The Path to Elite

"Where excellence is mediocre, and anything less isn't even worth talking about."
This story is dedicated to NOBODY, because I am a sad and unwed no-life who absolutely hates memorials.

PROLOGUE

As soon as the pilot's graduation ceremony was over, held in orbit not too far from the star Matet, it had been a matter of minutes before the first kill.

The newly minted Freedom's Beginning, a Cobra piloted by one Jason Blaze, callsign "CMDR Golden-Knight" to honor ancient history that meant nothing in this modernized galaxy, had been outfitted with the basic hunting gear: a rudimentary fuel scoop, two small laser guns, shield generator, and an empty cargo hold. Additions not stock included shield reinforcement and a scanner for finding kill warrants. The beginning of an exciting adventure of combat was about to begin.

A dynasty filled with Kellys, Blazkowitz, and the oft-mispronounced-as "Geese" among other no-names would crop up on the "trace my roots" apps (Jason was a popular name as a running gag meaning "Son of Jay", referencing the ORIGINAL "Golden Knight" from the start of the 21st Century), but again, none of that meant anything when bearing the humiliating rank of "Harmless". One way or another, this ship would be the only home for Golden-Knight, where he'll eat, sleep, live, and defecate all from one particular chair. Skinny and lanky, his physique in that chair looked like a gangly fair-skinned chimpanzee, as if nutty scientists wanted evidence that humans were biologically related to apes and monkeys. Maybe all the "Power Blood" had watered down over the centuries, or maybe the stories were always nothing more than Myth.

All the expanse of the stars stretched out in a sphere of lights, with all colors of the rainbow. Red stars, white stars, yellow stars, purple stars (what were optly called "brown dwarfs" were actually purple when you got up close with them), but no rainbow stars.

Information could be bought and sold for a great price, even though the primary source for free information would be the "nav beacons" littering any civilized star system, just a few seconds away from the enter point into that system. This had been the first stop for Golden-Knight.

Once there, many different ships puttered around, from the larger Crusaders and Couriers as well as fellow Cobras. Some drifted by themselves, others stayed in formation with as many as 3 other ships to make a full wing. All of them registered clean, except thanks to that elected warrant scanner, one particular Ophidian did ping positive - just wanted in a system about 100 lightyears away.

Combat would seem to be the most exciting field, but when the credit costs mounted up for ship repairs (or the odd insurance claim during the inevitably forced ejection procedure - who ever REALLY DIES these days?!), it's a surprise for anyone to make a living off of it. rading was too hum-drum for someone with the hot-shot attitude that came as a-dime-a-dozen in this culture, and while there was easy money to be had with exploring, it was absolutely mind-numbing even at the best of times.

"Frame Shift Charge detected," the automated computer announced, notifying the Cobra pilot that his quarry was about to slip out. And, without the guns big enough to disable or outright blow up the ship before the 20 seconds needed for it to make the jump, the only other course for chasing this first prize down was to stalk it through Witchspace.

He kept track of it through the disc in front of him, that was used to simulate relative spacing of other objects in a 3D environment. All the squares, triangles, and the circles of planets and stars kept a gold color, until he got close enough that the ship he was following turned "red," indicating a good proximity.

The obvious long-term goal was to become "Elite", among the best-of-the-best, and to enter historical significance just like the rest of his bloodline did. But before a pilot can be "Elite", that pilot must first be proven "Dangerous", and that was a long way to go from "Harmless", or even "Competent". Even still, joining the "Elite" was just the beginning; merely entering "The Cool Kids Club" wasn't going to make your name the talk of the news media. Thing is, every journey starts with a single step. And after seeing the Ophidian zip off, that first step started counting down:

"4,"
"3,"
"2,"
"1,"
"Engage."

FWOOSH!

And inside had a tunnel of stars and nebulae - one which Golden-Knight would SWEAR looked like a face. Dead-ahead, at the epicenter of the ship's nose, a tiny glowing dot could be seen far off...that was the specific star we were heading towards, barrelling at such a velocity that even the speedometer couldn't figure out how fast things were going. What would've taken several real hours at full speed in Supercruise had only needed about 18 seconds in the so-called "Witchspace". Why not just use the cliche term "Hyperspace"? That's what the onboard computer does! But perhaps it gets this term from superstitious monikers relating to the old proverb: "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic; take that logic extreme enough, and the technology becomes indistinguishable from Witchcraft!"
The coolest exploration would be a "deep-dive" of this so-called "Witchspace"; only problem is, no ship has been reported capable of going at a standstill in this void within voids; old legends exist of few who tried, and all of them ending up stuck or banished to a weird state of perpetual limbo. The ship computers were not designed to stop inside "Witchspace", but merely pass through like a tunnel - in one end and out the other.

All power put into engines, CMDR Golden-Knight had made it a point to catch up to the target up ahead, and this would be the only time two ships came so close to one another in Witchspace, they could see each others hulls using only Grade-A God-Given Eyeballs.

And POOF, out to the other side, both ships were rocketing towards the glowing yellow star, until the Frame Shift Drive abruptly slowed them down to about 30 kilometers per second - which on the scale of Terameters, was microscopic and practically at a standstill.
At that moment, the current Golden-Knight clenched down his teeth, tightening his grip on the joystick, all with a serious and focused scowl on his face. This would be the time to "get in the zone".

Only thing missing was an Interdictor, that was at the time out of the new pilot's budget range, so all he could do was stalk the vessel to a point where it'd exit supercruise, and then drop out himself and pounce!

Skip past one real hour of waiting, and combat started. CMDR Golden-Knight was granted the courtesy of taking the first shots on this low-profile pirate escapee. Hiding from the law will do nothing when wannabe heroes roam "The Bubble" en masse. The lasers flew out through space with a rhythm, gimballed to stay on target within reason. The target, weighed down by unknown cargo, barely tried to shake Golden-Knight's Cobra, even though it spun up three turrets to lock on and retaliate. And THIS is what shields were for.

Balancing power to weapons and shields seemed like a good idea at this time: shields were getting hit, so keep recharging them; weapons needed energy to keep firing, so keep them firing; and of course the boat being hunted was hardly attempting to swerve, so minimal engine power was needed...that could go towards cushioning the shields and maintaining steady laser flow.

The duel dragged on, until lasers started searing small holes into the transport's hull, slowly making those holes bigger. That said, even his Cobra lost its shields, at which point there was no sense to trying and get shields online. With trusting his impulses, the fight would be over before the shield system could reboot, so full power to weapons it was then. His onboard computer warned of the hull damage, as his canopy rocked and the glass windows cracked. Those turrets were relentless, even as he fixated on the health countdowns between his ship and the enemy's.

And because theirs was lower than his, Math said the battle would be won with time and determination.

Red lights flashed and alarm bells rang from inside the Freedom's Beginning, tensing up Golden-Knight's chest, as he held his breath and squeezed the trigger as hard as his fury and willpower could. With his Cobra brought down to 10% hull, the enemy turrets stopped. And as he spun around to get a good view of the Ophidian through his almost shattered canopy, he saw it puffing out small balls of white fire.

POP!

The ship burst like a naughty kid stabbed a pin into a filled balloon. Golden-Knight breathed heavily, taking a minute of pause just to reflect on the hard won duel. After catching his breath, he checked his pilot rating:

"Harmless + 1%"
He yelled out aloud to himself, "SERIOUSLY?!"
 
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CHAPTER 1

3 Months Later...

Flying in towards the station orbiting around Earth had always given the feeling of, "Ah, it's good to be home!" Even as the wheels spun to create artificial gravity, there was little cause for concern as he'd gotten so deft at flying that Cobra, he could gun the thrusters and slip in through the holographic screen before any of the guard patrols could even attempt to scan him. That'd be handy if Commander Golden-Knight had wanted a smuggling job, but such was outside the scope of his aspirations for the time.

