Your name is Haryan Ostera, and there is very, very little you can add here that might sum up who you are better than just that.
Sure, you’re also a rather well-known general of the Imperial Fleet. But that is not the sum of all your parts, and you loathe to define yourself by it, especially after factoring in everything else there is to know about you.
The position is something of a farce, in any case. Yes, you have a ship, and yes, you have a substantial crew to fly it. But you don’t have any standing orders. No planets to conquer, no wars to fight, no rebellions to quash. Your only orders are to keep the vessel space worthy, to give the appearance of an imperial presence in whatever quadrant you're sent to, to take on whichever sorry soul got the career-ending reassignment to your ship, and—most importantly—to stay out of the way of the real generals. It has always been this way.
And frankly, this is fine with you. Enlisting in the fleet was only ever a bitter means to a bitter end to you, and you certainly have more pressing matters to spend your time on than spreading fear and resentment to the peoples of the universe.
After all, there are 200 some-odd souls aboard your vessel, and it’s your business to take care of each and every one of them, as best as you can anyway. Most are hesitant to be around you, and they have good reason to be so standoffish. After all, you and your ship are their punishment.
Still, you do your best to keep them happy. A stressed crew is one that doesn’t fly very far, or so they say anyway. So you let them choose their positions (if any), and their quarters. They all maintain their hobbies as usual, get to regularly speak to their loved ones (if any).
And you? You fill your time with near-obsessive log keeping. Your vessel has no formal log keeper, and since you so hate imposing too much on any of your personnel, you take it upon yourself to keep track of, well, everything. And it’s a rare thing that anything happens aboard that you don’t know about. You know when you’ve last resupplied, how much of everything you’ve used, when you’re due to resupply again and where. How long it’s been since you received your last orders, and your last new recruit.
You know the names of all 200+ people aboard; you know who their friends are and their quadrants, past and present if any are left, and where to contact them; you know their hobbies, what foods they like and what they’re allergic to, what keeps them happy, exactly how long each of them has been with you to the day. You know if they’re ill and in need of medical attention, or if they’re stressed and in need of help. Some may feel this is too much to know, but no one has ever asked you why you keep track of such things, and you are grateful for it. They should not ask.
You also know how many crates you have in the hold no one ever enters. You know how many tapes fit into each crate. And you know without opening any of them which crates hold which tapes, when they were recorded and by whom, and when you finally collected them from their quarters.
(Has anyone started to show signs of newfound unrest? How long since the last incident?)
This has been every day of your very long career. An endless cycle.
You tick your boxes; you hope without hope (maybe this time it doesn’t have to be so tragic); you learn all you can, to keep them safe and (more importantly) happy. You carry your weapons at all times, always prepared, just in case. You do not make friends (gods, at least you try); you collect their tapes.
And once an evening, every evening, you make your way to that hold that no one ever goes to, stacked wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, with those horrible crates, full of bitter reminders (all neatly labeled, in your own hand, with names and dates) that you normally try so hard not to think about. And you take inventory, once more. Your nightly penance.
You told us before that your name is Haryan Ostera, that this is all you are. But that wasn’t quite true, was it?
No. It was not.
You have another name, and it fills you with a bone-deep sorrow every time you hear it, doesn’t it?
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