POSTCARD REMNANTS RECOVERED FROM PARABUS COURIER VESSEL
I told you I’d send you a postcard from paradise, right? To be honest, I feel like I left paradise to come here. I dream of it sometimes, being back on Amurin. Out country somewhere where I can find some small creek and put up a fishing rod, while away the hours on a lazy shoreline. I’ll have to take you sometime, I know you don’t get away from patrol duty very often.
I’d say I would take you soon, but in truth, I don’t think I’ll be leaving for some time yet.
It’s a storm here. Whirlwinds of bullets, shrapnel and dead ships clog the space here. What we’re fighting, I don’t even know where to start with them. Are they alive? Are they purely machine? How am I meant to know when we can barely shoot the things down? The few we’ve managed to recover have been snatched away by research, and all they tell us all is to shoot more of them. Ashen stars, no wonder the pilots are terrified. They may as well be fighting shadows.
I’ve been stuck flying navigator for the past few supply runs, but I’m about to be shipped out as comms to Allagaer-S, a new repair station they’re pulling together to deal with the influx of broken ships being hauled back. We can barely keep up with things now as it is.
I told you I wanted to sink my teeth in, but truth be told, I’ve never been more scared. Each rotation I see squadrons fly out, disappearing into the endless fighting, and hours later I see fewer than half return. Every shift I hear the weariness in their voices as they request docking, and I’ve heard the desperation of too many that try to turn in early. It pains me every time I have to turn them away and back to the fight. Each time I lay in my bunk, I can’t sleep. I can only lie there and listen as shrapnel hammers against the station’s hull and bullets rip apart another corridor a few levels below. Alarms and announcements are a constant here, there’s no rest.
I’ve heard rumours that the CAF has started thinking about conscripting. I hope you’re not pulled in the next wave. I listen out when I can on the frequencies, hoping against hope that I don’t hear your name come up. Enjoy paradise while you can. Avoid the hell-storm above Parabus.
*Too many of these courier ships have been targeted. We cannot afford to be taking these losses, so we will be ceasing personal messages for all personnel. Redirect any material to [%REDACTED%] for disintegration.