Even still, the precise positioning on the landing pad would not be time efficient if left fully manually...plus, he'd go reviewing his current status on his Pilot's License, while the ship automatically docked itself, thanks to the onboard computers. At that time, he found a very high reputation in Exploration, and a lesser degree in Trading - which was mostly just data couriering, as his ship was not intended for the delivering of physical goods. Buying a hulking Type-9 for just that role was off on the horizon for now.

As the Freedom's Beginning glided itself over the landing pad, a specific waltz started playing in the canopy. Only adjustment Golden-Knight made was that he changed the waltz to a very specific 8-bit version, because he thought that the 8-bit version was "adorable".

Abraham Lincoln, over Earth orbit: the closest Golden-Knight was permitted to returning HOME, not too far from the city-sized museum once called Washington DC. Seriously, the whole former city is literally just one massive museum! There's even a "Time Capsule Square" in what used to be called Bethesda, Maryland, which perfectly preserves the feeling of living in a 21st-century suburb, yet has enough velvet-rope and barriers to prevent anyone from ACTUALLY living there. It's as popular a tourist spot as any genuinely medieval castle. As for Golden-Knight's personal stake, Hero Monument is where the old claim-to-fame laid, in between what would be called "Washington Monument" and the "Lincoln Memorial", yet even with tourists flocking to all the statues of great heroes of ancient, it seemed only the pigeons were eager for that particular pilgrimage...not that anyone so far into space could glean into. The space station itself relied on delivering "service", whatever THAT meant. All it meant for a trader, is they weren't interested in buying much, and only exported mass quantities of biowaste...good for the farmers, but to anyone else would do little more than make for a cheeky practical joke. And rumors persist that what used to be Baltimore City, Maryland, is now among the top "Biowaste Refineries"...the whole city, no exaggeration; that's where all the bowel movements of all the species on the continent would be gathered, concentrated, and eventually distilled into what the impoverished would beg gets transported into "fertilizer" - for if nobody would earnestly ship that produce off-world, it'd be doomed to linger in physical proximity of those souls for all eternity. Not that any of the Pilots were permitted to investigate closely, so all such details would be reduced to baseless hearsay.

Once the ship touched down and completely shut off all non-essential systems (engines included), Golden-Knight took a break to snack on some "Nutrient Cookies." Baseline processed foodstuffs were so extremely common, especially the fiber crackers, that any charity-case would inevitably find some with enough patience in the trash bins. But what Golden-Knight had was the premium model. Specifically, these "Cookies" had a thick supply of carbs, fats, and proteins - as if ice cream were solidified and dehydrated, then marketed as a non-perishable. Basically it's everything a skinny boy needs to NOT DIE. And that makes it popular for deep explorers off in the black void for weeks on end, or for those who simply don't like to eat. Golden-Knight fit BOTH those target demographics. One or two "Cookies" would be enough to fend off starvation (the actual "serving size" on the label says "1 Cookie"), but 4 was the optimal serving for feeling full. It's no fancy banquet or delectable meat like Earth Crabs, but this wasn't meant for that. It still cost thrice as much as the crackers the hobos would have to live off of - which is why the "Cookies" were considered PREMIUM...usually in the hands of those who could actually WORK among the stars! It's mostly for those wealthy enough to not stink like a thug but not SO RICH that the simple fact of being rich was enough to excuse oneself from actually working.

Then the mission envoy for the Federal Congress hailed the Cobra: "Hey, have you ever thought about getting into politics?"

Golden-Knight, having just stuffed his last "Cookie" into his mouth, had said, "Yeah, it's definitely something I want to do, but I have too much else on my to-do list right now. I wanna get that CORVETTE first! Sorry." To say nothing about split morals in this complex day-and-age, where freelancers weren't so neatly fit into one faction or the other. Earth was his HOME; it didn't matter WHOSE flag was over it.

"Ah, that's too bad. You could just buy a Fer-De-Lance, hunt some pirates of a VERY SPECIFIC brand, and bring the proof back to a station. It'd be good for your rating, too."

Golden-Knight stopped in deep thought, then he reached for a bottle of soda to wash the "Cookie" down. Once he cleared his mouth, finishing with a hyperbolic gulping sound, he said with a chipper enthusiasm, "Ah, sounds like you already have a plan! But how does that help me get my CORVETTE?!"

"I wasn't thinking about that, I was just thinking if you wanted to jump into the action right away, there IS a way. But you're a free man, Golden-Knight. Priorities: you do what you want."

"I think I'll focus on the Corvette as my main long-term goal for now. Can't do too much at once, or else I'll lose track, spread too thin, and I'll NEVER get anything done!"

"Very well. I've got a handful of contracts you can take; some mischief happening at Alpha Centauri that could use a good gun like yours to stop."

"Well this sure wouldn't be my first rodeo - "

Golden-Knight was sharply interrupted by his contact: "Oh, but there's a TWIST! You will be hunting someone of Dangerous ranking. Normally we'd only trust the actual ELITE for a job like this, but all the GOOD pilots have gone to some far-off corner of The Bubble, some kind of Faux Wheel they all wanna turn...and now they're calling themselves a cult of HAMSTERS..."

Golden-Knight scowled and snipped with an offended tone: "Look, we are HUMAN BEINGS! Calling us something else devalues our status! You don't see literal rodents inventing hyperspace, DO YOU? I am NOT a rodent! I am a human person, and an aspiring legend!"

"Yeah, you sure fit the profile of that, ego and all. But that's why we're giving you such a high-ranking mission: so you have a chance to PROVE that ego is warranted, and you're not just being a blowhard. Your target is called Quinn the Longsword. Very gruff, beard thick and gray with age, and got that handle from a fetishistic reverence of medieval culture. He has more kills to his name than you have years on the mortal plane. And no, ejections don't count as kills, unless you specifically shoot the pod, but we're not THAT dirty in the Federation! If you see Quinn bail into a pod, bring that pod to us with Cargo Scoop, ALIVE! If the ship blows up and no pod, safe to assume he's DEAD. If the pod cracks or fails as an incidental failure of his ship, that still counts as DEAD! Firing on escape pods is an ILLEGAL ACT OF CRUELTY, the same way shooting surrendered soldiers is a WAR CRIME! Now, you may head out whenever you're ready. I will be happy to field any of your questions."

Golden-Knight tried his best to make a snide joke: "So you're saying I need to kill somebody who could pass as a wizard in a pop-culture convention."

"Dead or alive, so long as you don't break any legal or moral boundaries in the pursuit of your target. Good hunting, Golden-Knight."

And with no other questions, that had been the perfect time to terminate the communication, and tap the "Auto-Launch" button, commanding the landing platform to spin around, and the Cobra to hum back to life. It exhaled a loud burst of air from underneath as it pulled up its landing gears, pushing off the pad and drifting towards the slot for entrance and exit. Not having any patience for the soft automated glide, Golden-Knight assumed manual control by flicking throttle full-forward and squishing the booster button on his joystick. Revving at about 400 meters per second, the thruster engines roared to life as he darted out the exit hole. And while waiting until he got far enough to break free from "Mass-Locked" condition, he brought up his digital jukebox, and started to play the 8-bit waltz to send him back off into the black.

Adventure awaits for these KNIGHTS IN SPACE, and fame doesn't come to the passive.
 
CHAPTER 2

"4,"
"3,"
"2,"
"1,"
"Engage."

FWOOSH!

One jump to Alpha Centauri, and after 20 real seconds in Witchspace, the Cobra Freedom's Beginning has entered the star system. The Nav Beacon had appeared secured, so that would be the obvious first stop onto tracking down this "Dangerous target". The funniest thing about these Nav Beacons is that they can track the PRECISE point within a solar system that a fugitive ship can be lurking. None who enter the system are safe from its omnipotent eyes powered by Morse Code. It tracks all ships and stations in real time, but those with nothing to hide have nothing to worry about.

