The clouds hung over the sun like a silver cloak. The frozen ground crunched underfoot as James Bravington paced in front of the tiny medical building. Enveloped as he was in his fur-lined greatcoat, the middle-aged man looked like a bear guarding his den. The watery sunlight glinted off the snow that had fallen in the night, and the flakes slowly falling from the gray sky. The biting wind had died to a whisper, and the rigging cables stopped noisily swinging against the aluminum masts of the harbored boats. In the silence, he strained to hear anything from the low building.

At last, the heavy metal door opened a crack, and a severe face framed by gray hair peered out. Taking the nurse’s appearance as an invitation, he slipped into the building behind her, and followed her into the tiny delivery room. Stopping short in the doorway, he stared at the two tiny forms sleeping peacefully in their cots.

"Mr. Bravington." the woman in the bed said, an English accent almost completely masking her native Russian growl. "As you can see, I have more than fulfilled your request." The bitter smile on her face did not go unnoticed, as James finally looked at her.

"And now you go." The nurse interjected. "Come again in one week. She will be ready." Her steely voice compelled James away from the infants. He was still lost in the shock of seeing two babies where he had expected only one. The nurse seemed quite aware of his surprise. "They are identical. There will be no problems, Mr. Bravington?" It wasn’t a question.

Name: Valerie Leigh Essen
Home: Oxford, England
Hair Color: Brown
Eye Color: Hazel

"Daddy, why don’t I have a mummy like the rest of the girls?" If Valerie had known that her father would turn quite that shade of purple, she wouldn’t have asked. It was probably best that she hadn't asked why her surname was different than his also...

Father and daughter were enjoying a rare morning together. Valerie was out of school for holidays, and James had just closed a long surveillance case. He was trying to relax before tackling the mountain of paperwork.

"Do you like your school?" he asked after a long moment, avoiding the question entirely. "Do you and the other girls get along?"

"Oh, we do..." Val said. "But they say if I had a mum I could stay with you and I wouldn’t have to live at school."

"How would you like to go to another school?"

For a moment, Valerie was startled. Then she realized that it was an offer rather than a threat. "But I’m only seven. I can’t go to Secondary until I’m thirteen." she protested. She knew she was clever, and had been rapidly advanced in most of her classes. Her teachers had told her father that she could be advanced more quickly, but they preferred to keep her with a closer age group. They said she was too serious.

"Not Secondary and you wouldn’t have to change schools this year. But we could start your training. You’ve heard of Battle School, haven’t you?"

Education: International Fleet Battle School, IF Command School

The other children in her Launch were as varied as she had expected. For the last year, she had studied the history of the International Fleet, as well as the few subjects not offered at Milton Oxford School for Girls. Though guns were altogether rare in England, the gentlemen policemen of Scotland Yard had taken a special interest in her firearms and combat training. She had managed to complete the requisite entry exams, scoring lowest in combat despite her enthusiasm.

Valerie felt lost. Her focus for the last year had been taken away and left her directionless. Resigned, she sat on her bunk, using her new desk to sift through the classes she might enjoy... and not fail.

***

"You are so annoying!" shouted Kestrel, Raptor Army’s lead pilot. He was looming over Valerie, whose short, spare frame made her the smallest pilot in all of Battle School. "You are... are..." he stuttered, too angry to finish.

"Vexing?" she asked with a fierce grin. "Maybe if you learn to keep out of my way, you won’t blow up so often." She doubted he got the pun. A pity - Kestrel really didn’t get anything other than flying, and he hated being beaten. Especially by a little girl.

***

The Command School wasn’t quite what Vex had expected. It was bigger, yes, and there were more classes, more instructors, and better sims. But it was just a bigger, messier version of Battle School. She had already accidentally walked in on people in the laundry, the gym and the library. While "fraternizing" was vaguely discouraged, obviously no one really cared. As long as she showed up to classes on time, no one bothered Vex. She felt vaguely distant from her classmates – quite probably because she spent every moment in BattleSim B, a tiny room with six pods and a small holotable and wall display unit. The pilots who preferred scouts tended to play in A, and the flashy fighters kept to the Game Arena. Vex was rarely disturbed by anyone in B.

***

The graduation ceremony was mercifully short, and Vex came out of her contemplation as her row filed precisely out of the docking bay. There were far fewer graduates than there had been launchies, those long years ago. They were divided by major; the special ops group was notably absent. Rumor held that they were out on missions, but a more unsettling whisper was that none of them had survived.

Rank: Lieutenant
Occupation: Pilot
Nickname: Vex

"Welcome to Zeta station, welcome to the squad, pilot. Fly hard, follow orders, and you will succeed!" her wing commander barked, his eyes focused just past her ear. She saluted and struggled to keep her faint smile from turning into a smirk. The rest of the wing pilots were starting at her; she could feel their eyes. Her commander saluted lazily and waved her away. Turning sharply on her heel, she flashed a grin at the men, who hastily looked elsewhere.

Assigned Quarters: 1E7