To gird up your loins, CMDRs, I give to you,
Henry the Five, 1st part of the 3rd bit, the Iconoclypse edit:
Once more unto the breach, strange but dear friends, once more;
Or close the docking slot up with our DRX dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a CMDR
As modest silliness and humidity:
But when the blast of alien scans blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the Eravatian swamp-tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the micro-g supplement-fortified blood,
Disguise fair nature with oft-favour'd saltiness;
Then lend the viewport a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the helmet
Like the plasma cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled asteroid
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Like those of storm-tossed Acamar.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height.
For frequent exercise is necessary to stay in shape in micro-G.
On, on, you noblest Pilots.
Whose blood is fet from progenitors of war-proof!
Yes! From the fiery crucible of the Dangerous Discussions itself!
Fathers, Mothers that, like so many Alexanders, so many Boudicas
Have in these parts fought like Geordies all damn day,
And sheathed their lightsabers for lack of argument
(Or when the System Authority Vessels arrive):
Dishonour not your progenitors' other extended family members; now attest
That those whom you call'd whatever you called those who did beget you.
Be copy now to pilots of grosser blood, like the idiot who shot at the Thargoids first,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman, aye, like Janice Rand,
Whose limbs were made in the south-western-ish part of the galaxy, show us here
The metal of your landing pad; let us swear
That you are worth some breeding, much, much breeding, I say!; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That DRX doth not consider you a shout fellow.
I see you stand like Tungusian redhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's a broken mess, if you believe some court jesters:
Drink your spirit then follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'Good for a laugh, Elite, and Saint David B!'