The precise location for the "Mission Target" had laid about 600 lightseconds from the Nav Beacon, so that meant it's time to go back into Supercruise. And with the sound of weak lightning zapping, all the ships at the Nav Beacon disappeared, where all the radio signals were nothing more than blips on Golden-Knight's HUD. The only things that were big enough to not be invisible while traveling at speeds over 30km/s would be the stars and planets - and only the nearest planets were visible to the naked eye. Eden was WAY OFF!

100 lightseconds from target, and the Freedom's Beginning let out a strange but hallow sounding twine. A blue tunnel enveloped the ship, where unnatural winds forced the ship to divert into random directions while still confined to this bending tube of seethrough blue light. The HUD showed a crosshair labeled "ESCAPE VECTOR!" This could have only been an interdiction attempt! Especially when the first message Golden-Knight saw was from a bandit with a goofy handle (something with too many Xes and grammatical errors in the name to be taken seriously), who had said to him, "Time for my meal ticket." Piqued by the odd encounter, Golden-Knight did the opposite of what a normal cowardly human being would: he stopped! He deliberately submitted to the interdiction.

Both his Cobra and the unknown goof had dropped out of supercruise, entering normal space in the middle of total emptiness. This target ship had also been a Cobra. The Freedom's Beginning had been scanned, all while Golden-Knight unlocked the weapon hardpoints and diverted energy pips towards engines and weapons. Golden-Knight of course scanned back; found the interruption still counted as a "Wanted" in its own right, which would be an unexpected secondary bounty. Rated "Mostly Harmless", so this character's head wouldn't be worth a lot of money. Still could be fun, though.

"Bah, nothing. How do you make a living?"
Golden-Knight answered that very bluntly: "By killing fools like YOU!" And then, Golden-Knight initiated combat with a volley of laser fire.

Golden-Knight had a lot of outside experience, especially having run through a few CQC circuits by this time. CQC translates to Close Quarters Combat, and it is the cutthroat competition of high-intensity combat within more confined arenas - perfect for feeling like an Ace Pilot, until finding a max-level anal-probe beating you as hard as you may beat the complete first-timers. "Amateur" in CQC still sounded kind of demeaning, but it also meant he's got a good number of kills under his belt, even if his card reflected a K/D Ratio closer to 2.0. So he was far from being a worthless pilot, but hadn't yet clocked enough kills onto his license to accurately reflect his level of actual proficiency. This random encounter, however, flew more true to the "Mostly Harmless" moniker, like it wasn't even past the initial learning curve of how to adjust throttle.

The absolute joke was that this bandit had just immediately sent a message to Golden-Knight, literally boasting "I am invincible!" And not five real seconds later, Golden-Knight drained all shields and launched two pairs of missiles that took the target Cobra down below 50% hull. So the "I am invincible" line was almost instantly followed by "Impossible!" Golden-Knight just laughed, and muttered, "You really ARE an idiot."

Just as Golden-Knight was putting the finishing touches on blowing up the Cobra farce, a second ship dropped out of supercruise in the immediate vicinity. This ship was a Fer-De-Lance, and right as the first bad ship exploded with no signs of any ejection, Golden-Knight got to scanning.

This was him: Quinn the Longsword.

He opened a dialogue with Golden-Knight, which sounded like absolute gibberish...and that mere fact triggered a reddening of Golden-Knight's cheeks out of frustration. The onboard COVAS computer stock with ALL vessels had deciphered it as Latin. Golden-Knight yelled back, "Are you SERIOUS?! Speak ENGLISH, you pompous waste of life." Quinn shifted the accent tremendously, again equally infuriating because it had again come across as distracting noise. COVAS argued that this was "OLD English". Quinn was now just messing with Golden-Knight, following his command to the letter but not to the meaning.

Without any more banter or jokes, Golden-Knight again opened fire to start combat. The Fer-De-Lance hadn't even registered any shield loss from the first volley, and both triangular ships flew towards each other, both trying to lay laser fire onto each other. The gimballed setup had an advantage since fixed weapons were FIXED, with ZERO margin for being off-target, and that margin gave Golden-Knight an edge. Better to have the weaker shots that hit than the stronger shots that missed, and that went squared from the Fer-De-Lance letting loose with dumbfire missiles. No Electronic Countermeasure was needed to prevent the catastrophic payload they threatened Golden-Knight with; simply DODGING them had been enough!

Right when both ships slipped past one another, they reflexively banked as hard as they could to reorient their noses towards each other. Boosters fired off to put more distance between the two of them, and even though the Fer-De-Lance was a remarkably bigger ship than a Cobra, its turning had absolutely rivaled that of Golden-Knight. So, instead of a classic dogfight like the days of World Wars, what ended up happening looked more like the two ships were JOUSTING! That is also the term Golden-Knight would use for this pattern, where two ships in combat would go far from one another, both turn around, and then shoot at each other while both of them flew full-tilt at one another. Normally they'd fly past, and the process would repeat, however ramming took "Jousting" to the extreme, by bringing damage through physical collision upon both contestants. And this was only advisable when your shielding had an overwhelming advantage compared to the target you intend to ram.

Between Golden-Knight dodging nearly all the enemy lasers, and the Fer-De-Lance from Quinn the Longsword soaking up more than an entire Cobra could survive, the stalemate had broken when police Eagles shot into the area, reinforcing Golden-Knight. But unlike all the other bounty targets up to this point, Quinn the Longsword had proven smarter. He actually started charging his Frame Shift Drive! Golden-Knight had been cursing at that, since there was no way even their concentrated efforts could drop the shields of a Fer-De-Lance within the real minute it'd take for that warp mechanism to fully spin up and flash online.

Quinn zipped out of sight, leaving Golden-Knight screaming in several profanities, slamming around in frustration. When he finally got that failure out of his system and vented enough to regain rational thought, he just said to himself, "I'm going to need bigger guns."
 
CHAPTER 3

At Gateway, after some shopping between stations and one or two ground facilities, improved armaments could be found. No "Engineers" had yet decided to make friends with Golden-Knight, but the stock models of beam lasers and homing missiles would have to do. As expensive as those missiles were, they worked wonders on hull...when the damage would register and not be cancelled out by the target's engine fumes.

Back on the trail, keeping in close contact with the representative of the Federal Congress, the pilot gave a short status update:

"This is Commander Golden-Knight, I read you. A Fer-De-Lance, you say? I have one question...WHICH one of these TRIANGLES is it?!"

Elite Comic Snip.png


Turns out NONE of those ships were a Fer-De-Lance! In the midst had been a Krait, a Boa Class Cruiser off into the distance, and a Mamba. But that's missing the young Commander's point: to any novice, all the different ship types looked like nothing more than a series of various triangles all mashed together. The profiles were all unique once you got to know them, but for the uninitiated, it's just a matter of triangle group A versus triangle group B.

From stalking the various jump points, the wake energy had eventually ended its trail at some system of no notable name - something like Col 5290 or some other seemingly random combination of letters and numbers. Like over 99% of the entire galaxy, population 0 with "Anarchy" government - which was to say, there was NO government because literally nobody lived in that solar system! It was one of the countless "Lonely Stars", where as soon as you'd exit Witchspace in its proximity, there were no other planets, no asteroids, nothing...just that one glowing yellow star, all by itself, leaving you to contemplate the existential angst of being all alone. Unlike most normal humans who'd find despair or blunt fear, Commander Golden-Knight journaled an emotion more akin to a "kindred spirit", as if this star would make for a poetic analogy to his own life. The solitude, the absence of a partner or a female to procreate and continue the genetic legacy...sad, scary, safety, but most of all, it struck home. A star with no friends, no audience, no love, doomed to shout in the vacuum for all eternity as a tragic waste of potential...a yellow star, like the star of this story: Golden-Knight, yellow like this very star.

