This pilot sits in the command chair of a cavern. This pilot looks at lines and lines of inventory. At patches of green and red. This pilot sighs as his tail brushes the cold deck beneath. This pilot looks at his crew. The core of this pilot's crew have been with him since he took command of one of the Union's red missile boats. They were young then. Their eyes were wide as they looked to the stars for the first time unfiltered by the atmosphere of the New-Homeworld. This pilot hand picked his crew from the lower families of his clan. They serve this pilot well. They represent the low-country well.
Their clutch mothers would be proud.
This pilot is saddened at the thought of the clutch-mothers. The war took some of this pilot's brave low-countrylizards. The
Sirion was a mighty ship but the Empire broke her three times. Ten mourning clutch-mothers.
This pilot looks at more lines of inventory; Robots bound for Sargas and Drugs for the Sector.
This pilot looks at a navigation screen showing him a galaxy passing him by.
This pilot sighs. He is a warrior without a war.
