"I am afraid to think what I have done; look on it again I dare not."
- Shakespeare

"Hehehe, you know, you and Brandon could learn how to write... I might send you something from what i've written... But come on man, Brandon was a die hard wannabe writer and put his soul into, which he liked, but the stuff i wrote was bullshit in my spare time, i had newspapers and shit over here mate, my life couldn't revolve around that stuff, i just liked mucking around... Tell brandon's he's gotten better, but not by much, he should stick to primary school stuff like picture books... Hehehehe"
- Bruce Tannock, Jr., commenting on this story
(he has yet to produce any trace of "what i've written" as evidence to his scholarly author skills)

"It was a dark night, I lay thinking about my future, my life, my father. My father was dead, and it was Thrakhath’s fault! My past was full of excitement and sadness and my future was full of hope and disappointment. Little did I know I would have such an effect on the Confederation.

"I was born in 2650 and was taught to fly by Colonel Blair himself, as he was a good friend of my father. On return from a mission one day with my father, Thrakhath and his men ambushed us. Protecting my life, my father took the full impact of Thrakhath’s missile, and then he was destroyed. I was able to escape. I swore there and then to get my vengeance.

"Now I was in the battle. In the fight against the dreaded enemy of the Confederation. I am Missile and I fight without hesitation, one day I dream of destroying Thrakhath. To destroy Thrakhath would please me greatly, but now I must concern about the task at hand, for I am in the Unleashed Squadron, a special operations task force used at the forefront of the Confederation’s attack.

"As a kid I dreamed of being a pilot on my father’s wing, but now, I fight in honor of him and for all he stood for. I know somewhere he is watching me, and is proud. The rest of the Unleashed Squadron have their past problems, Brandon was raised by the Kilrathi, Manuel can’t remember his past and Adam is a regular graduate from the Academy. But they have never witnessed the loss of a love on their wing. They still carry great pain, as so I. But as we do, we remember our reason for being here, our reason to fight.

"It is possible that these events made us stronger, made us faster. We are the best of the best, trained in the Special Forces as great pilots and Marines. We carry pain and suffering in our past, but honor and victory in the future. We will never forget our families and past but welcome the future and the new way of life. We find strength in each other as we fight hard and strong for what is right, what is justice, what is our way of life. We are the Confederation’s right hand, we are the Unleashed Squadron."

THEN...

TCS OUTRIDER; TANNOCK’S CABIN
THE SOL SYSTEM, TERRA QUADRANT, SOL SECTOR
2673.280; 1700 HOURS (CST)

UNLEASHED SQUADRON

COLONEL BRUCE "MISSILE" TANNOCK (CO) [ACTIVE DUTY]
COLONEL ADAM "HELLFIRE" KEYLOR (XO) [ACTIVE DUTY]
LT. COLONEL MANUEL "SPITFIRE" PRIETO (XO) [ACTIVE DUTY]
MAJOR BRANDON "DOS" McKOWN (XO) [ACTIVE DUTY]
MAJOR RAJAN "THE DESTOYER" RAGUPATHY [ACTIVE DUTY]
MAJOR NATHAN LIM [ACTIVE DUTY]
MAJOR BEN BECK [ACTIVE DUTY]
<CITIZEN> JOEL WILLIAM "DARWIN or ‘SCRATCH’" HILL [RETIRED, 2658.355; BARTENDER]

STATUS: BETWEEN TOURS
FIGHTER WING ASSIGNED: 47TH FIGHTER WING (TCS NATIONAL, CV-48)
SUCCESSFUL SORTIES: 5
COMPLETED TOURS OF DUTY: "THE DEATH WISH," "THE COMMON FRONT," "THE UNKNOWN ENEMY," [CONT. ON PAGE 2]

Colonel Bruce Tannock gingerly took the paper printout, his profile of his prized Unleashed Squadron, held it against his chest like a baby, leaned back in his seat, and smiled wistfully.

"I have my own squadron now... my own squadron of strapping young men." Tannock licked his lips and sighed. "Mmmm."

McKown, one of Tannock’s three XOs—his favorite—walked into the barracks without warning. Tannock to jumped in his seat. "Uh... what was that, sir?" McKown inquired with a touch of genuine concern.

"Nuh-nothing at all, mate." Tannock tried to play it off to little success. He would never let anyone see him like this, certainly not any of his pilots. "What was it you came to discuss?"

"Just a matter that... the men and I have been talking about for some time and, well..."

"Yes?"

McKown hesitated, unsure where to start. "You’re kind of... how should I put it..."

"Bold? Heroic? Dashing? Fearless?"

"... weird. I mean, we all know you had Rear Admiral Hansen doctor up the registration for the Unleashed Squadron... technically we don’t exist in the Space Force, and technically you’re not even a colonel. You’re a 2nd lieutenant who pulled some strings with the right people... and you certainly never learned to fly from Colonel Blair." McKown cleared his throat. "And you seem to think you’re good friends with Blair, Eisen, and Maniac Marshall... why, sir?"