Before following through with the waypoint to his target, Golden-Knight opened up the galactic map and bookmarked this star, labeling the bookmark as "Soul of the Golden Knight", in response to the reflection it had brought upon him.

Back on track, Commander Golden-Knight caught up with his prey, Quinn the Longsword. And after duking it out in stalemate for a good five minutes, the reasoning for choosing this battleground had grown apparent. No cops would come, for good or ill. It was like the two of them had chosen very deliberately to carry out a duel of skill. Stranger still, with both of them using the same configuration of missiles and gimbal beam weapons, there had been a sense of sporting, almost like Quinn had specifically leveled the playing field some. That Fer-De-Lance could've mounted a collection of guns that altogether equalled half the mass of Golden-Knight's Cobra. But WHY would a backstabbing pirate not attempt to cheat?

Because there had been OTHER tricks up this "Dangerous" sleeve!

The jousting proceeded as it did during the first encounter, but after a while, the Fer-De-Lance started to boost off, and Golden-Knight attempted to give chase - as is the instinctive thing to do. Conventional dogfighting meant getting behind your target's tail, and wailing on that backside with everything you've got! But, as Golden-Knight had been clearing the first ring of the shields around the Fer-De-Lance, the primary thrusters cut all power, and then the sleek triangle ship performed the most obscenely sharp turnaround, while still freely drifting away from Golden-Knight's Cobra.

Commander Golden-Knight gasped and cursed, "What in Aphrodite's GIRL-HOLE!" The Fer-De-Lance beaned on the shields of the Freedom's Beginning, shaking Golden-Knight into the defensive! He scrambled to pump power to engines and swerve all he could. But try as he might, that gliding Fer-De-Lance simply pivoted like a ship-sized turret, inescapably locked on.

"Hull Integrity Compromised", the COVAS of the Freedom's Beginning reported, and at that point, Golden-Knight had been repeatedly yelling "CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP"...all while HE had to desperately fumble with his controls to activate Frame Shift Drive and its long charge-up time, made EXCRUCIATINGLY unbearable from the heat of battle. And flubbing with the button to lock onto a destination that would actually ACTIVATE the thing once it was done took another inefficient effort, coupled with accidentally closing one menu only to open another - and the System Map, too! Having a load of functions for all sorts of cool features usually proves helpful, except when in the heat of battle and getting your own anus deep-fried by 2 beam lasers from a ship that moved more like an Olympian figure skater.

WHAM-WHAM!

Out of goodness knows the amount of dumbfire missiles, those two just HAD to hit! "Frame Shift Drive Malfunction." That meant no running, and from being outmaneuvered by a ship much larger than his own, Golden-Knight could tell when he was in over his head. That's when he declared, "That's it, I'm outta here!" And he pulled the EJECT latch, launching the cockpit into an escape pod while the rest of his precious Cobra just blew up behind him!

Of course, even though this had been a lawless territory, it had still been encoded into the human subconscious that an escape pod was a sign of surrender...helpless and harmless. Quinn the Longsword could have just killed Commander Golden-Knight then and there, and not suffer a moment's repercussion for "mercy-killing" the bounty hunter who dogged him for multiple different incidents. But there had been other plans in store for the enthusiastic young pilot. How could someone tell?

Because the Fer-De-Lance deployed a cargo scoop.

Golden-Knight had been laughing from the irony, and yet whining out loud from the thought of, "I am SO SCREWED!" And the belly of the Fer-De-Lance swallowed up the escape pod, smothering the distress beacon like a dragon swallowing a lone soul whole, where the yells of "Help" are muffled from within the beast. There was something so cute yet so sad about a pinging of "Help" that had been consumed like a star swallowed up by a slowly materializing Dyson Sphere, never intended to see the rest of the universe again. The distinct high-pitched tones that the pod would typically emit had been softened to anything within visual range of the ship, and completely silenced for anything past the solar system.

To be at the mercy of the very bounty contract you were sent out to eliminate is NOT a pleasant experience!
 
CHAPTER 4

"Look, you won. I'd like to live, but I understand if you want to kill me. Just get it overwith."

Quinn had seemed subtly puzzled, though trying to hide it behind a blank and stoic face. He had just said, "GG." Literally, two letters, back to back. Golden-Knight's face widened with shock and surprise.

"I have SO MANY QUESTIONS...but first, you can speak English like a NORMAL person?!"
"Of course I can. Who can't? Yes, yes, retards DO exist, but I mean they don't let RETARDS fly spaceships! And the ones who give it a serious go can never work past the basic pilot evaluation. The learning curve is LITERALLY IDIOT-PROOF!"
"Then why didn't you speak up earlier?"
"Because a guy's gotta have a sense of humor. I thought you could've puzzled that one together yourself. It gets lonely and depressing out here; anything to break the doldrums is a GOOD thing."

"LOOK! I'm sorry. It's not personal; it's not even business. I just wanted to be the good guy, fighting crime like in all the superhero stories."

Quinn the Longsword just burst into laughter. "Kid, one fool's terrorist is another fool's liberator."
"Like saying, there are no heroes in this world? Then what has my point BECOME?!"
"Ah'unno." He callously shrugged. "You're just some kid, ironed enough to stick with something...but without the chops to scare me."
"So then if I'm so expendable, why DON'T you just get rid of me?"
"Because I'm not some crook, like you'd think. I'm no backstabbing scumbag, just because I got a bounty on my head. I have honor, and I let you live because I could tell that YOU do, too. That separates you from all the arrogant one-note DRONES like you'd see in most ORDINARY bounty contracts!"
"How could you tell that I have 'honor' when we barely spoke, and I just barked a couple of mean words?"
"You followed me all the way to an empty system, where there'd be no unfair advantage...in a ship more lightly armed, picking on a bigger target. Bullies go for those that are SMALLER, so I knew you were no bully. Anyone who'd scan you could pull a CLEAN record, so I could tell you wanted to be 'nice'. And you weren't part of THE LAW strictly speaking, or else you would not have come so far from The Bubble. Lastly, you're not a politician or the 'in-it-for-the-money' mercenary; those guys fight TO THE BITTER END! YOU surrendered when you shot out into an ESCAPE POD! So, after narrowing down all the other possibilities, the only answer left is that you're a wannabe hero...a KNIGHT IN SPACE!"
"If you're all so CHIVALROUS, then how do YOU have a bounty on your head in the first place?!"
Quinn the Longsword again burst into a deep laughter. "Remember what I said, kid: one fool's terrorist is another fool's liberator. Working the Powerplay of politics is how I got that bounty. And you can always go to a station with 'the right contacts' and pay off that bounty; for those of our cloth, that's normally as easy as saying 'Whoops, my bad.' Thing is, knowing I'd only renew my bounty as soon as my next mission comes, there was no point, so I never really got around to totally cleaning it off my record."

"Back on track now...why DID you bring me aboard?"
"Because if you're not afraid of getting a bounty with some very particular slave traders, I could make use of you. Not that you could fight back; we all saw how you stayed locked into FA..."
Golden-Knight quirked an eyebrow..."Sorry, I don't speak Shorthand, like I don't speak OLD English. Can you translate that to MODERN English, please?"
Quinn the Longsword gave a long "HA" before answering, "Flight Assist. The magic words you want to hear are Flight Assist OFF! Those who go OFF but don't know what they're doing are going to fail far worse than the scrubs who keep it ON and pretend they're in the World Wars. But mastering the zero-gravity power of Newton's Laws is the secret to untold prowess...it is what separates the Elites from the wannabes..."

The word "Elite" made the face of Golden-Knight light up like a child on Christmas morning, as he gushed, "TEACH ME!"
The old wizard got tense, posture shifting erect, and had declared, "Only if you work with me shall I guide you to the secrets."

