DropShipCommand - Air Know what it is to command

David Fortesque

The uniforms glistened. Three hundred and fifty soldiers, one chaplain, ten captains and one admiral, all dressed in their finest ceremonial uniforms. The honor guard, consisting of ten of the most picturesque men and women aboard the ship, had been issued the ceremonial assault rifles common to burial details, polished until they shone enough to blind the naked eye.
Several propaganda teams silently hovered around the edge of the procession, their bright blue and yellow suits subtly but nevertheless obviously robbing the funeral of whatever credibility it had had before their arrival.
In the center of it all, the casket stood.
It was nearly three metres long, a cylinder of titanium and silver, covered from head to toe with engravings describing the passenger’s illustrious career. The entire procession paraded past it, to line up on the far side of the launching bays, whom had been cleared out for this ceremony alone.
David looked at the casket with a thin smile on his face and disbelief in his mind. He felt and almost overwhelming urge to scream. At the head end, a small portrait had been chiseled out; high, thin cheekbones, friendly but weary eyes, and a constant smile that had been his trademark in life.

All of this, he thought as he marched past the casket, for a coward.
In just two days, David Fortesque, formerly the aide de camp of Captain Michael Drake, had gone from reverence to hate.
Uncontrollable images flashed inside his head.
An enormous, thundering boom.
His arms, blurry in the side of his vision as he sprinted for Drake’s quarters.
The body, limbs splayed out, gun in the right hand, half the damn wall covered in blood and something gray-
His own weak voice, whispering for a medic, and then the trample of boots and brutal hands that dragged him from Drake’s quarters.
“A training accident”, they had told him, “Nothing more than a freak accident.”
They assumed, wrongfully, that he understood why.
According to the unofficial board of inquiry that had reviewed the case, David Fortesque was guilty of criminal negligence. Having failed to report the captain’s severely deteriorated mental health, as they had so nicely put it, he was partially responsible for the captain’s demise. Laughter had been his only response to the charges, and they had never been put into effect as the whole affair had been covered up to avoid the prowling eyes of the independent news agencies.
Several nights had been spent on the observation deck since then, guilt as always being the most wonderful motivator of them all. The weeks were rewinded inside his head, again and again and again, trying to find a clue, the single clue that would confirm the growing suspicion in his head.
When the cigarettes were gone, the bottle of vodka finally exhausted, he faced the same, horrifying answer every night: he hadn’t seen it.
How could he have missed it?

How?
And now this. This…So called funeral.
If they wanted another suicide, their wish might come true faster than they thought. The heavy black piece of metal in his holster, cold and uncaring, eagerly reminded him of the opportunity with every step he took towards his place in the line.
What would a gun want more, His mind snapped in sudden animation from its half-slumber, than to kill its own creators?
Then the order was given, and his body moved to attention without really needing the troubled soul to react properly.
Impressive. That he could react so precisely, no thought, no conscious effort, just pure reflexes…
It almost frightened him.
Almost.
It was time for the ceremony to begin.