"What? That’s not true." He remembered the nights he’d spent with the Rear Admiral to make it all such... he’d earned his squadron, his rank, and he’d be damned if somebody was prepared to say it wasn’t legit. Rear admiral indeed. It had been four years and Tannock still couldn’t walk right.

"Don’t lie, sir. And then there’s... well..." McKown stopped. He could be totally out of line here. "Some of the men say you’ve been making advances on them... hitting on them and watching them sleep. Colonel, sir, I have noticed there’s no women on the squadron—"

"Hey, it’s not my fault they can’t handle a flight stick and don’t sign up!"

McKown cringed at the apparent double meaning of Tannock’s words. "Ah, but I’ve seen transfer requests from five female lieutenants in the past week... all of which rejected by you personally without reason."

Tannock fidgeted, struggling for words. "Eh... their psych evaluations listed them as loose cannons... er, totally unreliable in battle."

"Please, Colonel," McKown looked sternly at the Colonel, reprimandingly, "your homosexuality is all well and good, but you don’t need to—"

"Pah!" Tannock waved a hand in the air girlishly. "I’m as straight as an arrow, mate! Why, I’m a regular ‘mac daddy’ when it comes to the wenches—er, sheilas... can’t keep me off them, y’know, mate? ‘Put anotha shrimp on the bar-bie, Bruce,’ they used to tell me at parties. ‘Please, Brucie, a bit more baby oil?’ they’d say to me. See?"

"Right." McKown straightened his shirt and cleared his throat, getting a bit uncomfortable around his grinning superior. "Well, that’s about it then, sir. I’ll, um, be off, then."

"One moment," Tannock called. "Are you proud to be a part of Unleashed Squadron?"

McKown stopped halfway out of the doorway. "Sir?"

"Are you proud to be with us?" queried Tannock. "Y’know, mate... one of me men?"

I’ll never be one of "your men," McKown thought to himself, wishing he could speak it to his CO. McKown grimaced, then stalked out the door in revulsion.

Alone in his cabin, Tannock leaned back once more, sighing. A twisted, obsessive twinkle came to his eye as he spoke, rocking rhythmically in his chair to and fro, "He loves me. They all love me. Everybody loves me. Just like Mother, dear Mother... Everybody loves me..."

NOW...

HELLCAT V TC-231
THE CAIRO SYSTEM, ROBERTS QUADRANT, VEGA SECTOR
2680.298; 1021 HOURS (CST)

"You awake over there, McClown?"

The nickname. The hated nickname. Captain Brandon "Darksabre" McKown startled awake with a gasp. "Whuh-what?"

"Oh, just wake the fuck up, Brandon. We’re almost at Nav Four." As McKown came to, he placed the voice coming over his headset as belonging to 1st Lieutenant Kathy "Prophet" Myers, one of his wingmen on their patrol. She’d been one of his better friends over the last few years, but a consistent pain in the ass.

"I’m awake, I’m awake!" McKown exclaimed.

Sure, the twenty-eight year old McKown liked his job, but at 1021 Hours that day he could not have been more bored. For four long hours, his flight had been skipping around the outskirts of the Cairo System, keeping an eye on their HUDs as they patrolled the borders.

The Scrapper Flight Team, as they liked to call themselves, was composed of four Hellcat V fighters, reminiscent of ancient atmospheric jet fighters in design, along with a Caernaven-class patrol frigate, the TCS Tolkien. One of the proudest of ships, even if outdated, she oversaw the operations for the flight that week while on her usual tri-system patrol. McKown was glad to have someone new to talk to on the run, and regretted that next week his flight would be alone on patrol once again.

McKown was a thin man, but possessing a miniscule gut that he bore no pride for. With laughable upper body strength, his determination and anger-where-anger-was-due attitude filled the gaps of his physicality when the time beckoned so. However, McKown’s overall frame could be considered thin skin pulled taut over thinner bones, with a bit of facial hair decorating his chin and upper neck. Along with combed-back hair, sideburns complemented the young man’s face.

For five years he had been with In-System Security, preferring to be involved with less bloodshed than in the Terran-Kilrathi War—a bloodbath of the ages. No disappointment was within Brandon over not being able to fight in the bloodier, recently concluded Battle of Cynium—the Terran-Kilrathi War, barring all Cat insurgents, was legitimately over. That was enough for him. He was content to sit on the sidelines for the time being. It was peacetime, after all.

McKown’s decision was a hard one: to take a step down to ISS, the In-System Security. During the war though, he felt discontented with his assignment aboard the Concordia-class light fleet carrier TCS Mediterranean: he did too well in his position, and felt sick for doing so.

"Death... so much killing. Why do I have to be such a fucking crybaby... it was war, damn it... war..."

