Captain Lindburgh gave the order to increase thrust and move the Dominator out of the battlefield and into clear space. It was no easy task for Donnan; debris cluttered his view screens and blinded his sensors. Linde knew he was up to the challenge however. You didn’t fly for years with someone, watch him come up the ranks from deckhand to Chief Navigator without knowing what he was capable of handling.
As the Captain sat mesmerized by the main screen, he thought back on all that had been won, all that had been lost. Chenley, Foster, Dak-Tahrin, Ngo, and Sentramalor were all gone; their service records concluded with the highest commendations a captain could bestow. The Dominator had been badly damaged. If it hadn’t been for the heroic actions of his crew, she would now be a significant part of the debris field. The crew was exhausted. They had been pushed to their limits and beyond, then pushed even farther. It would take much time for them to recuperate, and Linde was sure that some of them would leave, hoping to spend what time they had left to them in quiet comfort with their families. Families who had not seen their loved ones in over a year.
That year had been filled with danger, excitement, death and life. They had greeted new friends, conquered old enemies, and charted new territories. It was a year that burned itself into the very fabric of his crew, smelting them in a cauldron of war, casting them in molds of courage. He would never command a crew such as this again. In fact, he may never command again. This realization had just come to him. He was the conquering hero, the Alexander of the Starmada. Nothing that came after could shine the merest light upon his accomplishments; it was time for him to set aside his ribbons, doff his uniform and fade away, as one soldier centuries ago had foretold.
When he was confident his crew had their return voyage underway and under control, he rose from his command station turned the con over to the Senior Officer and left the bridge. Normally at a time such as this he would head straight for the observation deck, but this time was different. He wasn’t ready yet to answer the questions the cold stars held for him. Instead he traveled down into the bowels of the ship, to the deck where the majority of the damage had been inflicted.
Scorched bulkheads, twisted metal and the sharp tang of sulfur assaulted his nose. His ship would never be the same. Neither would he. Neither would any of them.
As the Captain sat mesmerized by the main screen, he thought back on all that had been won, all that had been lost. Chenley, Foster, Dak-Tahrin, Ngo, and Sentramalor were all gone; their service records concluded with the highest commendations a captain could bestow. The Dominator had been badly damaged. If it hadn’t been for the heroic actions of his crew, she would now be a significant part of the debris field. The crew was exhausted. They had been pushed to their limits and beyond, then pushed even farther. It would take much time for them to recuperate, and Linde was sure that some of them would leave, hoping to spend what time they had left to them in quiet comfort with their families. Families who had not seen their loved ones in over a year.
That year had been filled with danger, excitement, death and life. They had greeted new friends, conquered old enemies, and charted new territories. It was a year that burned itself into the very fabric of his crew, smelting them in a cauldron of war, casting them in molds of courage. He would never command a crew such as this again. In fact, he may never command again. This realization had just come to him. He was the conquering hero, the Alexander of the Starmada. Nothing that came after could shine the merest light upon his accomplishments; it was time for him to set aside his ribbons, doff his uniform and fade away, as one soldier centuries ago had foretold.
When he was confident his crew had their return voyage underway and under control, he rose from his command station turned the con over to the Senior Officer and left the bridge. Normally at a time such as this he would head straight for the observation deck, but this time was different. He wasn’t ready yet to answer the questions the cold stars held for him. Instead he traveled down into the bowels of the ship, to the deck where the majority of the damage had been inflicted.
Scorched bulkheads, twisted metal and the sharp tang of sulfur assaulted his nose. His ship would never be the same. Neither would he. Neither would any of them.
The ghosts of lost crewmen, lost friends whispered incriminations in his ear as he finally moved up to the observation deck. The stars mocked him, the distant nebula colored the vision crimson. Blood was on his hands, and as Lady Macbeth, he was powerless to wipe them clean.
Home called him, and, weary as he was, he was eager to heed that call.
Space no longer comforted him. What had once embraced him now accused him.
He doubted he would ever be at peace again.
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