The sergeant shifts uncomfortably, “Outer Rim,” he says, “One of those pleasure yachts that went missing years ago,” the officer is clearly shaken, “There were some bodies as well. The ship… The ship wasn’t made for deep space…” he drew up to attention, “Looks like it decompressed with most of the… crew… alive…” “I see.” Another peer stood up behind the other man, “Did you watch the tape, Sergeant?” The officer straightened tighter, “Yes, sir,” he says, “It’s all in the report.” The two men exchange a look. The taller of the two stood up from his desk, “Thank you, Sergeant,” he salutes the officer before him, “Dismissed.”

“We’re here on the six month anniversary of the end of the War,” the reporter begins, “Out here on the edge of space, we have the privilege of being present on the IAV Akodo,” the camera panned out to what looked like a crew’s mess, “The newly formed Alliance is investigating rumors that there still might be Independent holdouts here in the far reaches…”

“The Akodo?” the darker of the two men asks as the tape continues to view in front of them, “Well, this is going to be interesting. Have we ever found any evidence of her yet?” The other man scratches his beard, “This’ll be the first.”

After a series of lackluster, but patriotic interviews, the reporter signs off. He’s a balding Caucasian male with a ready smile, a slight paunch and a deep voice. His attire is civilian, a little informal, but neat. His name is Howell Yin. There are several more interviews with some of the senior officers of the Akodo regarding several engagements that the ship has had on the way to deep space. It’s clear that the officers are being less than forthright, but the reporter hides it with patriotic innuendo and various other comments about military life. The recording goes on for hours with crew interviews, asides about deep space navy living and amiable subjects. Howell Yin has a way of putting both his subjects and the audience at ease. Soon, both of the men are relaxed and sipping coffee after only the first few hours of reviewing the recording. In a few reflections, the cameraman is actually revealed to be a woman. A petite young blonde with a serious demeanor, but a pretty face tied back into a ponytail. Howell introduces her a few times. Her name is an uninspired Mary, but she rarely, if ever comments, while the camera rolls. The few comments that do make it on camera paint a humor that is a subtle, if dark, counterpart to Howell’s amiability. The darker broader man takes silent notes on the various crew that are introduced by Howell’s interviews. Suddenly, the camera jolts in the space between takes. When the camera turns on, it focuses on a very different Howell Yin. Unkempt and barely dressed, the man is back lit by flashing alarm lights. The two men lean forward.