In all of McKown’s sorties as part of the White Lotus Squadron of the carrier’s 157th Fighter Wing, he took down about fifty Kilrathi fighters total. In the Battles of Hilo, Loche, and Risac he had been awarded the Silver Star, yet each time he felt dirty for accepting them. Brandon had found out too late that the taste of death was not pleasant on his tongue, and each time a Kilrathi vessel exploded in the targeting reticule he flinched in unbearable guilt. Even though damn near every Cat was bent on destroying mankind, McKown didn’t want to end every one of those Cats’ lives. He supposed a large, hate-inspiring event never set him to that goal, or maybe he had been meant for the Diplomatic Corps... The truth was the truth though, never to be changed in the eyes of the honorable, that McKown was never to be a natural-born, soldier-bred killer.

"I swear Intell said that you’re making the Cats yowl," the Mediterranean’s Wing Commander had commented. That was near the end of the war, when McKown himself swore he would take to greener pastures when the war was over by giving his damnedest toward ending it. His efforts, however painful in doing so, were redoubled to the last.

Yes, redoubled to the last... but was it simply because he wanted to do his part to end the war, or make amends for something? Redeem himself for some horrible wrongdoing he had partaken in from his youth?

No, McKown would not dredge up those memories. The memory of Unleashed Squadron was not a good one.

The ink on the Treaty of Torgo, otherwise known as the Treaty of Ko-bar Yagar, wasn’t even dry yet when McKown came to the Captain requesting a transfer. The response was laughable. The Captain gave McKown an emphatic dressing-down, almost driving him to tears, about using given skills and such, even after the war. Being one of the few brass who was able to look past McKown’s troubled beginnings in Unleashed Squadron, he slammed his fist and broke his coffee mug when Brandon further told him that he planned to go to ISS instead of retiring. Brandon wished to fly and serve humanity to the best of his ability; he just didn’t want to kill as much as before.

When he transferred to In-System, Brandon met Julie, his eventual fiancée. 2nd Lt. Julie "Riptide" Malone, twenty-four, was a brunette with long, silky hair and almond eyes that complemented her sharp nose and golden smile. Pale skin, natural from the faded sun of Cairo II, her home planet, stretched smoothly over her vivacious curves. Over the next few years of working together, sharing stories of their past, their regrets, their hopes, and their dreams, they grew closer and closer until one day Riptide asked McKown to marry her.

"Clever bitch..." McKown smiled sheepishly, chuckling to himself as he clenched the gloved hand with the engagement ring on it. He had to give her credit there. "Never saw that one coming..."

Along with Julie and Brandon, two others composed Scrapper Flight. There was 1st Lieutenant Kathy "Prophet" Myers, tweny-seven years of age, a reluctant signer to ISS. She had short, spiky black hair with a stripy tattoo across her cheek in fashion to some high water, cultural planet near the spinward, "western" border of Confed Space. She was muscular with a femme fatale manor. Sharp emerald eyes accented her well-toned face and flesh.

Prophet had faced traumatic times in the everlasting Cynium conflict, and was spending time here as a fighter "temp." When she felt that she could hack it out on the front lines again, she was free to leave ISS with no hard feelings from the rest of the team. Julie, Mark, and McKown all agreed she needed to spread her wings again as soon as she could.

Lt. Col. Mark "Spiral" Adams was an older fellow, forty-nine, soon to be pushed to the pasture due to age restraints. Strong wrinkles and white hair had begun to overtake his face, however, his blue eyes remained as sharp as ever. He, a body builder in his spare time, had easily three times the build of McKown.

At the moment, Mark was in hard times of grief over the loss of his wife of twenty-seven years. Four weeks prior, Lt. Col. Sandy "Reaper" Adams had been lost to a group of pirates who had ganged up on her wing. Her flight recorder was gathered from the wreckage with a note to Mark embedded in its programming. Besides displaying three Talon-class pirate light fighters beating down her Hellcat, Sandy’s message simply said "Avenge me, Mark. Don’t let them go free. All my love."

The message was heartfelt, McKown had considered. All of Scrapper Flight had promised to take the pirates down should they ever find them. Whether Adams would take the law into his own hands upon encountering the pirates, McKown couldn’t even guess. He wasn’t sure he’d stop him if he did.

That was four weeks ago, and at the moment McKown was finishing up his patrol, about to take a break on the TCS Tolkien. "So, old man," he said good-naturedly, "what’d you see over there at Sol a week ago?" Spiral had recently taken a brief trip back home for his wife’s proper burial, so McKown assumed he had visited his old stomping grounds while he was there.

"Holy mother of god, boyo!" he exclaimed in a gravely voice. "I saw two of the greatest monstrosities ever to be built by Confed down at the primary shipyards. One had her superstructure finished, and they were fastening the exterior hull plating to her, and she measured out to about two kilometers. The other was two months or so behind production, so she was getting her superstructure setup."

Riptide overheard the two chatting over the comm channel and she joined in. "Two klicks long? What are they? New types of dreadnoughts... or supercarriers?"