"And if I refuse? Say I don't agree with whoever you're working with..."
"Then I stuff you back into that escape pod, drop you out, and we can both pretend this meeting never happened. But if you're more concerned about being GOOD than you are about being LAWFUL, perhaps you'd like to hear me name Prime Minister MAHON as my home-boy - "
"MAHON...the ALLIANCE leader?! That's the guy who's actively trying to dissolve the concept of 'wage slave', so we can do more of what we please and less of trying to upkeep our lives. I'm all for freedom and independence, so of course I'd be in his favor!"

"That's strange...I thought you were a FEDERATION pawn, what with you taking on a job for the CONGRESS..."
"I just wanted the CORVETTE, OK?! And, Earth is my HOME! But of all the big players, Mahon is the most likely to...worded bluntly, show indifference to fornication, should the right lady ever cross paths. It's too bad HE is not ruling Earth."

"Then I do not foresee any problems with taking you under my wing. Get your ship respawned; tomorrow, I will show you where we shall lurk..."
 
CHAPTER 5

Learning to fly! Out in some random asteroid field, through the rings of a random gas giant, the names were all extremely random and code of letters and numbers...nothing worth remembering anyway, with no exciting features other than the simple fact that this had become the training grounds for Commander Golden-Knight. This solar system had three stars and eight Icy Body planets as well...again, completely boring and out of the way, some thousand lightyears away from Sol. And between Golden-Knight and Quinn the Longsword, that was exactly what they were looking for in a training ground.

What made this so perfect was that there had been millions of random space rocks floating around, perfect for drawing out an imaginary obstacle course, plus with no outside distractions like pirates or other Commanders. All the famous Commanders had been on race courses not super far from home, or the deep-divers tend to stick to some very particularly popular routes from Sol to Sag'A or even to Beagle Point. As the Explorer's Journal of Commander Golden-Knight had revealed, it's extremely easy to go off the beaten path, if you take a couple hundred jumps at a slight angle. Take that far enough, and "new discoveries" would become routine - even if the repetition and similarities between planets would become mind-numbing (or even brain-damaging when the mind-numbing gets taken to extremes, sometimes called "space madness").

So, for the first time, Commander Golden-Knight flicked the magic button, which triggered the COVAS to say those fabled words: "Flight Assist OFF!" And he went off, with great enthusiasm. Some basic skill, and he had spun around while sliding in his one direction, yelling in awe from the way the ship could corner when not confined to the stiffness which kept the nose pointed in one direction (ala Flight Assist ON). But stopping on any particular mark had proven a lost cause, and fifteen seconds later, he yelled, "OH CRAP!"

Elite Ships 2.png


The butt of his ship slammed full-force into one of those space rocks, taking down his shields and punting the hull bar to 80%. The ship spun and spun and spun, faster and faster until it became nauseating. In a reflexive knee-jerk, Golden-Knight slapped the button to make "Flight Assist ON!" And when the ship stopped itself, he groaned out loud...and can sense the disappointment from Quinn the Longsword. Golden-Knight remarked, "It feels like being a baby taking its first steps ALL OVER AGAIN!" When he got back into "Flight Assist OFF", he stiffly babied the joystick and the thrusters, all while muttering, "Easy now, small movements..." And a minute later, he tapped a different space rock, which had not broken through the restored shield. With that second hit, he just flatly said in a bored monotone, "Owch."

"This is going to take a while. Isn't it."

Next had been to enter the "Training Simulations", against "Mostly Harmless" AI ships. The space had been cleared, but the main goal was to stick to "Flight Assist OFF" the whole way through. In those encounters, the jousting of before had consistently left Golden-Knight careening well over 3 kilometers away from the target before he could right his course...because spinning the nose of his ship to face the simulated enemy did nothing for adjusting the general direction that his ship had been gliding towards, because of the frictionless vacuum of space now put on display. Now not only had the constant spinning and fixation on reorienting directions given him a serious case of "Tetris Effect", but it felt like some of his brain just stopped functioning. Like it had become hard to think, a sort of mental tunnel vision, that the words on the HUD still processed fine through the eyes, but the BRAIN didn't do anything with that information.

"Sir...I don't feel so well."

"What's wrong, mah boy?"

"Something's like, slow and vague...suddenly got a headache, too. It's like something in the brain just STOPPED WORKING!"

"Erm, I think that space rock gave you a concussion. Kill the program, and get some rest."

"Right away."

And so, after a day's sleep, combined with a medical scanner to the head, the best course of action was to take a couple days off. No flying, no more intense CQC activities, and DEFINITELY no more FAOFF around space rocks. It'd also help to stop headbanging to heavy metal music, though that's one addiction that might prove beyond a cure. Ironically, intense mental focus triggers the symptom of mental shutdown, almost like a strain of a muscle that does not want to work from being overexerted...only it's the brain. Definitely an abrupt interruption to practice, and quite a serious delay to becoming among the Elite.
 
CHAPTER 6

A few days of rest seemed to do good. The brain would still subtly flick off and on, train of thought would magically vanish once or twice every so often, but it was nothing that couldn't be pushed through at times. Usually came about while writing, or reading aloud what had been written. A few typos here, or using the wrong word there (such as "along" in a sentence that should've had "aloud"), but because computers have a backspace button, such mistakes could be easily corrected. That kind of power has been around for well over a thousand years, hardly revolutionary.

What WAS revolutionary, was the sheer stubbornness exhibited by Commander Golden-Knight.

Confined to his room for those past few days, with only his thoughts to occupy him, brought out what can only be described as a feeling akin to an addiction...addiction for the thrust of a ship, the solid handling from hard turns, the feeling of supercruise and flying faster than light in all directions desired where tiny balls get magnified to all-consuming worlds when you get close enough to them, and sometimes the chasing of other experts in CQC. Even the mindless slog of exploration had been dragging him out, as he slowly pushed to get out of bed.

The symptoms had gotten subtler and subtler as time passed on, especially with being extremely cognizant of how fast he'd be whipping around his head just to bend over or reach for fresh clothes out of a dresser. Having an ACTUAL concussion taught just how much we have to move our heads just for ordinary day-to-day routines. There were faint and sporadic headaches which would come and go, usually leaving faster than they came on. Even still, this had been a particularly minor concussion, meaning not so serious it needed medical emergency status nor would it cause permanent retardation...but had enough of an impact on mundane life so as to offer a lesson...a lesson of moderating the FA-OFF setting.

Back after the excruciatingly slow wait (those few days felt like a glacial half-eternity or a dog's lifetime), and when he had been cleared to fly again, Golden-Knight went off to seek more targets...whether for the Alliance due to mentor obligations, or for the Federation so he can push towards that shiny Corvette, or even a few rounds of CQC, it had not been important. CQC had been fun, but all the obstacles meant a risk of ANOTHER concussion...so not today.

Today was going back around home, hunting pirates in neighboring star systems - except Alpha Centauri, because some missions had the sadistic idea of sending pilots to Hutton Orbital - and to hell with that nonsense!

The next bulk-order of pirates came in, about 2 jumps away from Sol. And a few minutes later, going through the motions had almost felt refreshing. Even the boring parts gave a semblance of returning back to normal. Golden-Knight was just happy to be back at the stick to his Cobra. At the confirmed pirate hangout, a squadron of various ships had been casually cruising in formation. In such emptiness of space, with no cover or obstacles to utilize, only the raw stats of the ships would make the difference: specifically the guns and how fast they can shoot, how thick the shields were as well as how well they can sustain themselves, and of course how fast ships can fly and (more importantly) turn.

FA-OFF was great for maneuverability, but the normal Flight Assist gave stability. When picking the fight with a random Cobra pilot, Commander Golden-Knight had gone to mix-and-match the strengths of both these settings.

