You already know the end, the harsh drama of the Commander-Governor DeLameter-Ward, last of her line and standing alone against the predatory invasion, of the names now spoken of in only hushed whispers. Blacksilver's sacrifice amidst the fields of the Morrigan, NicAllison her banshee kyrie never more to be heard, fair lost Rommi surrendered to Vanderdecken's crew. Or bloody May in Despayre, where stern Colonel Roarke and the little station held with only a single ship for her guard. You have seen the flash logs and data downloads, Shigonada's haunting single line sketch of the corvette Paladin shattered, a knight errant fallen beneath a thousand blows. And heard the breaking of Hhnthzk's voice when he realized that the dark predatory starships weren't sated after feasting upon the Paladin.

"... Colonel, no ... it can't ... Colonel, I'm showin' ... showin' five inbound, through the whats left of the Paladin. They all are runnin' hot and fast with nothin' nothin between them an' us ..."

Despayre Station's command control center, one small module set in the habitation ring, slowly rotating, its circular path a predetermined and rigid fate. Tight, awash with crimson light, red alert, the deep color of heartsblood stained each member of the deck crew. The operations station was gone, no mining or prospectors to watch over, and flight control jurry rigged for combat control.

"Rotate the turrets out Private Hhnthzk. And trim up, Private. Bring the stations shields online and we'll be a a bitter tidbit to swallow.

"Colonel ...Colonel, this is Despayre. We don't be havin' shields, jus' armor."

One heart beat. Absolute silence.

"Then keep the power to your turrets, Private. When we go down we'll be do'in it by the book. Target the lead ship, one at a time, hold till you are sure and then concentrate your fire."

They could feel the station scream, as if struck by an angry god's fist, when the first volley tore into its tracery ring...

"...Otters, Otters, come back, wha' twas tha'..."

She slammed the side of her head with one paw, trying to knock some sense into the communications gear. She knew, she could feel, the rending of her station, smell the burning metal and count off the regimented pace of the emergency bulkheads smashing down. Half upside down she was, a heavy metal clip staying her to the wall, the hot arc of her welder sending a cascade of blue sparks panicing in a brilliant spray. She couldn't even stop to think, just move from one disaster to the next, already stained by a camoflage of bitter grease, cutting grime, the splattering of hydraulic fluid and the harsh spray from torn coolant lines.

"... dead line ... another dead line ..."

Below her, Westerman didn't even pause a beat, setting the heavy steel brace in place, already bolting it down as she turned her welding gun to its upper anchorage. Metal burned, metal fused, and the wind stopped its howling, one more breach sealed. She unsnapped her clip, falling in an ungainly clatter back down to the deck, barely able to stand up again before being thrown down again, sprawling across the diamond gridded floor plates, adding a streak of blood to her collection of stains.The station still vibrated, recoiling from this newest strike, the twisting of metal down the ring a harsh sound like fingernails across blackboard slate. Westerman's eyes grew wide, as he saw her long and tangled pony tale rise, caught on a brand new breeze, the first kiss of a hurricane.

"Miss Victory?"

The lil' ruff shook her head, trying to catch her breath but completly failing. Her words but a whisper, a gasped exhale. They had sent a line colonel to protect her station. Now she just worked damage control.

"Hull breach..."

Stumbling forward, Westerman helped her up, his ears flat, his words resigned to the inevitable.

"Not again."

"Good shooting Private, now track the second bogey."

"Yessir. I don't think they expected us to still be one piece ..."

Desparate they tried to run, but even something so simple was impossible. The curving deck was buckled, a dangerous maze of broken metal and shattered plastic. The metal was red hot, the brittle composites razor sharp and the thick acrid smoke, ash and toxins in a dangerous mix, was worse than the glare and heat of the flames. The stations mechanical system threatend to choke itself, overloaded.

"Its got to be 'ere..."

In the midst of the inferno, Vikky and Westerman tore out access panels and floor plates, tossing them aside, coughing, eyes red and unable to focus. By touch alone she searched, following the tangled service lines, on her knees, the first hints of smoke rising from her heavy jacket.

"Got 'er!"

Small hands found the heavy bypass valve, her palms burning as she tried to turn its heavy wheel.