"No, no—she’s something new... an ultra—no... oh yes, the high hats on the Armed Forces Committee called them megacarriers. The two of them were called the TCS Midway and the Mistral Sea. Biggest sons’o bitches I’ll ever witness before I’ll meet my maker."

McKown smiled in thought. To have a chance to take a tour of duty on a spearhead like Mark described made him long for the days of battle... but he just didn’t feel right. Brandon thought maybe, just maybe that he would get himself some shrink to deal with his "killing problem."

Prophet, with a concerned voice, added, "I wonder what they are rebuilding the Armada for. I mean, these new classes of ships and all, it’s like we’re gearing up for a new war or something. Makes you wonder if old Tolwyn was right."

"Like my dad used to say, Myers: ‘The best defense is a good offense,’" McKown chimed. "Hell, maybe we’re gonna put our feet down on those Kilrathi treaty dodgers once and for all. I don’t want their brood poking their furry, bastard noses in this system like they did last year. I was glad we sent that Fralthi II straight to hell, and we locked those Cats up in one of their diplomatic ships. I hope they’re back home in a prison cell full of rocking chairs... unless they were flash incinerated."

"Roger on that one, Brandon," Julie agreed. "The next capital ship wanting to take over my home is gonna get a serious missile up her—"

Without warning, Commander Franklin on the Tolkien cut in, "Arm to fist, arm to fist: we just picked up a signal near Cairo’s first moon. A flight of Talons has emerged with a raider transport. They are taking their pick on a duo of civilian Draymans exiting the atmosphere. The civilians are looking bad, and can’t hack it much longer. Destroy if necessary; capture if possible."

Scrapper Leader answered. "Got it arm, fist is moving forward. Darksabre out." McKown veered his Hellcat off the patrol route, kicking in his afterburners. Without orders, the rest followed in form.

Spiral contacted McKown with a quite voice that sounded like two slabs of granite grinding against each other. "Son... you s’pose those pirates are the ones who took down my Sandy?"

"I have no clue, Adams," McKown replied, "but my magic eight ball points to yes. Let’s take them in. I’ll... I’ll let you decide on the details of their sentencing."

Prophet, on a private comm channel, added darkly, "Watch out, ’Sabre, his sentence might be too permanent for Confed justice."

TCS VROLOCK; BRIDGE
THE PORT HEDLAND SYSTEM, DOUGLAS QUADRANT, VEGA SECTOR
0835 HOURS (CST)

On the bridge of the Clydesdale-class prisoner transport Vrolock, the bloodied, sickly figure of a man in a tarnished prisoner’s uniform stumbled its way onto the navigational controls. It nearly tripped over the bodies of two Naval officers he’d killed minutes ago.

Five years of good behavior at the Port Hedland Penal Colony 4774 on Port Hedland VI had earned the man a transfer to the minimum security facilities at Xanadu, where, until moments ago, the transport was headed to ferry him to. Xanadu Detention Colony 1070... where he’d spend out the rest of his life sentence.

Now the transport was headed somewhere different.

"The squadron... my beautiful, beautiful squadron... it must be rebuilt..." he rasped, his bloodied hands—the blood not his own—moving over the nav controls. "My men... my strapping young men... I will find you."

When he was done plotting his jump coordinates, he pulled the crumpled piece of paper he’d printed from the transport’s database an hour ago and gave it a cursory glance.

UNLEASHED SQUADRON

<CITIZEN> BRUCE "MISSILE" TANNOCK (CO) [INCARCERATED INDEFINITELY]
LT. GENERAL ADAM "HELLFIRE" KEYLOR (XO) [RETIRED, 2680.220]
BRIGADIER GENERAL MANUEL "STINGRAY" PRIETO (XO) [KIA, 2680.120]
CAPTAIN (DM) BRANDON "DARKSABRE" McKOWN (XO) [ISS, CAIRO SYSTEM]
COLONEL RAJAN "RAPTOR" RAGUPATHY [ACTIVE DUTY, BWS VALERIA (pending) BWS NEW JERSEY (current)]
COLONEL NATHAN LIM [MIA, 2676.135]
COLONEL BEN BECK [KIA, 2680.101]
<CITIZEN> JOEL WILLIAM "DARWIN, ‘SCRATCH,’ or MAD HACKER" HILL [RETIRED, 2658.355; BARTENDER, KIA, 2679.185]

STATUS: DISBANDED BY ORDER OF ADMIRALTY COURT, 2674.009
FIGHTER WING ASSIGNED: NONE
SUCCESSFUL SORTIES: 7
COMPLETED TOURS OF DUTY: "THE DEATH WISH," "THE COMMON FRONT," "THE UNKNOWN ENEMY," [CONT. ON PAGE 2]

"Ah, Brandon T. McKown..." he rasped after reading it, a demented grin playing on his pale face. "The first on my list..."

HELLCAT V TC-231
THE CAIRO SYSTEM, ROBERTS QUADRANT, VEGA SECTOR
1043 HOURS (CST)

McKown hated watching helplessly as innocent people were harmed, trying desperately to arrive in time to help.