Shooting at one pirate had the goofy effect of not also drawing the rest of the squadron into a fight all ganging up on the bounty hunting vigilante, although after peeling far enough, the pilots would inevitably lose sight of most those pirates. Not that it'd matter, since Golden-Knight intended a one-on-one confrontation, which worked perfectly for his plan. Jousting again went normal, both ships chipping at their shields (even if Golden-Knight won more hits), but after both ships inevitably swooshed past, that's when it was time for "Flight Assist OFF!" And using the insane maneuverability, combined with the total absence of any space rocks, meant he could easily pivot his front to the prey much faster and sooner than the pirate could do the same to him!

And when there was a lock, it was back to "Flight Assist ON", and he made a jousting maneuver before the enemy ship had been ready, charging forth and overshooting the enemy Cobra while still in the middle of turning. Rinse and repeat a few times, then finish with about four missiles to the hull, and POP!

Outmaneuvering had been a lot easier against a pirate Crusader, one of the Alliance designated ships. But this pirate was not part of the Alliance faction, so no moral quandaries with exterminating this fool. When putting this new tactic into practice, he barely even had to TRY to keep his target in his sights! It boosted and swerved, but the nimbler Cobra could stay fixated on the tail with a ruthless entourage of laser shots. And with no turrets or hardpoints capable of attacking ships directly on the rump, that Crusader stayed helpless, until it too burst into numerous worthless fragments and flashing particles.

Then, a message came in: "The Pilot's Federation now declares you as Competent."

He just muttered to himself, "Well, it's an improvement."
 
CHAPTER 7

Time to hunt some of the bigger targets. A lot of confidence has been gained with taking down the pirates, and pulling off tricks that'd ignore chaff launchers or engineer superior beam lasers that'd burn through most shields.

Today, the ingenious idea had to be Thargoid Hunting. Ho boy.

Good news, though, is that each alien head counts as an Elite kill, which would be the (supposedly) "quickest" way to up the Pilot's Federation Rating. So, with the millions of credits won from exploring for weeks on end, off they went to buy some guns specifically designed to hurt aliens and burn through their hearts. Kitting up the Cobra should've been a mark of pride, but given all the sensory deprivation that it took to get to this point, the excitement had been lost on the young pilot, Commander Golden-Knight.

Strange thing is, Thargoids have gone silent for months now. Last report was in January, a half a year ago. And there have been no more damaged stations. What were they supposed to do to find these things?

Turns out, this is a world of "ask and ye shall receive"...also "careful what you wish for."

Flying the Freedom's Beginning into a nearby nebula had mostly blinding all normal vision, and then he could hear a clattering and snapping noise coming across all radio channels. Then those spinning ships which looked like strange and deadly flower heads had started spewing a flurry of tiny minions, each big flower-head having about a hundred apiece. A bit like the salvage traps which would have four ships that can drain a ship's shields before even getting to close the cargo scoop, this too had pushed Golden-Knight into a forced withdrawal.

A few minutes later, back in safety, he yelled, "You didn't tell me they'd be SWARMING!"

"Well what'd you expect?"
"I expected something I can handle without needing friends. How am I supposed to get OTHER PILOTS to my side?!"

Laughter ensued at the poor rookie's expense.

"Well, if aliens are too grouped up, we're going to need to go back to 'the long way'. I doubt you have any other brilliant workarounds up your sleeves."
"You COULD try the Engineers."
"Oh...that..." Golden-Knight didn't seem too thrilled about running errands, but the way these Engineers could crank firepower up to eleven had become widespread among fellow Commanders and pilots all around. Maybe that would be worth it.

Trouble is, that had been an adventure in and of itself. The various hoops to jump through definitely took a good long time, whether working up with a local faction (who wanted supplies that weren't exactly in easy reach), or wanted high-end alien relics in order to amplify jump range. It took several good days, leaving Golden-Knight grumbling, "This better be worth it."

Once in a while, he'd break the tedium by visiting a nav beacon, and seeing what troublemakers were discretely lurking. Most of the time, everyone had been clean, but there was one event where there were two master-ranked criminals, and they had his name on them.

Two Sidewinders against a lone Cobra, this was something he could definitely handle. Toggling Flight Assist OFF and back on had proven very valuable, and the chaffs were firing - which made him UN-target them so he could lock on with beam lasers through the chaff. They shot electromagnetic missiles that almost always flew wide of the slim Cobra. Just an aileron roll would be enough.

With a lot of sliding and spinning, the beams and missiles easily blew up the entry-level ships. As for the rating?

"Competent +2%"

Golden-Knight winced and groaned. "Guess we're back to taking the long way."
 
CHAPTER 8

Many installations and space stations float around the galaxy, usually in very peaceful states. Even those near Pluto had no trouble to report of. But, during the adventures of Golden-Knight, a stranger tipped him off to find mysterious data tightly guarded inside an imperial prison. Having recently upgraded his ship, he rode out to investigate, especially since this kind of air totally sounded like the M.O for the fabled "Dark Wheel". But given the dozen beam turrets eager to greet the trespasser, that in the end turned out to be a mistake.

Off on some cold moon of a gas giant, around a star with a name that'd be mighty difficult to pronounce in English, the rugged Cobra set down, and had almost been totally annihilated just upon entry. The pilot gave this raid his best effort, picking off the turrets one at a time, and hovering almost at ground level to prevent all the turrets from concentrating on him at the same time. One or two he could manage, so the battle became one of attrition.

The plan would've worked too, with enough time...except for one major hitch. By the time he could destroy all the turrets, the formerly busted ones came back online. And the tiny drones that were meant for warding off ground vehicles seemed infinite in number. Best-case, Golden-Knight found himself in a complete stalemate - with an Imperial bounty on his head.

At that point, the engineers had busted his patience, so while on the way home, he had been interdicted by a particularly obedient Imperial citizen. In the habit of submitting to interdiction in order to catch pirates by giving them more than they bargained for, he pulled off the same trick here, and engaged in a duel. Beam lasers ate through the shields, and with some recent adjustments, started to melt the surface away and expose the Imperial fighter's power core. A couple seconds of concentrated heat, and the target went into a tiny nova. No escape pod, so it had been safe to assume kill confirmed.

While it had been exploding, that's when Golden-Knight looked to the target data, which read: "Aaron Levey - CLEAN!"

"Uh-oh."

So now he had been wanted for the murder of a do-gooder citizen. Though in his defense, he did always want to stick it to the Imperials, what with their slavery and well-known violations of basic human rights. Just as the local authorities swooped in, Golden-Knight hit the Frame Shift Drive charge-up button, and with his own hull growing perilously depleted, he had barely clawed out with one more kill to his name (even if under extremely unfortunate circumstances).

Having returned to Sol with that mistake fresh on his record, he repaired and refueled, then while deep in contemplation over a half-pint of ice cream (yes, seriously, old-fashioned ice cream), Commander Golden-Knight shrugged and decided, "Well, I can't cash in...or pay off my bounties...might as well be a good time to get into politics."

And so he went, off to the lower cluster of "The Bubble", where the Kumo Crew lurked and worked for the biggest pirate lord in known civilization. While jumping from system to system, he had received a tip: that "mysterious stranger" is actually NOT in cahoots with "The Dark Wheel" in any way, shape, or form. On one hand, that had been a deep letdown...on the OTHER hand, given the double-negatives surrounding this particular attempt, that meant there wasn't much to lose for just abandoning the prison break episode.

As for the hunt against the pirate faction, who ruled by fear and infighting, there had been slim pickings. One measly hauler in all the time it took to deplete the young pilot's patience, and that hadn't been enough to promote his standing with Mahon even in the slightest. 30 points a pop, sure, but if you find one and ONLY ONE ship, that won't make much difference. And mathematically, Mahon's intel said it'd take upwards of 300 bad guys before the pirate king would start to lose his grip. That's specifically 300 within a 1-week time-frame!

