Just as he is drifting off to sleep, his comm blinks.
She has posted a reply.
“No, no, no.”
Quattras sighs, shakes his head wearily, and transfers the feed to his CQ monitor.
He stares at the photo of the capsuleer attached to the message. She is pretty, in her own way. Not like his Sebestior lover, exotic and mysterious; the face itself is kind and familiar. She resembles his younger sister, in a way. But the eyes are different. The eyes are nothing but fire.
Yeah, she’s young and full of piss. Reminds me of myself back when…
Memory, unbidden, floods his cybernetically-enhanced mind. The room smells of sulphur and fear, and the walls feel like they are caving in.
I’ve gotta get out of here!
Moments later he is safely parked in space near his home station, cloaked in a Manticore-class stealth bomber. He sits here for several hours, watching militia pilots come and go – re-shipping, re-arming, re-fitting in a market created and sustained not by the State or her allies nor their enemies. It is a market sustained by his alliance, and defended by his corporation.
We all play our part in this war, Commander Kim. I have chosen my place on moral stance as much as self-interest.
All glory to A Band Apart.