Its pilot had tangled with danger more than enough times in it, usually because of what he was trying to move on board, guns, stolen gold, black market munitions and software, or artifacts. Artifacts were usually the one to get the Defiant in the most trouble. But somehow she made it out intact, and kept its pilot and cache of goodies alive, or alive enough to be towed to safety.

The engines all of the sudden kick out and leaves the ship floating forward in space, a dead stick. The pilot taps the main console which is beeping with red and yellow warning messages. He goes through the diagnostics systems checking for any signs of the problem. After a quick check of the systems, he does a nod with his head and then closes his hand into a fist and pounds a panel on the side of the console. The engines hum back to life suddenly and the warning lights on his heads up display subside.

"Good girl," says the pilot as he pats main console with his hand on the top like you would a dog.

A bearded, aged man, his face and demeanor reflects that of his ship. From a distance, he looks no different than a local drunkard: overweight, unclean, and unkempt. He seemed to be constantly stalked by the stench of beer and fried food that emanated from his cap. The cap, a faded and tattered blue and crimson red affair, collected a number of burns, and grease like stains over the years way beyond recognition.

If you would look closer you might start noticing some other things about this man. His eyes were always fixed, and concentrated. He scans space back and forth. Younger pilots often leave their ships on autopilot and rely on their early warning scanners to alert them; never the case with him. Lessons learned in the past taught him things. Computers fail, autopilot breaks, and scanners can lie. Your eyes are the best defense. This has been true for all of time.

The smelly tattered cap, behind all of the dust and oil you might barely be able to make out the letters BAF. In his younger days he was indeed a pilot for the Bretonian Armed Forces. Would it be even harder to believe that he was a great pilot for Bretonia? He was the type that could have made an entire career, nay an entire life out of the military. Instead, he did more than his share of time for King and Country and then got the hell out of there.

Perhaps he was tired about watching his friends die. Maybe he was fed up with fighting an enemy who he felt was right in their cause. Maybe he felt that sometimes destroying the enemy constituted cold blooded murder. Maybe it was that a bunch of miners who were tired of corporations stealing away their livelihoods deserved something of their own. Maybe, he hated what he had to do, but did it anyway and hated himself for it for 15 years. The fact of the matter is; now there was almost nothing to suggest he was at all an officer or a gentleman.

"Only one more system to go," he turns to the young man in the co-pilot seat and says, "You sure you're up for this Gary?"

"You think I can bear to stay after everything?" the young man replied.

"Fair enough, but this won't be a cakewalk. Hell it's not even a walk on a tight rope. You're going to be thrown into the fires of hell itself boy-o."

"Whatever Pitt, just get me there," Gary replies.

Gary turns his body away from Pitt. Looking out the cockpit of the CSV he stares through the blue and white clouds of Omega-3. Ice particles zoom past the ship. The shield makes a whine like noise whenever they impact directly. Even ice in space can be dangerous if you're flying fast enough.

Noticing he’s lost Gary’s attention, Pitt clears his throat and says:

"You know boy-o, I don't think my sister, I mean… your mother would have wanted you to just leave like that. She just wanted you to have a normal life. That's why her and your dad spent so much money, time and trouble protecting you from all this. Believe me Gary, it would be better if you just..."

Gary abruptly interrupts Pitt, "Hide in some library of some university? Live out the rest of my life quietly and just forget everything that happened?"

“No of course not, and remember who you’re speaking to boy!” Pitt snapped back with authority, “She was my sister long before she was your mother. And your father was a damn good man, better than most men who’ve walked the stars. Don’t act like I didn’t lose anything either. Damn it you’re lucky you managed to talk me into this crazy plan. I should have tied your ungrateful ass up and thrown you in the cargo hold and tossed you back to school.”

Gary looks back at Pitt to see his eagle like stare bearing down on him. He averts his eyes, and turns back towards the glass cockpit.

“What would you do?” Gary asks.

Pitt closes his eyes for a moment, as if it were a prayer. He lets out a sigh and then says, “If it were me? I would do something brash and stupid like what you’ve got planned.”

Pitt let out a rare grin at Gary and then turned his attention back to flying the CSV.

“For all the expensive books and fancy classes, you kids sure do learn nothing about life.”

---

Black|Sails

Kishiro Technologies