Scrapper Flight made it in time though, minutes ahead of the Tolkien, skimming over the surface of Cairo Base One, a Confed lunar installation used for shipping and emergency shipyard production. The small moon in close orbit over the upper atmosphere of the larger planet eclipsed the distant sun, adding a bit of stellar awe to the already plentiful wonders of Cairo.

The long years there had, at times, been easy. At the beginning of the year, Scrapper Flight had been assigned to four months of patrolling the immediate area around the base, safeguarding against sabotage while a new cannon-like Murphy-class destroyer was being built.

Presently, there were no ships in production, simply docked shuttles and transports resting on the moon’s surface. The base was a significant part of the tri-system’s Command Operations and well protected. The pirates knew this, though, and saved their attacks for the transports.

As they skimmed the surface, the Hellcats had an excellent view of everything that was happening. The situation did not look good.

Six cross-winged Talon light fighters, night black with crimson engine exhaust, drifted like ravens across the hulls of the two Drayman IIs, pummeling both their shields and ripping deep into their thin armor like so much plastic. Flames burst forth through a deep scar in one of the bulbous transports’ hulls. McKown held his breath as two of the pirates unloaded their heat-seeker missiles into the wound of fire and metal. Once the resulting flash of white light receded, only half of the Drayman remained, spilling cargo and food crates from her belly. Along with the exposed innards, several crewmen were sucked into an icy and radioactive death. Satisfied, the two Talons pulled away. Another fighter released a cargo net, scooping up civilian-owned booty and shooting off after the net was full.

The Hellcats were still a good few thousand kilometers away. "Oh my god," Prophet murmured. "Did we get here too late?"

"It matters little," Brandon answered. "We’ve got a job to do. Weapons open, neutralize if possible, but destroy if... hey, Spiral, get the hell back into—" A lone Hellcat V broke formation, seeking vengeance.

"Those shit stains, don’t you recognize them?" Adams questioned venomously. "They took her from me! Twenty seven fucking years... and they had to take her..."

Indeed McKown recognized them.

The veteran continued, "You said I had my say in their fate. Well there is only one way possible they can pay for their sins, and I think you already know..."

"Damn it, Spiral! If you kill them you are just as bad as they are! You are have a duty!"

"Don’t get all preachy with me, McKown! And don’t fucking patronize me... she was my wife!"

"‘Uphold the law and protect the innocent,’ they told us when we signed up. Yeah, this is a shit job, about the shittiest shit job you can get in the Space Force, but doesn’t that mean a damn to you? Do you want to be just like the cold-blooded rookies who were made for the front lines? Moreover, what about the raiders? What makes you better than them?"

"Don’t give me that ‘eye for an eye makes two blind men’ bullshit! What if they took Julie? Would you be so forgiving?" Mark added. McKown knew what he was getting at. If they did take Julie, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions of vengeance towards them. Hatred would fill the gaps of lost love in his heart.

Just like Mark wouldn’t be responsible now, logic and law be damned. Hatred filled his broken heart... and now it guided his actions. Only his duty could divert the path taken.

"Just cool off, Mark, and wait ’til we get ’em. Think of her for a moment? Would she have wanted this?" Even though it had been her death call, Brandon had to reach Spiral somehow.

Maybe he had at the moment, as he noticed Mark falling back into formation.

They geared up for battle on McKown’s order, whether the was ready or not. "Everyone, move power to one gun only, target engines only, and keep it real. We want to nail the bastards alive for what they did. As for everything else... break and attack!"

The four ships pulled off from each other, diving into the foray. In reaction, the pirates split to evade not unlike a rattled pack of wolves. They knew their ships’ shields wouldn’t be able to handle the firepower of a Hellcat V on full-guns.

As they split, McKown realized he was alone. First, choosing a target, he moved up on afterburners to gain tail on one of the pirates that had wrecked the Drayman II. He reared up on his port side, bearing down on the dorsal side of the small, pod-like fighter and fired a few salvos, of which only two dissipated against the shields of the fighter.

Leveling out behind the pirate, the display on his HUD showed a red, circling reticule locking in on the Talon’s engines. A high-pitched tone sounded, and McKown fired his ions until they battered down his opponent’s shield and fried the engines. The fighter was immobilized and drifting, awaiting the tractor beam clutches of the TCS Tolkien. With superiority running through him, the ISS pilot shot off into the battle.

Riptide cursed as two fighters bore down on her position, and fired. Her shields held, but the threatening sound of armor ripping made her yelp. A shower of sparks exploded out of her right systems-display VDU, making her scream. To her relief, Prophet scared the two away as she roared in on her port side, her lasers bitching at their shields.

McKown and Spiral had formed up now, with McKown as Mark’s wingman. Mark vehemently followed after what appeared to be the leader of the pack, and afterburned with unrelenting speed. Mark fired a heat-seeker onto the bastard; afterwards McKown took out the engines.

