Somewhere along the Tionese frontier
The war was over. It was the lie they'd all learned to live with. Mortal combat with the Galactic Empire paused for indefinite hiatus while each side stared across a wide gulf, sharpening their apocalyptic knives. The eternal shadow of dread hanging over the known universe. And yet, underneath that shadow, fighting never really ended. There were no shortage of weekend villains. Tinpot one planet warlords cast like poisonous seeds across the fallow fields of the outer rim. Neat and tidy wars settled in days or weeks, that maybe made the second feed cycle on the HoloNet.
The weekend villains were as real as the Empire. The fighting was real. The blood was still real. Real enough when you could still see and smell it.
"Is there anything else for your report, Captain Quez?"
The holographic admirals in his office flickered and shimmered. While they were conveniently desk-sized recreations, he was the one in the room left feeling small. Clearing his throat, Cirrsseeto arranged his notes in front of him.
"jIt's my assessment that the Vantjiil Rrajiderrs have been effectjiveljy neutrraljized as a pjirracy thrreat on thjis corrrjidorr. Wjith the confjirrmed kjills frrom the local squadrron and ourr own engagements, jI don't beljieve they can effectjively mount rresjistance herre."
In short, good enough. No closure. It felt so familiar. The holographic admirals seemed pleased by this somehow. Maybe the raiders were snuffed out. Maybe they simply scrambled for relative safe haven in the Tion Cluster. Or maybe they'd be some other Alliance star system's problem next week. Good enough.
"Thank you, Captain. We are coordinating with ORCOM commands to evaluate our efforts. In the meantime, your orders are to make course for Lantillies and effect repairs and rearmament. Two week furlough for command and crew."
"Aye, ma'am."
"Command out."
And in unison, the holographic admirals conveniently made their exit, leaving Cirrsseeto alone in the void. He turned in his chair, staring out into the empty perpetual night of deep space. Beyond a star to call home. Wearily shuffling his meeting notes aside, he found a datapad beneath it that was next in the queue of matters to attend. Standard formatting. Alliance Navy letterhead.
From the AFP Novgorod, Cirrsseeto Quez, Captain. Dear [MR/MRS/MS] [NAME], it is with profound regret that I write to you to inform you that [RANK] [NAME] has been killed in the line of duty.
All neat and tidy. The condolences, extolling of service virtues, and every nuance of verbage already fussed over and settled by lawyers and chaplains. All you really had to do was fill in the blanks. Cirrsseeto's hand started to tremble, and he turned back to his desk to rest the pad on it's cluttered surface.
Next to the paper letter.
His hand hovered over each, balling into a fist briefly to steady it as he reached for the paper instead. It's ugly handwriting and unapologetic syntax. The smudge of ink. A stain the Captain couldn't identify. Everything the condolence letter he had to write was not. He wondered how long the damned thing had to plod along on Alliance supply ships to piggyback to his squadron, bouncing from hot spot to hot spot. A ridiculous, inefficient way to reach out to your fellow man, and yet...something in that meant more. More than a form letter. More than a thing he could just stick a name onto, press a button, and send halfway across the galaxy. All the way to Sullust, where a mother might even read it a few seconds later, and have her heart torn out with grief.
Cirrsseeto knew who sent this letter. And he knew why he did.
Only the Good
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