Next time, once he can get himself a bigger combat ship, he'll go hunting the very HEADQUARTERS, and if that doesn't pan out, this would be a major stumper.

Golden-Knight tried to reach out to Quinn the Longsword for advice, but turns out, that Quinn had disappeared like a ghost. Seemed most everyone he'd ever meet or care about would just up and leave. Back at the Abraham Lincoln station around Earth, there had been posters for the community factions - Fuel Rats, Buckeyball, but the one to catch this kid's eye had been SPEAR! Spear advertised themselves as a group of vigilantes who hunt rogue Commanders, the sorts of scumbags that take sadistic pleasure from murdering helpless novices...where Spear would not only come to the rescue, but turn the tables on these high-profile bullies. With such a flimsy configuration, combined with the ultra-high-risk mission statement, Golden-Knight left Earth's orbit with one word swirling in his mind:

"Someday."

That said, the whole Sol system had fallen under hard times. Protests abound on Mars, supplies remain unfulfilled from the galactic network, and the heaps of biowaste still sat in the many stations throughout the solar system. Most of all, a pirate infestation has taken all the planets right around home. Naturally, Golden-Knight would NOT let that stand. But sending his ship against a fleet of Pythons would again prove to be, in the most technically accurate wording, a mistake.
 
CHAPTER 9

"What separates a man from a god? The ability to create and destroy on a whim."

Not too far off from Earth, Golden-Knight arrived far too late, and found a fleet's worth of wreckage floating aimlessly in the void, cold and merciless. He came alone, and while there had been civilian ships attempting to salvage what they could - and rescue the one or two escape pods drifting about - the pirates circled like vultures, their red WANTED tags glowing in the targeting screen of Golden-Knight's Cobra. None of them made the first move, which had been seriously curious...maybe they had been in a stalemate, or maybe they were just waiting for the right push.

Golden-Knight gave that push.

Right as the first beams scuffed the shields, twelve different engines all roared into wildly spinning arcs, twisting around as if the whole choir of ships were attempting to write a message with their combined exhaust fumes. A lone Cobra ended up going against five Pythons, three Anacondas, and a squadron of assorted craft that all blurred together in the heat of the action.

As crazy as all the action had spun up, all it took was for one Anaconda to ram into the Cobra in order to anticlimactically force Golden-Knight into withdrawal. Shields had gone down, and hull was draining fast from an assortment of beams and bullets, all to the message of "Frame Shift Jump, CHARGING!" He grunted and groaned in a gravely tone, "If only someone could make you CHARGE FASTER!"

There had been a fleet, grand total, as more from both sides dropped out of supercruise once the casualties continued to escalate. Though anyone new to the scene ignored the fleeing Golden-Knight, which was fine since he had already dropped to 50% hull before the countdown locked him for Alpha Centauri.

"4,"
"3,"
"2,"
"1,"
"Engage."

FWOOSH!

Golden-Knight had cursed and yelled harder than he thought his body could muster, figuratively frothing at the mouth. And he made a declaration while in the middle of witchspace: "THAT DOES IT! God as my witness, or God be damned, I am NOT coming back until I can UNPERSON ANY AND EVERY SCUMBAG who so much as calls me names!"

Actual months had been dedicated to making credits the only way he knew to be idiot-proof: exploration. Deep diving the Galactic Core had given him almost a billion then and there, which took a couple weeks. Scaling that up to months, and scaling the voyage up to span the whole galaxy itself, and he went from Sol to beyond Beagle Point, staking his flag in the farthest reaches. He circumnavigated the galaxy, at long last, but each of these trips was done in bursts. Elite Explorer had been awarded long ago, and the title had become meaningless in the fanatic community of the galaxy's best pilots.

There was no comfort out in the void, no warming touch of soft female skin to satisfy the basic needs involving specific pleasures. He had no companion to entertain him with idle chatter, not even about the most annoying "jokes" or mind-numbingly idiotic ideas. There wasn't even much in the way of other lifeforms AT ALL! Plenty of planets floated around with bodies of water, or gas giants that had algae, but that had been boring after the first dozen or two times. Now imagine that well over ten thousand repetitions.

But at this point, he wasn't out doing this for credits, or titles. He was out for blood - and in bulk. The blood of the original Hero Leader from World War Three flooded his essence, the unmitigated intensity scoring every fixated thought and every clenched-fist jolt on the steering joystick. With metal music on repeat in the background, he stayed focused on the end goal, far far away, and how to get the tools he needed to make that happen.

And, once his fluid tool collection reached upwards of 14 digits, that's when he made a REAL power play, as his own independent behalf. Commander Golden-Knight flew to Mars, barged towards Starship One, and interrupted President Hudson, who had been preparing for an election rally - as that time had been drawing near. Either it was a proper election, or the "Vote of No Confidence", but either way, President Hudson was NOT pleased to see some NOBODY just waltz on in, heralded to a metal remix of the Blue Danube Waltz.

The President looked stern and pointed to the kid, while demanding, "HOW did you get IN here?!"

Golden-Knight's answer struck home: "I bought my way, the same way the Federation lets corporations BUY POWER! And that is WHY I am here."

"You Alliance SCUM! What makes you think you can meddle - "

"I am not here for political games, SIR! I don't give a fart who is in charge, or what platform that clown stands on. I want to buy NUCLEAR WEAPONS, for my PERSONAL USE! And there's only ONE SOURCE I can think of who holds onto them, with a lock-and-key that no pirate or could even ATTEMPT to fathom."

The President summoned the guards, his Secret Service. But before they could wrestle Golden-Knight (who'd let himself be peacefully escorted out one way or another), he put his deal on the proverbial table:

"I'll give you a TRILLION CREDITS, RIGHT NOW, Mister President, if you just SHUT UP, and let me take MY NUKES!" Commander Golden-Knight scowled sharply, with a big grin, as he just said with a voice that felt like a punch to the face, "NAME YOUR PRICE."

The Federation has an incredibly corporate mentality; in this culture, money can buy ANYTHING! That can include banned goods like slaves, if you know where to ask. But Golden-Knight was one to think big, and he put that to the ultimate test: President Zachary Hudson would seal a deal of unthinkable wealth for his government, to sell genuine and fully operational nuclear weapons to some upstart who spent months in the void.

"And while you're at it, Mister President...call me Admiral."

The best part is that Golden-Knight was not lying, his credit balance was legit. President Hudson quivered, struggling to keep a stiff upper lip at the deal on the table. Think of all the crises that can be averted and solved: hiring more enforcement, expediting medical productivity, a total purge on poverty, even stinky farmers could be clean. If a carrier costs in the order of billions, the Federation could buy a THOUSAND carriers if it felt the impulse to splurge on that manner of defense budget. Entire metal-rich planets could be outright harvested to procure the resources for not just battleships, but perhaps something Golden-Knight would coin as a "fathership". Plus, in return, he'd be arming a legendary warrior (in the making) who holds malicious intent targeting exclusively pirates, thugs, and ROGUE Commanders.

When the Earth-shattering shock wore off, President Hudson could not see this as anything other than a win-win. In that moment, the whole office filled with a glacial stillness, and even the Secret Service awkwardly awaited the explicit orders of the President of the Federation. The President then pulled out a blank sheet of paper, with a ballpoint pen, and literally hand-wrote the decree, right then and there, in front of everyone. While writing, he had to carefully say, "And no Federal ships or worlds will come to harm from this? I'm sure you understand I don't want this biting me in my ass."

"Put it in writing. I dare you."

Paperwork had to be drafted, and the Federal Congress had stirred immense controversy about the rumors of "nuclear weapons mysterious disappearing". Whether the agreement stayed covert behind closed doors, or would make a no-pun-intended bombshell on the news media, either way, Commander Golden-Knight would have his heat-seeking nuclear missiles!

