>BALANCED>YOURS[This vote was pretty close, but keep in mind that you can change your carrier loadout later if you choose]
You examine your newborn crew inside the main hanger bay. They stand in tight blocks – squadron commanders arranged precisely two paces in front of the rank-and-file. Interface helmets obscure their facial features behind a mask of black data ports and iridescent optical sensors.
Behind them, rows of strike craft gleam inside refit cradles, ceramic-composite armor plates still shining furnace-hot from the entropic heat of nanoscale fabrication. They were old, unforgiving designs – mass-produced speartips designed to embrace the natural aggression of cloned ancillaries. Like your crew-clades, they are the newest iterations of a tested and proven lineage.
Six squadrons. Less than one hundred pilots. Their obscured faces stare back at you, the skin beneath not even a single cycle old. An uncomfortable sensation wells up from your abdomen as you compare their reduced ranks with your former crew complement. You had caused this. You were responsible for this. Seeing them with eyes instead of articulated cameras forces you to bridge the gap between understanding and comprehension.
Deliberately, you inhale air tainted with the smell of hot metal and vaporized coolant, forcing the feeling of guilt to subside. Then, you deliver your pre-sortie briefing in the familiar language of orbital motion and strike vectors. You point out the three langrange-points nearest to Theta Ophiuchii’s sole habitable world and lay out the transfer burns that would bring your ship into planetary orbit. What little data you manage to extrapolate from the distress calls is compressed into a packet, which you then send to each squadron commander via binaric cant.
You finish the sortie briefing with a customary farewall – an adage you had learned only a few years after you first touched vacuum:
<…Now released, you are spears in the hands of the sun. Good hunting, pilots…>
Slowly, one of the squadron commanders removes his helmet with trembling hands. You see his pupils dilate as he reads and then rereads the barcode stenciled below your right eye.
He blurts a sudden query.
<Solstice overwatch, verify?>
You hesitate for a second before replying.
<Affirmative.>
<Welcome home, pilot.>