“Mary?” Howell Yin asks, “Is it on?” There’s an unseen reply, “Yes, gorramit, Howell, it’s on,” she replies, “We need to get to the lifeboats…” There is gunfire in the background. There’s a scream that is alike anything anyone has heard before, “They’re already here,” Howell says. He produces a small revolver, “I don’t think we’ll make it to the lifeboats…” “Who is it?” Mary asks, “Is it the Browncoats we’ve been searching for?” More gunfire, “Have they breached the ship?” More yelling, but then it dies down as feet stomp down the hall beyond. After a few minutes, Yin opens the door and peaks out. Klaxons are heard from the hall, “The ship’s been breached, but I don’t think they’re Independents.” The camera focuses on a lump of a man just outside the door. Mary pans to either side of the hall, revealing it to be empty, but for a few more bodies littering it, “Oh my God,” she comes back to the first body, a soldier, “What is happening?” Yin bends over and puts the revolver in his waistband, “Do you know how to shoot a gun, Mary?” he begins to field strip the corpse. The camera focuses on the wounds to the man’s throat and chest, “Yeah. My brothers taught me,” her voice is just as flawed as Yin’s. Within moments, Yin’s hands are covered in the young man’s blood, still bright red and flowing easily, “Put the camera down and put this on,” he offers the man’s flak jacket. The camera is set on the floor. Its picture is off the man’s face, his eyes open and unseeing, his once handsome face pale and specked with blood. Yin fits the flak jacket hastily on Mary, who is wearing flannel pajamas and cowboy boots. He fits on a holster with the soldier’s sidearm still in it, “Check the safety.” Mary does so. Yin picks up the man’s automatic rifle that had been thrown aside, “Come on.” The alarms are constant now. With the emergency lights flashing, it’s hard to recognize the other bodies that Mary passes with the camera. They aren’t soldiers, but their bodies are mangled by automatic gunfire. Blood decorates much of the sterile steel walls, spatters of gunfire and slashes of their counterparts. After a few more field strips of dead Alliance soldiers, Yin has a flak jacket of his own and combat boots that replaced his soft bloodied slippers. He looks just as ridiculous as Mary did in her attire, as the flak jacket doesn’t accommodate his girth well at all. But there is no mistaking the professional demeanor that is on his face. After half an hour, the duo comes to a T in the hall. The bodies have been growing in frequency. The gunfire which had been just ahead of them begins to peeter off. Yin cautiously looks over the corner down the right corridor. Mary focuses on a radio that sputters on the body of an Alliance soldier. Over the klaxons, screams choked in static are heard. Mary picks up the handset gingerly so as not to get blood on her hands. Yin has wiped his so much on his pants that they are crimson down to the bottoms, “Howell, try this…” The radio is offered and Yin slings the rifle to receive it. Yin flinches when an unearthly scream comes through the unit, but he patiently begins to cycle through the frequencies, “There’s got to be some one…” Sure enough, a steady voice peaks in through the com-unit. The conversation is between the steady voice and a gruff, though, feminine voice. The steady voice is named Ears by what appeared to be a Marine corporal named Gerhard, after a while, the conversation is broken up by others who are consistently panicking, but Ears wins them over. After a few minutes, the gunfire dies down completely and the klaxons mute. Yin looks up and down the corridor and presses down on the com; “Ears?” he says into the unit, “Ears?” After a few interruptions the com clicks back, “This is Ears. What is your location?” “We’re at a T-junction on deck 36, section 4,” Yin replies, “There are two of us…” Ears wastes no time, “Thirty-six four, you need to get off that deck,” he says, “We’ve lost contact with that unit patrolling that deck…” Yin flips over the body where the radio came from inspecting the name and rank from the uniform, “Lieutenant Green of the Eighth?” A pause, “He’s dead?” “Yes,” Yin replies, “We’ve got his com.” “Are you armed?” Ears asks. “Yes,” Yin replies, “I’m retired infantry,” Yin glances over to the camera, “But I’ve got a civilian here, my camerawoman…” Another voice growls over the com-unit, “Howell Yin?” Corporal Gerhard asks, “Get you and yours to the elevator back through section twenty. I’ll send a unit to retrieve you. Keep your gun high, we won’t take offense.” “Understood.” “Where’s section twenty?” Mary asks. Yin pointed back to where they came from, “That way,” He pointed forward, “This forks out sections 8 through 0, odd right, even left.” The camera bounces as the pair runs back through the corridor. Soon they pass the point where they came from and continue to run down the hall. There are several more turns but after a while the elevator appears. The doors are closed. Yin bends over from exhaustion, panting for breath, “Six months…” he smiles at the camera, “Soft and heavy after six months,” the amiable personality resurfaces, “I’ve gotta lay off those cookies.” There’s a giggle from Mary, “Frosted ginger snaps are the devil.” “How are you doing?” Yin asks her, “That camera’s gotta be heavy. We should probably leave it.” “Story of a lifetime…” Mary says from behind the camera, though it’s clear she doesn’t believe it. “Suit yourself,” Yin replies. He looks down, “Don’t we look pathetic? God, I must look like a fat armed plumber,” he swipes a sweat leaden brow, “I love the cowboy boots.” “Boyfriend’s idea of a gag gift,” she says, the camera focuses down on the aforementioned boots, “Funny thing is, they’re comfortable as hell...” Yin straightens out and brings up his rifle. The camera focuses on the elevator, catching the doors open. There’s an audible sigh of relief from Mary as two Alliance Marines point their guns out, then down as they recognize the pair. “Howell Yin?” one asks. “Yes, soldier.” The other looks at the camera distractedly. “Get in.” The two media step in. The second soldier relays in his radio, “Targets acquired.” The elevator shuts and the first Marine punches in a deck number. Twenty one. “Soldier,” Yin takes note of the man’s name stitched on the uniform, “Kuon, is it?” “It is.” “What’s going on?” “Reavers,” the second soldier, Georges, replies, “We’re being hit by Reavers, Mr. Yin.” Kuon shakes his head, “Didn’t figure they would try for a whole Alliance destroyer, but…” “I thought Reavers were just a story told by the Brownies,” Mary popped in, “They’re not real…” The elevator chimes. Twenty one glows. The door opens to more dead bodies. Kuon and Georges look toward each other, before Georges responds, “Guess we were wrong.”

“That’s it?” The dark man replies. “That’s all the recording that we have,” the other man tells him, “But there is more in the report.” “More?” the darker man asks. “We identify the camera woman.” “That shouldn’t have been too hard,” the dark man asks, “The media would still have her name on file. Mary’s a common enough name, but Howell Yin’s not.” “Open the sergeant’s file,” the other man says, “Three pages in.” The man opens the manila folder, “This is an autopsy report.” “It is.” “From the yacht. It’s one of the victims,” the darker man then pauses. “Those weren’t victims, Derrial,” the man says. “‘Mary Kara Dent,’” the man reads aloud, “‘Age 22. Civilian. Last seen on the IAV Akodo in 2512.’” “They were Reavers.” “I take it this report will never see public light,” Derrial supposes, “Denial, I assume.” “We’ve done our best to keep the ship tight,” the man replies, “But you know as well as I do that there are reports all over the Outer Rim. Sooner or later, we’ll have to make a statement.” “They hit a military destroyer and that was two years ago,” Derrial says, “This statement had already be prepared.” “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We are moving in on the threat.” “By ignoring it?” The man folds his arms, “It’s all in the capable hands of the Alliance military.” Derrial has no other comment. He looks down at a picture attached to the autopsy. The most current picture of Mary Kara Dent before her disappearance. It’s a prepared picture with an unnamed boyfriend in it. The autopsy photo below it resembled nothing of the girl’s beauty and was nothing short of horrific. “That poor girl.” “Story of a lifetime,” the other man carelessly says, “You going to wrap this up? I’ve got a dinner date.” Derrial closes his eyes, “Yes. I’ll finish it up.” Too many secrets…