Philip Corey is arguing with the deck chief again.

"No, I'm not an engineer, I'm just the man who flies the damn thing!" He bangs the Aurora's nose with the deck chief's wrench. "And I'm telling you, chief, it's not right. Something's firing input into the flight controls, and if it's not the kick housing on the active transit sensor, why, I'll - "

"You don't fly it." The baffled deck chief can't seem to figure out what to do with Corey. For a slim lieutenant with a throaty voice and a history of bad luck, Corey knows an awful lot about subspace systems. You're impressed. The chief isn't. "Sir, it's not your bird, it's Nehru's, sir."

"WELL, I'M HERE ON HIS BEHALF!" Corey booms. He hits the Aurora with the wrench again. "And don't cringe like that, this is combat armor! What do you think a wrench is going to do? Are you a mechanic or aren't you?"

Poor Lieutenant Nehru asks too many questions, so the deck crew can't stand him. The idea that anyone would be here on Nehru's behalf leaves the deck chief baffled. "I am, sir," she manages, "this is my deck, and I'm going to have to insist that you put the wrench down and have Lieutenant Nehru file a maintenance squawk with instructions to reproduce the behavior."

"Reproduce!" Corey sputters. "What do you think this is, a - a fruit fly? A little show dog? If we let Nehru fly with a bad housing, chief, we're letting him down."

He turns. Looks around the deck. He doesn't see you, but he's not looking: he's pleading with everyone around him, everyone who's watching.

"Is that who we want to be?" He's had two bad wing leaders, Corey has, one dishonorably discharged and one re-specialized to logistical work. Two commanders who couldn't do the right thing. And you can hear it, you really can. It's in his voice -

"Is that who we are? The kind of people who let each other down?"