Prophet had a tough time taking on the two she had scared away from Riptide, but as she initiated her attack, the situation turned in her favor. One chaffed off to evade the tenacious projectiles, while Myers battered down the other one until they yielded.

Julie, Mark and Brandon now had their own opponents. Each of them opened fire upon their foes, but all of them successfully evaded.

"Keep ’em running, guys," McKown advised. "The more they think of evasion, the less they think of all-out escape."

"They are heading toward that Drayman II-class transport to protect her until she reaches the jump point," Mark said smoothly. "She looks like any other run-of-the-mill civilian ship, so she could have taken her sweet time on Cairo whenever the crew needed to refuel and check their loot.

"Once they get through the jump point they might have a clean sweep into Kilrathi territory, or worse yet, the Landreich," he said sadly. "If they head there, Confed has no jurisdiction."

The Hellcats reformed while McKown talked. "Well then we just have to keep her from reaching that jump point. Check your sixes."

The rest of the flight looked at their rear HUDs. Each response was that of relief. The Tolkien had finally caught up to the battle, and knew what was going down. She was on capturing vector toward the Raiders, with gun turrets glistening in the faded blue Cairo sun. One gun turret caught everyone’s eye: the single plasma cannon on the front dorsal side of the respected patrol frigate.

McKown had new orders to give. "Guys, you know what to do. Protect the Tolkien while she beats the living shit out of the Raider ship, and take out all remaining fighters. Old friend, you okay?"

Mark answered over a shaky voice, "Yeah, I guess I’m okay. I just—well, she wanted me to avenge—"

"I know, but she also said not to let them get off free," Prophet said. "They won’t, guy. We won’t let them."

"Here we go, everyone," Malone cried out, "they have a few minutes to the jump point... we have given them too much distance, let’s take some back. Cairo is ours to protect, we have a responsibility!"

With an unsaid order, just by chosen actions, they all broke toward the Talon light pirate fighters with a lust of justice, firing multiple salvos on full guns. All four of the Hellcats rolled up to the right, skimming across the transport’s lower spine. Spiral fired a full pulse, knocking out an incoming Talon.

The anti-fighter gunnery of the pursuing Tolkien bit into the Raider’s hull, and for a change, fire gushed from her hull. Missiles blazed toward her, battering the Drayman II.

Her last gun was still working though; Riptide noticed it as many rapid shots bombarded her ventral side, shattering her shields. The smooth, jet-like fighter started to tear apart.

No, not her, you miserable bastards, McKown thought, looking on. "You took too many over the past months already... the last one ain’t gonna be her!" He keyed in his afterburners, locked on, and unloaded his last missiles into the gun port. It was a sure overkill. The unshielded vessel blasted open, spilling forth her captured goods. A chain reaction set off within the hull, as they had been holding explosives within their cargo bays.

Something was different with Brandon, though. He winced, prepared to bare the guilt and the shame of killing others. In the moments between seconds, and the moments between thoughts, he considered...

They had truly wanted to kill all of them, and it wouldn’t have made a difference to them. If he had destroyed them intentionally, he would linger for days about his actions. It wouldn’t have mattered, as much to them, it was just another mark to add to their tallies.

Guilt shifted to anger, which was replaced by innocence. Innocence within Captain McKown ended, only to be replaced by pride.

He no longer was a sufferer of deaths. He had become, through a single mission of action, something else.

McKown was now a proud bearer of deaths. Instead of the funeral’s hearse, he was instead the Sickle of Death.

Bright blue, massive plasma bursts soared past Prophet’s starboard wing. She swerved away, looking on as they burnt out the Raider vessel’s engines, and the fighter’s hopes for escape.

"We got’em," Lt. Colonel Adams noted. "It took us a while, and a life, but we got ‘em."

"Yes we did, old friend." McKown moved his fighter, signaling with his maneuvering for the others to get into formation. "We got them. It might’ve cost us holy high hell, but we got them."

Now McKown was ready to be in the battles he had yearned for so long ago. Now he could kill, and never feel true remorse. Was it all that bad for soldier such as he? Is killing so that others might live so wrong in the end? Moreover, did the ends justify the means? Brandon would have so many issues to ponder when he got back to base. After answering those questions, he would talk to Riptide. If everything went smooth with her...

They would both head to the front lines to do what they did best: serving and protecting the people, the Terran Confederation.

Scrapper Flight, composed of the four jet-like Hellcat Vs, turned sharply toward the following patrol frigate. Her sectioned box structure moved through the void, caught in the shadows of the eclipsed sun of Cairo System. Peace had grasped the awesome power of the stars.

"So you can kill now," a shrill, Australian-accented voice with a lisp came over McKown’s headset, jarring him from his retrospection. "Without remorse. That’s good, mate... so can I."

Mate? Mate?! No... it couldn’t be...

"Bruce Tannock?" McKown all but burst over the comm.

There was no response. But the voice... it was him.

