Moving what little belongings he had onto the carrier was a pain in the ass. Why did one box require so much paperwork and inspection? Did they really question his loyalty after ten years of specialized training in the Capitol? He had spent a quarter of his 20-year long life learning to pilot a ship, another fifth learning fleet tactics, and his most recent year was used to train him in his specialized role.
DS
Despite being one of their apparently few number, the only way he had ever seen his rank mentioned as was DS, never as its full title, like admiral or captain. His search through records showed no indication of it being used in the past and discontinued, nor were his questions about it answered by the instructors and staff at his training facility. With the name of his role being far above his pay grade (somehow) he gave up after asking the doctor for the umpteenth time. The training was too rough to worry about pointless crap like that anyway.
Giving a shit was no longer his style. Twenty years old with no friends besides a few cranky old war vets, trained under harsh conditions since he was ten, and practically disowned by his family thanks to his disinterest in the family business, he had long since stopped caring.
Donovan Strauss' only desire was to fly in space, free of all restrictions. That wish for freedom only grew stronger as he waded his way through the frankly pointless level of bureaucratic and anti-espionage checkpoints.
"Hey greenie!" A rough yet energetic voice greeted him at one of the many docking points to the carrier. "Ten minutes early, just the way we like it." The man extended a rough, pale, hand, a skin tone indicative of a life devoid of sunlight. "Name's Thompson. Captain First Class, Blue Squadron Leader, and Domino Class Strike Craft Pilot." His handshake was firm, but not aggressive. Already Donovan was liking him. "What're your qualifications?"
"Strauss, Donovan. Rank, DS. Not yet sure what I'll be piloting. I'm told it's classified." Don rolled his eyes and shrugged to indicate his own annoyance with the situation. As always, the bureaucracy made their lives hell when it came to planning for the future. "Call me Don."
"Most of that is understandable, but the fuck is a DS?" Thompson didn't hold back on his query. He couldn't be described as eloquent.
"Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea?"
"No. But considering how much was redacted on the report I was given, it wouldn't be surprising."
Don was surprised there was ANYTHING redacted from his file. He had only really been in school. He had no combat record, and the training he went through could hardly be described as colorful.
The most hush-hush thing he had ever been through was 'Systems and Weapons' training, SAW, which was a rundown on the most up to date equipment.
Considering what he was told he was going to be paid, he started to assume he might have been taught something classified without his knowing. But what?
"Anyways, Admiral told me to introduce you and show you around the ship. Callie's an old girl, some fifty years in service, but she is home to close to seven thousand service men, two hundred fighters, and one hundred or so strike craft."
Don couldn't help but whistle in appreciation. The UES Calibration had a length of nearly two kilometers, a horizontal beam of 550 meters not including the sensor towers, and a vertical beam of 200. If one were to take a look at her during combat, they would notice a 35 meter wide gap open up on both the belly and back of the beast that ran almost a kilometer long, centered neatly on the forward third. This was her hangar opening, the place where this colossal hunk of steel, copper, ceramic, and graphene waged it's war.
Protected by a few meters of composite armor, deflection shields, energy shields, and nigh countless point defense systems, she is a testament to the defensive capabilities of the United Earth Administration's navy. Despite being built almost seventy years ago, constant retrofitting and upgrades kept this goliath a safe harbor for the craft that call her home.
In turn, these little buzzing bees are able to deliver extremely precise strike to any potential threats to her paintjob.
Should she be paired with a detachment of Dreadnoughts and Cruisers to wear down enemy defensive systems, the small bombloads of the strike craft are more than enough to strike precisely and with prejudice on the most vulnerable segments of a hostile craft.
"What's the cafeteria food like?" After Thompson's short yet vigorous tour, Don was left with only one question.
"Dogshit. Don't expect too much."
Alas, his favorite recreational activity would no longer be available to him. While he couldn't exactly say he cared, he was still a little disappointed.
"Now I've finished with your introduction to our fair lady, it really is time for you to meet the Admiral. We only have a few hours left before departure if my clock is still right. Do me a favor and put a good word in for me, will ya? I've got a feeling I'm gonna get my ass burned if it turns out we're late."
"No problem. If anything I'll just say I had you show me around and we took a bit longer than expected." Don had no qualms with covering for Thompson. He quite liked him, it would be a shame if he didn't get to fly with him on mission.
After going through countless elevators and airlocks, they arrived at the entrance to the admiral's office.
Thompson pressed the buzzer on the side of the doorway. "Oi, Addy. Thompson here with the newbie."
The lack of formality and respect for the highest ranking officer on the ship was appalling to Don. You should at the very least use the officer's title when addressing them.
"Thompson you moron! I'll have you demoted unless you got a good reason for being so god damn late!" The sound of a woman could be hear from the intercom, clearly incensed with Thompson's lack of urgency. Interestingly, she seemed to not care too much about formalities. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I got a shipment of that Maginot wine I know you so dearly love."
The admiral went silent for a few seconds, clearly contemplating something. "I'll be having a nice long chat with you later. Make sure your bribe is present."
Thompson relieved his tension with a sigh. "Can't believe I had to use my trump card before we even left the dock..." He walked off with a hand behind his head, clearly pissed off about his shitty luck.
"Come on in Strauss, er, DS."