"I cannae ... it be ...."

But even before she could finish her cry, Westerman was there, setting a long wrench into the wheels spokes, and just leaning into it. There was a snap, louder than a rifle's bark, but then the wheel turned, the cold, cold cold water flowing, and the stations fire supression system was back online with a vengence.

Not a handful of minutes and the two were soaked, foam and water a monsoon almost drowning them.

To a trickle, the system expended itself.

A moment, one precious moment, of peace. Resting her head against the wall, Vikky closed her eyes, daring a small smile.

And then the lights went out.

The station's turrets whined offline. Despayre's defenses collapsed.

"We've lost power sir."

"Then bring on the secondaries, Private."

"Those were the secondaries, Colonel."

Through the dark they scrambled, each step a trip, the beams from their work lights stabbing out in crazy patterns, not walking, but crawling, pushing through the stations core, deep in its broken heart. Here and there an electric arc flashed and short circuited, the momentary brilliance like a flash of lightning.

Westerman paused, at a smashed panel, resetting breakers. Then watched them snap off again.

The generators still roared, the sound echoing like waterfall rapids in and out of the blackened trusswork and warped supports. But the main conduits were sheared, killing her station just as assuredly as if someone had sliced her own jugular. Sheared and collapsed, a terrifying tangle of power and destruction. Every so often the power would build up, and a terrible discharge would lance out across the broken service bay.

"Miss Victory, there's no way..."

But she refused to believe, shaking her head, rubbing her eyes with the back of one paw.

In Command Control the lights flickered, and in a blaze of crimson and amber telltales the workstation consoles shuddered back to life. Private Hhnthzk started, caught, like the rest of the command crew, by surprise.

"We have power, Colonel ... I don't understand, but the grid's reading green."

We know now, afterwards, much later, what the two of them probably did. As far as command was concerned, they simply rerouted the station's power supply, and manually reconnected the broken bits of infrastructure.

But there was still quite a bit which can't be spoken, witnessed only by the station's ravaged framework, like a skeleton haunting its own funeral. Vikky tucked up tight, levering a huge cable into place, all alone, in the dark. When they found her, no one could even figure out how even she managed to fit into such a tight corner, let alone hold the cable in place those last final hours. They had to cut her out. And Westerman, he must have been by the thundering generator, dogging down the cable's other terminous, desperately watching the remaining guages climb, a race against time.

No one saw the final deadly arc when he closed the circuit.

"Turrets one through sixteen back on the firing line, Colonel."

"Jus' 'old on Westerman, one breath after tha' other. We can do it, me' an thee, tha two of us, aye?

Through the roar of the generators, she knew he couldn't hear her. She couldn't even see past her own muzzle, caught up tight at the base of the station's main feed. But it helped, just knowing he was there, hanging on, refusing to let go. Every muscle tense, she trembled, knowing that even if she breathed wrong the cable would slip, and they'd never be able to fix this wound twice. She could feel the electricity in the air, feel the heat come from the jury rigged circuiting. And she pretended, if she listened really well, that she could hear the Colonel's turrets continue their defense of her station.

"Could nae do this alone. 'ere in tha' dark, jus' a lil' ole me.

"One more minute. Tha's all we need Westerman friend.

"'old on one more minute longer.

"One minute longer..."

"Me an' thee"

"Colonel..."

"Yes, Private.

"I don't think they are coming back again."

"Looks that way. Good work. Pass the word to the gun crews. Stand down and bring me a status report."

Vikky woke up in the corpman's gurney. Temporary lights in plastic cages were stung hither and yon, and the generator's roar had been tamed to a soft mettalic grumbling. Only half awake, it was like a dream caught in the fragments of a broken mirror, a soft kalieadescope of light and blurred figures. It took all her wits to ask her simple question, so hard it was to even keep her eyes open.

"Ye ... ye ... ye already got Westerman out, aye?"

They didn't have the heart to tell her that Westerman had been dead for hours.

You already knew the end. Fifteen badges of honor, Colonel Roarke, the command crew, the gunners in their turrets, badges of honor for the holding of Despayre.

Vikky just got flowers to place upon Westerman's grave.