"Didn’t you guys hear that?" McKown asked his wing moments later.

"Uh... hear what?" Prophet quizzically inquired.

"Nothing but the hum of my engines over here, Brandon," Riptide replied.

"You hearing things, Darksabre?" Spiral asked.

McKown sighed, shaking his head to clear it. "I... I don’t know..."

"You said Bruce Tannock," Riptide said. "Isn’t that that guy you said you used to fly with..."

"Never heard of him," Spiral spoke gruffly.

"My old squadron commander," McKown explained. "In... Unleashed Squadron."

"Oh, the hotshot wanna-be kid squadron?" Spiral pressed. "With the loonie, gay CO?"

McKown’s silence should have been answer enough.

"We’re picking up a signal on a Clydesdale transport four thousand klicks ahead," Commander Franklin, aboard the TCS Tolkien, reported. "It seems to be stationary... better check it out ASAP, Scrapper Flight. Could be in trouble."

"I’m on it," Riptide was quick to say.

"I got your wing," Spiral said. Both Hellcat Vs sped off after the distant Clydesdale, hitting afterburners while McKown and Prophet pulled up the rear.

"Careful, you two," McKown advised. "Stay frosty."

"Hey, I can take care of myself, Brandon," Riptide snapped. Who was McKown to say otherwise?

"Long time no see, DOS." The voice again. The voice from the past.

"[D]eath [O]n [S]ight," which he didn’t find out until only recently had been the intials of an archaic operating system in the twentieth century, hadn’t been his callsign for some time. Not since...

"It’s Darksabre now, thanks," McKown spoke, watching Spiral and Riptide go after the Clydesdale, nearly upon it now. "You really are Bruce, aren’t you? But you... you’re... you’re supposed to be in prison."

There was a pause, then the reply, "You think walls can hold the sexy Bruce ‘Missile’ Tannock? Don’t take me for a wanker, mate. I’m an innocent bloke who’s entitled to his freedom."

"No, Bruce," McKown admonished. "You did things... terrible things. When the Admiralty shut down Unleashed Squadron you... you did things. We all walked away to do other assignments but you couldn’t accept it. You killed people, Bruce. Lots of people. Lots of people who wanted to take you away from your ‘strapping young gents.’ The only reason they didn’t execute you was because the tribunal proved you... you were insane. Don’t you remember?"

If he did, Tannock wouldn’t think of it. "ISS and a demotion to captain? Tsk, tsk, tsk... How low you’ve fallen, DOS. You b—"

"It’s Darksabre, I said," McKown firmly corrected.

"Oooh, ‘Darksabre.’ How positively spooky. Yes, you’re determined, aren’t you? You can change the name but you can’t change your calling... your... destiny. You belong in Unleashed Squadron—and I just happen to be looking for some damn good pilots like yourself. It’s time to come home, mate. I’m starting the squadron up again—who cares what the Admiralty wankers say this time? We are Unleashed! We are unstoppable! Who cares even what Confed says?"

"I care. Unleashed Squadron was a joke, the worst mistake of my life." It felt good to say that. It was the truth. "And don’t call me ‘mate,’ ass rammer. You’re as megalomaniacal as you were before you snapped. Or have you always been a fucking lunatic?"

There was an icy pause, the words clearly having an effect on the rather self-assured Tannock. "Y-you... you will be sorry, Brandon. I’ll make you sorry."

Spiral’s voice came over the comm before McKown could give his response, "Coming up on the Clydesdale now... VDU says she’s the TCS Vrolock, a prison ship."

"It looks pretty derelict to me," came Riptide. "Like something happened inside an—"

McKown held up a hand to shield his eyes as the closing Clydesdale went up in a blinding explosive haze of thermonuclear proportions, a shockwave haloing out from the blast radius. A mine—every prison transport carried one in case of an emergency situation. Both Spiral and Riptide’s Hellcats, neither one more than a few klicks away, were enveloped in the blast, their medium fighters destroyed on impact.

McKown froze, his mind suddenly numb. "Oh my god... oh, god no... no!"

Julie... his fiancée... his beloved fiancée... gone. Forever. Taken from him... killed by that thing...

Bruce Tannock.

"Hah! My spider’s web caught a couple of flies, it did, wouldn’t you say?" Tannock spoke over the channel. But if he hadn’t been on the Clydesdale... "Oh, shed no tears for your Lt. Colonel Adams. He has gone to his wife. I did him a favor."

"You killed my Julie, you fucking bastard!"

"She was competition, mate. You’re one of my men, Brandon... one of my beautiful, strapping young men. You always have been... and you always will be." Tannock chuckled hoarsely. "Quite literally, mate... your ass is mine!"

Absolute hatred was flowing through McKown, brewing and boiling within the core of his being to a degree that he had never fathomed possible. He uttered, "Fuck... you... Tannock!"