When the small black-op legislature had been proofread and finalized, both Hudson and Golden-Knight (Jason Blaze) put their hand-written signatures on it, and then two very small objects both slid in opposite directions of the table. The President opened a small platinum briefcase, the famous "Football", and took from that a tiny mobile device (which looked like what 21st century residents would call a "tablet"). Handing that to the far end of the desk granted access to an arsenal (whether the WHOLE arsenal, or just a fraction, was not important; either way, it was "more than plenty for a single person's lifetime"), locations of nuclear weapon assembly facilities and readily-armed ICBMs that could be easily repurposed for ship-to-ship flying and 2.5km splash damage. In return, the Golden Knight slid his card, a plastic chip that had his name etched onto it, as well as various numbers for both identification and security. This wasn't like simply writing a check; this in concept gave him full and unquestioned access to the entire actual bank account itself! That even covered future earnings in any hypothetical expeditions. Yes, the President got to keep the actual card, which is like a 21st century debit card in functionality...the WHOLE DEBIT CARD!

The trade was a success, and Golden-Knight was peacefully escorted back into untamed space.

And when Golden-Knight rode off with enough uranium to have thousands of missiles all at 20 kilotons each (with megaton varieties for the odd space station), combined with the aftermath leaving enough depleted uranium left behind for a distinctly armored Fer-De-Lance (Christened the Young Guardian after an obscenely obscure comic book hero), one last improvement had been needed. To convene in a collaborative effort of all the far-flung engineers, backed by Aegis Core, the shield resistances had surpassed all known hard-caps, so if given the right weaponry, not even the Thargoids could stand a chance! Many hoards of every kind of salvage, data, and element on the periodic table had been needed, as well as an additional few months of time, but to have this prototype worth showing off had a funny parallel to the "Prototype Hero" who started it all, back in World War Three. This had been but another example of "history tends to repeat itself", and more personally, he fit into the pattern of Golden-Knight blood. With everything put together, even if he were hypothetically bested, there'd be enough firepower triggered by his popped ship for a micro-scale supernova - and that would just be suicide for whatever idiot could claim the kill.

Now, with a ship of biblical magnitude, he was ready to fulfill the Primal Directive:
The directive to be indomitable!

Meanwhile, back at Deciat, the poor exploration workshop had not only seen a blockade of rabid pilots that'd plasma-ram anyone unfortunate enough to be landing, but at the same time dozens of passive independent carriers did nothing but watch. Commander Golden-Knight dropped down to the station, in normal space, and he just said, "Come and get me." He typed that out, in public, for the whole system, announcing that he was here, fresh meat to get picked on. They took the bait, and as soon as the boosters lit up to chase the Fer-De-Lance, he turned tail until the planet would no longer mass-lock his ship. But unlike all the OTHER times, he wasn't running because that's the only way to survive. Oh no, this was different. He was only flying away to 1) give the DECEPTIVE ILLUSION of a hapless rookie, but 2) more pragmatically, to prevent the explosion from inflicting any undue harm onto the station or its tenants. He was specifically clearing the blast radius, so he could freely arm his nuclear weapons.

With engines full-tilt forward, engineered to hit upwards of 450m/s, he flicked Flight Assist OFF, and let that retreating momentum carry him as he just pivoted his ship towards the pursuers, now spewing plasma at him...some hitting, some missing, but totally insufficient to break his shield. As for him, the lock-on computer sounds kept chirping, faster and faster, until one final bleep carried forth to announce that the first missiles were ready to fire. In that moment of truth, Commander Golden-Knight let out with an indulgent, maniacal laugh, as he pressed the FIRE button on the side of his joystick...and let loose a volley of three Air-To-Air cruise missiles, screaming at hypersonic velocities.

As his ship darted away like a figure skater on ice, his nose stayed pointed to the three or four rogue Commanders, just so he could witness the fruits of his labor.


And then, the BIG KA-BOOM!
Elite Ships 3.png


He laughed and laughed, fighting to breathe deeply and heavily, as he just bathed in the catharsis and the satisfying rewards to all the collective misery leading up to this singular moment in time.
From then on, a montage commenced, carrying out death and destruction all across "The Bubble", assassinating and massacring pirates just for laughs more than any credit reward or components.

Once Commander Golden-Knight had his vengeance - fury mixed with sadism to create a volcanic cocktail of emotions and hormones - next thing to do was visit the Pilots Federation headquarters. The stingy ratings board saw fit to award the title of Deadly. This did not sit well with him, who had to slave away for the better part of one real year, losing sanity and suffering endless stresses, with the mountain of failures, mistakes, and disappointments all weighing on him up to this defining moment. He would NOT be burdened by some pencil-pusher's industrial-grade manure. He flicked the arming status of his payload, right on the spinning station, and as the heat-seeking sounds got faster and faster, he said, "Elite. That's my final offer. You can keep your Raxxla conspiracies, and your Dark Wheel mysteries. But I'm DONE screwing around! It's Elite, or I will show you a fate worse than death."

The last clang of computing chimed to indicate missiles were locked on and ready, whenever Golden-Knight's thumb wanted to twitch and press the secondary weapon button flush into his joystick. Thing is, he never had his hand ON the joystick. He just wanted the psychological effect of nuclear gunpoint to work its magic. After a suspenseful minute, he received a message...confirming the rank of Elite.

He then powered down his weapons, and flew off, without incident. To celebrate, Golden-Knight not only took a small vacation at WorldCraft Resort, but had documented not only the list of failures experienced in his lifetime, but also how one person can make a difference if in possession of enough stubbornness and drive. He was still a nobody, which meant he did not have to go out of his way for a discrete getaway from the troubles and rabble-rousing. This was no longer about the ego; it was about the feeling of TRUE freedom: doing whatever you want, whenever you want, and no hell or high water can do a thing to stop it.

Once the break was over, which lasted for a handful of days, a whole galaxy had awaited, now having opened itself up in all its beauty. Where Commander Golden-Knight would wander is knowledge that he'd offer to nobody, past this point. Not that he didn't have friends, but even if he did, the precise location of the Young Guardian must be as secret as Raxxla, lest it fall into anyone else's hands. The book never saw a digital release, only circulating physically, and even then it gave no hints to these whereabouts - even as the most zealous treasure hunters probed every word - or discarded it as he was still less than extraordinary...somehow despite wielding enough all-consuming fire to hold humanity at gunpoint if he so wished. When he inevitably dies of old age, his last wish would be to rig his ship to explode, so that nobody else can enjoy the power he wielded. Depriving (or at least slowing) the rest from reaching his signature position was an act of cruelty willingly made, to best avert the violation of that primal directive. The only cruelty in that plan was that there'd be no more legacy, nobody else getting to taste total preeminence. Whenever that day would come, however many decades down the line, the whole galaxy will know that Commander Golden-Knight will be sent out with a bang...and the biggest bang that human tech was capable of at the time.

So many planets, some people had difficulty putting a number on it, and even the ones with human life had so many demands that no one person could put a dent into it. That all said, with all the possibilities combined with unlimited freedom, Commander Golden-Knight proved he was a man of his word: and kept the fire and fury only to those who'd wrong the innocent. There were no more dealings with the President or the Federation, not in such a formal way. It had been hard to get into politics because the haunting words echoed: "One fool's terrorist is another fool's liberator."

Despite all that, whatever limitations imposed were only by his honor-bound word...everything else, all up to him. He has earned his freedom, and chose how to spend it. Plus, if this doesn't make history, then there's no point in even trying anymore. Either way, now that the bulk of the to-do list was done, with a blank canvas sprawled out for the rest of his days, all he could say was one last remark:

"Now the REAL fun begins!"


THE END!



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