Graff’s Progression

An invitation to speak freely was completely out of military conduct but something about his host gave the feeling that working outside the manual, on occasion, was permissible. “I'm very thankful for you kindness Sir but I fail to understand. With the evidence weighing fully against me why you acted as you did?” “First off `Sir' is for anywhere outside this office. In here it's just Winfield, unless you choose to add some accolade concerning my good looks or excessive intelligence.” Winfield waited a few moments, confirming that his joke was wasted on his guest. “ Secondly I wasn't about to let two self-proclaimed first bloods back anyone into a corner for sport and get away with it. I'm sure they'll try to it again on someone else but not for a while.” Graff's host turned away just long enough to procure two glasses from the computer's countertop, a solid holographic service bar inspired, from what Graff imagined, by more of the tales and descriptions of long range space goers the officer admired. “We kindred spirits have to stick together, you know.” “Kindred spirits Sir… Winfield?” “Sir Winfield? Nope you still need to work on that.” Graff, not fully allowed to respond to what he perceived as a mistake in how the Sub vice Commander perceived his question, was broken off in his attempt to explain. “We have a common problem and reason for being here.” “I don't understand.” Graff's first drink was still in his hands rising in temperature from the moment it materialized on the countertop of the refreshment servo. “We're both trying to escape, disassociating ourselves with where or what we are running from.” Winfield sat on a chair opposite his guest. Judging the present temperature of Graff's, still untasted drink he retrieved a palm-sized cylindrical wand from his jacket pocket and placed it the liquid, chilling it back to its original temperature. The music from the sound system changed to a softer, more melancholy tone. We're both attempting to escape our previous lives, hoping that the fleet will be the way out. It just might be, one day, but it's going to take longer than either of us might hope.” “You're a first blood.” Despite any attempt to be the opposite Graff's statement was direct, to the point. “You could have taken a position sectors away from the Dominion home world and still remained safe from military service.” “Perhaps as a system governor or viceroy?” “Yes” “As a result of favouritism or special treatment by friends of my parents? That's just what I'm trying to escape from.” Winfield sat back in his chair focusing on some imaginary point in the distance between himself and the bulkhead in front of him. He wasn't used to questioning about his decisions and unconsciously chose not to look his guest in the eyes. “If and when I rise in rank or gain a command position it will be as a result of my efforts and not a result of how many hands my parents shake or how far back my DNA can be traced. I'll be judged on what I do, not who I am.” “Then you would sacrifice useful tools that could aid you reaching your goals should other pathways lead to failure.” There was not only the ring of truth but some added hint of experience in Graff's warning. Winfield heard to things in the cadet's statement. The distinction between warning and suggestion was difficult to make out. Something in what the cadet said made his host consider the possibility that Graff not only understood the concept of sacrifice but would be ready, if the moment arrived to make sacrifices to achieve his goal if he had not done so already. For the first time in the short time that he knew Graff the young officer was less eager to be an obstacle between the cadet and any future goals. The Sub Vice Commander JG's manservant returned with a clean tunic, pressed with precision. The jacket had received the extra service of being brushed down to eliminate any latent fibres transferred from contact the manservants own clothing. “I took the extra care Sir, to iron in some rather sharp creases to match the ones that I noticed in the gentleman's slacks.” “Thank you Andrew. That will be all for now. Perhaps you could go and polish…. something… anything.” Winfield switched his attention to the still untouched glass in Graff's hands. “Do I actually need to order you to drink?” Graff, bringing an end to his hesitation, put the glass to his lips and drew the dark red-amber fluid into his mouth and struggled past the taste long enough to force himself to swallow. Preceding the burn of the drink as it ran the length of his throat, he kept himself lingering on the taste of flavours ranging from red root cigar shavings and industrial cleaner. His eyes were shut tight near the point of tears. “What in the name of the Elders is that?” “That's one of Lou's programmed recipes. He calls it Rot Gut.” Winfield wagged a finger at Graff's glass while he took another mouthful of his own drink. “I hate those. Mine is an Old fashion. Much, much better.” Chapter Three, Paragraph thirteen - Paragraph twenty-nine The last push of his aft vents nudged Winfield's ship closer to a distance, allowing a more hands on inspection of the ships he was facing. The first of the vessels was obviously a non-Dominion class ship, meant for action at one time but no longer fitting any description of an enemy ship, stolen or otherwise. Winfield maintained his distance from group of ships, well past their prime. What he saw made less and less since. The ship he was staring down gave no heat readings, not electronic activity or life signs from its cockpit. The vessel was well past being a ghost ship. It was a coffin. They all were empty shells, some more damaged than the first but just as lifeless. Scattered scarring on each ship's fuselage ranged in scale from old, dating back to technology several solar years to as recent as a few months. Mixed in with the old scars were signs of recent damage that couldn't be more than a week, maybe days old. If there was any hint that the derelict refugee ships were not meant to be at that location Winfield's epiphany concerning the safety of his own squadron was screaming out, telling him the same thing. He pushed against the console of his own cockpit in attempt to remove him even further from obvious danger. Just inside the screen of his radar Winfield so the electronic signature of his wingman dropping in behind his position. If he was too far in the crosshairs of what he felt would soon take place he would do everything he could to make sure that the rest of his men were as safe as possible. “Damn it.” Something this big, so obviously a death trap at a precise location couldn't be a mistake. This was a trap too well laid out. Winfield knew the one thing worse than being in the centre of a situation this bad was being in a situation this bad with a squadron full of panicked pilots. “Switch to one on one ship communication.” A near quiet mechanical ping signalled that the next words word be for his wingman only. “We have a situation here that's turning from bad to worse fast. I want you and the rest of the squadron to pull back to what you feel is a safe distance. Scout Two, do you read?” The ship behind Winfield's kept its position, silent now. “Scout Two…Scout Leader. Do you read?' Silence. Chapter Seven, paragraphs seven - ten (single sentences included as paragraphs,