It was then that Tannock made his appearance. Swooping out from the clearing debris and the dissipating gas cloud that had been the Clydesdale and the two Hellcats, his F/A-105B Tigershark afterburned forth. "Mmm, good idea, mate!" Tannock chimed with sardonic glee. "Perhaps in time!" Instantaneously, he fired off an Im Rec and a series of Rocket Pods at Prophet’s unsuspecting fighter, accompanying the salvo with a continuous firing of his four ion cannons.

"Darksabre... pl—" was all 1st Lt. Kathy "Prophet" Myers managed to say before her fighter’s hull breached.

"Touché, eh, mate?" Tannock mocked, yawing through Prophet’s wreckage with surprising, systematic skill and precision, then closing on the TCS Tolkien and releasing a torpedo at close range without lock before peeling off. Before the loss of Prophet could even register with McKown, the Tolkien was consumed to a similar fiery fate. "It’s just you and me now, DOS," Tannock came back moments later. "What’ll it be? I still need some damn good pilots..."

"You’re dead, Tannock." McKown clutched his flightstick with a death grip, the intensity of rage, grief, and shock permeating his every miniscule movement. He knew he wanted to cry then, but no tears would come. "You’re fucking dead!" He would kill Tannock, and he would relish doing it. This was one killing he could do without fear of remorse or regret—no, this would be his absolution, the coming of his full circle. Tannock had destroyed his reputation in the past and now, years later, he had returned to take away the handful of people he still cared about.

Bruce "Missile" Tannock had been the bane of his entire life. The ying to his yang. The darkness to his light. The ignorant youth that had once foolishly followed him was now the man with the strength and willpower to destroy him forever.

McKown lined up his fighter and started his run. Tannock did the same, and the two fighters began afterburning toward the other head-on like two knights on horseback in some ancient joust.

McKown slid under Tannock’s Tigershark and did a fast reverse, coming up on his hated opponent’s six and opening fire at close range with a pair of heat seekers and his twin laser cannons. Tannock’s stern shields gave out, the final few blasts hitting raw hull. McKown plunged away, altering course to come at him anew.

"First blood is yours, DOS," Tannock ceded. "You fly like a true Unleashed Squadron pilot."

I only fight like what I am, his thoughts burned through his mind. Your end.

Laser and missile fire probed outwards from Tannock’s fighter as McKown closed in the second time. McKown didn’t even bother dodging, taking the brunt of the barrage, his fighter’s course not flinching a centimeter. The two fighters played their duel of death once more, McKown having the time to fire off two ImRecs by the time they were staring down each other’s nose and trading cannon fire. He spared a look at the profile of Tannock’s Tigershark in his VDU, noticing with satisfaction it was virtually shieldless now, the fore, port, and starboard sides lit up with red.

A Pilum FF smacked into McKown’s aft as he pulled away to set up a third run, then another. "No..." he rasped, "Can’t die... not yet..." Pulsing red light bathed McKown’s cockpit, then the computer’s voice advising him to eject.

McKown’s fighter was on the ropes, but then so was Tannock’s.

Even with his fighter threatening to break apart at any given moment, perhaps not even able to take another hit, McKown swung his Hellcat around after afterburning out a few hundred klicks for one more joust.

"A pity you didn’t reconsider, mate," Tannock gloated on the comm. The maniac knew he would take McKown on this run. "Oh, but it’s not too late, you know..."

McKown ignored him, lining Tannock’s fighter up perfectly in his targeting reticle.

I’m sending you straight, McKown thought. Straight... to hell!

Out of Javelins and Spiculum IRs, McKown had no projectiles left to launch. No projectiles, that is... except one.

"Goodbye, mate. Time for you to go beddy-bye."

"No..." McKown’s life flashed before his eyes. The moment of truth was upon him. "Time to die, you miserable, sick son of a bitch!"

With the klicks separating the two enemies narrowing down to the double digits, fire streaking across McKown’s shieldless fighter’s canopy, McKown flipped the auto-afterburner lock switch and punched the eject button. As his eject pod was spasmodically shot from the cockpit of his fighter, McKown watched his Hellcat fighter ram into the unshielded fore of Tannock’s Tigershark at maximum speed. On impact, both fighters were engulfed in an explosion the magnitude of which left no doubt that there could have been no escape for Bruce "Missile" Tannock.

After being shaken by the initial blast, McKown’s pod felt the raining of the shrapnel thrown from the dissipating debris of the two fighters, bits of spinning, blasted hull fragments clattering off its sides.

"Got you, god damn it... I got you..."

Free floating in space, cold and alone, waiting for his rescue or for his death, his wingmen and patrol frigate all gone, he was left to only his blurred thoughts.

Other patrols returning to Cairo Base One would likely pick up his SOS signal, and in all likelihood he’d be picked up by SAR before the end of the day. Nevertheless, if McKown was to die out here, alone in the vacuum of space, he could do so with a content heart. Today he had confronted his inner demons... and beaten them.

Captain Brandon "Darksabre" McKown had at last found his redemption.