Such is the nature of man, when faced with the stars. The pulsar's stately rotation - static. The screaming energy consumed in the maw of the accretion disk of the naked singularity - static. The roaring blaze emitted by a supergiant - even a dying dwarf - static. Merely interference to our ever so important transmission - it must be, given man's obvious importance in the cosmic scheme; we deserve it. So it is said; or thought, sub-consciously, by the humanist. Man's true enemy - who thinks the will of man supreme in the galactic scale of importance. Such pride has been the downfall of many. Beware, lest it become the heritage of the Remnant which remain.

- Thoughts on The Great Collapse
Artiyur Relagten, Sorian Philosopher

The Age of The Other

Reconstruction. A word loaded with essences. The essence differed, of course, according to the perspective of the person contemplating the ideal behind the word. To some, it was a way to return to Utopia. Others, a rebuilding of the past. To a few, a studied path paralleling the acheivements of forbears - their societies, their goals, their needs, their cultural peak. Perhaps it was merely a way to avoid a repeat of the Great Collapse. It was uniquely individual, this response to The Reconstruction. Precisely the reason it was so dangerous while at the same time uplifting. An ideal is always dangerous.

The Phoenix slewed around, fighting it's own vector. The pursuing eel began it's predictable attack - a line of plasma across the unpredictable path of the fighter's passage. The thrust of the fighter's engine fought against the stored inertia of the previous flight path, but overcame it. The fighter picked up speed imperceptibly, while approaching just under the deadly line of plasma, just dancing inside of predictability. The fatal flaw of a drone. Predictability. Sameness. The pilot was almost bored, really. The same old thing. At a distance of 3000, he began firing himself - his own enigmatically glittering balls of plasma floated toward the Corvette class drone, now approaching quite fast indeed. Predictable, predictable, the same old trap. The eel jerked up as it was hit, over the approaching fighter, which kept it's vector unswervingly.

Efficiency. 8% shields on the eel now. I missed 3 shots. How unpredictable of me. The pilot thought, in mock horror. Whatever will the Flux Assassins think. He grinned, imagining. "How could you miss a target that big?" Practice. Ha! There went the two krakens, now. Passed. Ho hum. Ignore the pests. By now, that's all they've become. Distance, straighten the vector. Ho hum. Get those ducks in a row. Ho hum. They're committed. In other words, finished that stupid flip they ALWAYS do to follow. Ho hum. Shields back to 100? Ho hum. Time to flip myself. Ho hum. 180, smooth transition, line up, get up to speed, wait for the distance.... Ho hum. What a surprise! He has the exact shield percentage he's supposed to have x_seconds after the last pass! Ho hum. Let's see if my aim still sucks. Ho hum. 2800 this time, just for kicks. Ho hum. Who knew? My aim DOES work occasionally! He thought as he flew through the debris cloud generated by the plasma ripping through the eel as it exploded; only the slightest turbulence and the visual flash still hovering on his retinas to betray the recent existence of something in the space he was now occupying. Ho hum. Two krakens to go. Joy. Too bad the eel didn't hit me. It'd be the same as the last time I let an eel hit me cause I was bored. That's boring too. Oh well. Maybe there'll be some sents around here somewhere.

He transmitted the necessary codes to the station as he appeared through the gate. Yet another almost reflexive action. The codes changed occasionally though. At least they weren't ALWAYS the same. Not the idiotic drones. At least the Phocaenas were a bit tough. They were actually fun. Their flight characteristics are a lot better than those of the fighers we put against them. Thank Hamalzah for little blessings. Not that they didn't die as regularly as anything else. Just made you work at it. A challenge was welcome in the same old-same old of a fluxhunter. Necessary? Oh, sure. Sorta. They were just replaced immediately. Over 7,000 later, and they still kept coming. Heck, Kelvar had over 20,000. New Dawn combined had almost 200,000. He sighed in resignation. It wasn't the relative skill of the invaders. It was sheer numbers. Not that they hadn't put a huge dent in the numbers. The dent was just swallowed up in the enormity of the forces sent. Then there was sentients, infestations, assimilated humans... and the reports every so often of the "bases" that spawned them all.

Then the sympathizers among their own. Both overt, and covert. There were Cydrones, then there were the antipathists. "It doesn't affect me." "That's not my problem." "There'll just be more anyway." "TRI probably created them." "Insert conspiracy theory here." Fools. The invasion was coming. This was only a precursor to the real threat. Gauging the opposition. So be it. Maybe the apathy of the many would serve to cover the dedication of the few. He still didn't like it. Sentients now. An interesting dilemna. Some returned after "destruction". Some didn't. They had assimilated Aelsolah, and had all the precursors of our current flux research. They assimilated the Thrice Seven, who probably knew as much as anyone about the totality of TRI space and it's defenses. Good strategy by the Flux. He gave them that. The drones weren't the real threat. The sentients, the assimilated, the overmind, overlords, whatever, that they reported to - that was the real problem. Would be REAL nice if some of that vaunted TRI budget went toward finding where the heck the stupid things came from. More than nice. He shoved his compboard back at the crew chief, his postflight complete. Head in to debrief, and then to paperwork. Heh. Fun fun.

He reactivated his comms on his way to debrief. He tuned to the help channel . The usual arguments, the commentary, the mentoring, the debates. Complaints about such and such. Yadda yadda. A bit of actual help! Neato. He switched to :flux. A rookie about to go up in flames requested assistance in a panicky tone. He amusedly detailed a patrol to that sector, distractedly, assuring the rookie that help was on the way. The relief was palpable. He stopped on a whim. "Have you ever fought a squid before?" He asked. The reply came back, guardedly. "My mentor had me fight one once." "Tell ya what. I'll walk you through, ok?" "I don't know..." "Trust me." He grinned, in the middle of the hallway, then slouched against the wall for a while, as he talked. "Where's he at?" "Uhhh... 3k behind me. My shields are only at 32% though." The rookie spoke slowly, but calmly, as if reassured by the voice talking to him now. "What are you flying?" The hunter asked. "An Interceptor." The pride was palpable. He smiled. "What guns do you have?" "Two hammers." "Perfect. Here's what you do...." It only took a few minutes to talk him through the destruction of the flux scout. "Wow, I didn't know this ship could do that!" "Kid, you'd be surprised at what these ships are capable of, once you learn them inside out. Trust me on that one." "I bet. I forgot to ask your name, sir." "Call me Razor. RazorsKiss. I'm in New Dawn." "You're one of those "fluxhunters", aren't you?" He suppressed a smile as he returned the familiar mantra. "It's what we do. Remember, it's mostly concentration. Concentrate, and work on your aim. It'll keep you in good stead, whatever you do." "Yes sir." "Take care. I gotta get to my debrief now." "You mean you were..." "Yeah, I was in the hallway when I heard ya. Don't worry, it was a good break - and like I said; it's what we do. Razor out." He shut off the comm with a smile. Always the same, always different. Bah, still a debrief, and paperwork to dig through.