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"State your full name, your true age, your occupation, your crime, your judgment, and your sentence!" Vice Admiral McClain's spoke through the overhead speaker, his voice dripping with that grouchy Scots accent. The red-headed burly Gaian dressed full in show for the entertainment of the night. The number of decorations he wore glistened in the few rays of sun that filtered through the tented windows of the Battleship, Ares. Like all Gaian mother ships, Ares orbited in the lower shield sphere which regulated supplies to and from the Earth and the moon. Ares was actually the biggest ship to have been contributed from the still loyal Martians and served as a symbol of power for the Military.
However, this month’s show was much different. McClain had a special treat for today's viewers, one which had been long awaited and advertised as an event that would rattle the Helios system. No one else in the entire universe was as exciter than the Admiral himself. Eight years prior to the date, he had no need for that eye patch placed over his right eye. The red-headed Gaian leader stroked his eye patch, his face already flushed with anger. Being on the same ship was opening old wounds. "This will be sweet," he muttered to himself, a devilish smirk rising to view.

"What was that, Sir? Repeat command," a cadet sitting before him asked turning to better hear his orders.

McClain brought himself out of his daze. "Right, camera!" At all angels, cameramen took positions around a darkened box made of one way see threw glass. Red lights flashed flickered and flared everywhere, waiting for the lighting. Tension was high. The whole universe was waiting to witness the most highly anticipated execution.
"Lights!" Light flooded the white room with an almost blinding glare. Inside the one-way glass, a young man stood alone chained by the neck, arms, hands, and feet to the walls.”Speak,” McClain ordered over the intercom.
"Tch," the young man uttered irritably. In response ten volts of electricity rang through his body. He flinched, but he did not scream.
"Speak," McClain screamed into the microphone. His finger went to the panel and he brought the volts to 20 volts. Such light torture seemed to do little but put the boy in slight pain. "Fine you damn b*****d. You can meet your Mother early." His finger flicked the voltage to its max torture capacity: two hundred volts. Even then, the boy did not succumb. His body began to spasms and twitched frantically, but his expression, as strained as it was, did not lose its serious demeanor. His concentration seemed unbreakable, but then something snapped.
He looked about, still twitching and spasming about, but it was like there was something there. Whatever he had sensed had passed, and he, now lost from his concentration, fell over, curling up into a fettle position as the electricity over took him with pain. "Scream ya b*****d! Scream!" And scream he did. For four grueling minutes, the young pilot was shocked, and he shrieked. For four minutes the entire universe stood and watched the horrible yet magnetic splendor of the longest awaited execution of post-war times. Then all went quite. The circuit had been cut, giving the boy some time to breath. Steam rose from his body and the room reeked with the scent of burnt hair and skin. "Now," came the fat man's voice, "State your full name, your true age, your occupation, your crime, your judgment, and your sentence!"

"My-" the boy started then stopped, looking around the room as he had before. "My name is Bernard Bagram, no middle name. I am nineteen years old and I am the leader of the remaining Hander pilots who were experimented on and then turned into outlaws." He flinched as he felt a jolt go through his body. This was obviously a warning. "I am charged with the act of treason against Earth for becoming engaged in Hander related activities. I am charged with treason against the Moon, for attacking E.O.S unmanned fighters. I am charged for attempting to start another. My Judgment is guilty. My sentence-" Bernard took a deep breath looking down at the floor, knowing exactly what was coming. He didn't need to see McClain's face or hear his voice to know the furry old Scot was laughing hardly. He breathed, looking down at his feet. "Death by space jettison." Almost on cue, the floor opened up beneath him and he was sucked out into cold space. He curled himself up into a ball as best he could to hold himself together. He could feel the bitter degrees n** at his skin, but the cold was not his only company. There were cameras. Everywhere he looked, cameramen and women with their equipment kept their cameras locked on him as he did not even struggle to free himself. Bernard was too smart for that. Struggling would use up his air. He needed to wait. And he did.

Ten seconds passed...

Twenty seconds...

Forty-five second....

An entire minute went by, and yet that Bernard still held a pulse. It was hard to believe, but the young pilot was still living. His heart still beat. But how much longer could he last? How long would he suffer before the end. The finale.

"Damn stubborn b*****d. Doesn't he know that holding out will only make it worse?" McClain said, scratching at the leather patch. The scratching became a tearing as another thirty seconds went by. He grabbed at the railing separating him from the four story drop and hologram projector and screamed at the image of Bernard, "DIE! Dammit, Die!"

Then, sirens began to flash on all control panels, proximity warnings and strike countermeasures went haywire. Before anyone could do anything, a single wasp missile streamed past the captive’s body and struck the glass box that had been his cage before dumping. All personal, news and military inside, were thrown into space were they would die within seconds of oxygen depravity. More importantly, the line holding Bernard in place was separated from the colony. Freedom. Using the escaping air to propel him, he latched onto the first camera he could find and disconnected the oxygen helmet from the operator. Golden blonde hair flew everywhere as the station 13 news woman clawed desperately at nothing to save her from her cold fate. Bernard felt no sympathy. He placed the helmet on his head, and took in a deep breath of much needed oxygen. "Tch, two minutes and nine seconds. For deep space, that isn't much for a Hander pilot like me," he said, smirking slyly to himself. Within moments, four ships, Two ZweiHanders, with a black Einhander in tow, and an Eos unmanned fighter, had congregated on his position. Bernard took in another deep breath, removed the helmet and pushed off the camera vehicle heading for the black ship, his SWZ Hander Mk. III, the Reaper's ship. Once in the cockpit, the canopy closed, and again he was safe to breath.
"Hey! Incoming. Bernard. Coordinates. Bearing 3-05-67. Above us," came the familiar voice of Bernard younger brother, Ulrich, and what great news he brought. Missiles were inbound on their position, and they were close. "Ugh, D.R.O.N.E.s!" D.R.O.N.E.s, base orbiting missiles, hard to dodge, a pain to hit, and smart enough to ignore most counter measures; this would make escape difficult.

Bernard, being the veteran he was, considered the warning a minor inconvenience. "Move. Hey, Ray? They figure you out yet?" The EOS unit fell back and flew off. “I’ll take that as a no.”