Moving what little belongings he had onto the carrier was a pain in the ass. Why did one box require so much paperwork and inspection? Did they really question his loyalty after ten years of specialized training in the Capitol? He had spent a quarter of his 20-year long life learning to pilot a ship, another fifth learning fleet tactics, and his most recent year was used to train him in his specialized role.
DS
Despite being one of their apparently few number, the only way he had ever seen his rank mentioned as was DS, never as its full title, like admiral or captain. His search through records showed no indication of it being used in the past and discontinued, nor were his questions about it answered by the instructors and staff at his training facility. With the name of his role being far above his pay grade (somehow) he gave up after asking the doctor for the umpteenth time. The training was too rough to worry about pointless crap like that anyway.
Giving a shit was no longer his style. Twenty years old with no friends besides a few cranky old war vets, trained under harsh conditions since he was ten, and practically disowned by his family thanks to his disinterest in the family business, he had long since stopped caring.
Donovan Strauss' only desire was to fly in space, free of all restrictions. That wish for freedom only grew stronger as he waded his way through the frankly pointless level of bureaucratic and anti-espionage checkpoints.
"Hey greenie!" A rough yet energetic voice greeted him at one of the many docking points to the carrier. "Ten minutes early, just the way we like it." The man extended a rough, pale, hand, a skin tone indicative of a life devoid of sunlight. "Name's Thompson. Captain First Class, Blue Squadron Leader, and Domino Class Strike Craft Pilot." His handshake was firm, but not aggressive. Already Donovan was liking him. "What're your qualifications?"
"Strauss, Donovan. Rank, DS. Not yet sure what I'll be piloting. I'm told it's classified." Don rolled his eyes and shrugged to indicate his own annoyance with the situation. As always, the bureaucracy made their lives hell when it came to planning for the future. "Call me Don."
"Most of that is understandable, but the fuck is a DS?" Thompson didn't hold back on his query. He couldn't be described as eloquent.
"Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea?"
"No. But considering how much was redacted on the report I was given, it wouldn't be surprising."
Don was surprised there was ANYTHING redacted from his file. He had only really been in school. He had no combat record, and the training he went through could hardly be described as colorful.
The most hush-hush thing he had ever been through was 'Systems and Weapons' training, SAW, which was a rundown on the most up to date equipment.
Considering what he was told he was going to be paid, he started to assume he might have been taught something classified without his knowing. But what?
"Anyways, Admiral told me to introduce you and show you around the ship. Callie's an old girl, some fifty years in service, but she is home to close to seven thousand service men, two hundred fighters, and one hundred or so strike craft."
Don couldn't help but whistle in appreciation. The UES Calibration had a length of nearly two kilometers, a horizontal beam of 550 meters not including the sensor towers, and a vertical beam of 200. If one were to take a look at her during combat, they would notice a 35 meter wide gap open up on both the belly and back of the beast that ran almost a kilometer long, centered neatly on the forward third. This was her hangar opening, the place where this colossal hunk of steel, copper, ceramic, and graphene waged it's war.
Protected by a few meters of composite armor, deflection shields, energy shields, and nigh countless point defense systems, she is a testament to the defensive capabilities of the United Earth Administration's navy. Despite being built almost seventy years ago, constant retrofitting and upgrades kept this goliath a safe harbor for the craft that call her home.
In turn, these little buzzing bees are able to deliver extremely precise strike to any potential threats to her paintjob.
Should she be paired with a detachment of Dreadnoughts and Cruisers to wear down enemy defensive systems, the small bombloads of the strike craft are more than enough to strike precisely and with prejudice on the most vulnerable segments of a hostile craft.
"What's the cafeteria food like?" After Thompson's short yet vigorous tour, Don was left with only one question.
"Dogshit. Don't expect too much."
Alas, his favorite recreational activity would no longer be available to him. While he couldn't exactly say he cared, he was still a little disappointed.
"Now I've finished with your introduction to our fair lady, it really is time for you to meet the Admiral. We only have a few hours left before departure if my clock is still right. Do me a favor and put a good word in for me, will ya? I've got a feeling I'm gonna get my ass burned if it turns out we're late."
"No problem. If anything I'll just say I had you show me around and we took a bit longer than expected." Don had no qualms with covering for Thompson. He quite liked him, it would be a shame if he didn't get to fly with him on mission.
After going through countless elevators and airlocks, they arrived at the entrance to the admiral's office.
Thompson pressed the buzzer on the side of the doorway. "Oi, Addy. Thompson here with the newbie."
The lack of formality and respect for the highest ranking officer on the ship was appalling to Don. You should at the very least use the officer's title when addressing them.
"Thompson you moron! I'll have you demoted unless you got a good reason for being so god damn late!" The sound of a woman could be hear from the intercom, clearly incensed with Thompson's lack of urgency. Interestingly, she seemed to not care too much about formalities. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I got a shipment of that Maginot wine I know you so dearly love."
The admiral went silent for a few seconds, clearly contemplating something. "I'll be having a nice long chat with you later. Make sure your bribe is present."
Thompson relieved his tension with a sigh. "Can't believe I had to use my trump card before we even left the dock..." He walked off with a hand behind his head, clearly pissed off about his shitty luck.
"Come on in Strauss, er, DS."
