The man walking across the deck into the cargo bay wore a padded suit; deep, dark red, with the silver eagle symbol of the Alliance on the shoulders; and the badge of a Captain beneath that. He looked to be in his late forties; olive skin tone, close-cut grey hair, equally short grey beard. As he stepped into the ship, he gave the modest cargo bay a long look.

"So this is what it comes down to. This tiny little corvette."

He looked back at the man following him; paler of skin, with his beard a more pure white, in that indeterminate age between sixty and completely unknown. 

"I'm assuming this is a punishment for not letting the mutineers win?"

"Captain Jericho. You took over when your captain died, made it through two mutinies and led your ship to numerous victories. You are a hero of the alliance, your being tasked to command a ship of your own was inevitable... And, well. I'm honestly asking you to do me a favor here."

Jericho turned to the admiral. "I was the XO on the Simon for three years. Acting captain for half of that. I'd honestly hoped to get to keep her long-term. In fact, Admiral, when you informed me of my promotion, most of my crew thought that as well."

Admiral Reynolds grimaced. "That was the plan. However, two things have come up to change that. First... Well. Naming conventions. The Apostles were the most powerful ships in the fleet when they commisioned, and the Prophet has demanded that we call the newest class of Cruiser the Apostle-class... which will make the second time that's happened. If it weren't for the two incidents being sixty years apart it'd be unbearable. The Simon is being renamed the Hammer, but you and your command crew will be moving on to the new Simon when she leaves the yards... in eighteen months."

Jericho stared for a moment in shock. "..You're giving me command of a Cruiser?"

"The tenth Apostle-class cruiser to come out of the yards, yes. The second issue... and the favor... is who your XO is going to be when that happens."

Jericho looked around at the tiny corvette. He could see from its cargo that it was either a resupply ship, or carried fighters, but he'd barely seen past the door. "..You have some well-connected snot right out of the academy being fast-tracked for command, and want me to get him some space experience on this little thing before taking him to the big leagues."

The admiral coughs into his hand. "Ahh... This well-connected snot is the Prophet's great-grandson. He's a fighter pilot; and actually a decent enough one at that. But the idea of letting someone of his position stay in a fighter's cockpit is... frankly absurd. He'll be commanding the fighters this thing will carry."

"...A corvette carrying fighters. Did command learn nothing about why the dubs discontinued the Pegasus class? No major navy has issued a carrier this small since before the turn of the century."

"Not for front-line work, no. This is a patrol boat. Made for hunting down pirates and smugglers, not direct warfare. We're sending you on a patrol for, say.. a year. Go out, scout the outer rim of alliance space... and come back. Then we can give this ship to some new up and coming captain, and you'll get your cruiser."

Jericho looked out at the cargo bay. "How many of these things have they made?"

"This is the first to commission.  APS Eternal Vigilance. We have a few dozen more that will be launching soon; thanks in no small part to captains like yourself, we have quite a bit of space to patrol."

"And no shortage of enemies to fill it."

***

The flight deck was a common place for jokes; few of them the sort any higher ranking officer would appreciate if they were present. Even less would they appreciate said jokes being made about the golden-haired, perfectly-formed young man whose red and black flight suit bore the name 'Path' and 'Cracked' on its back.

"Well if it isn't my least favorite pilot, grandpa's boy." The mechanic's own suit was dirty grey in color; her hair color unidentifiable amidst whatever substance coated half of her body.

Philip shook his head as he walked by the mechanic; flipping him off as he passed.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

"Thats Cracked to you, fuckface. How's my bird looking?"

The mechanic's jovial face had a sudden downturn as she looked over at the craft. "Ahh... She's not your bird anymore, Cracked. Didn't you get the message?"

Philip lifted his wrist, checking his pad. "Nah, no official messages, just family stuff."

"Huh. Well, let me be the first to congratulate you. You just made Major, you're getting transferred."

He stared at her for a moment in a mix of horror and anger. "The hell I am." He stared down at his pad for a moment.. and flicked past the empty official message listing, to the much longer list of ignored messages from his family.

At the bottom of the list; a congratulations message from his father. And orders to report to the Eternal Vigilance, in bay seventy-two. At a time... less than half an hour from now.  What he hell? He'd been flying patrol when this nonsense came in. "Eternal... wait. Isn't that a corvette?"

The mechanic shrugged. "No clue, cracked. All I know is that they can't transfer your Angel. I know you've flown with her for some godawful amount of time, but... gotta move on."

"Perfect. Alright. Take good care of her for me."

"You bet."

***

For Jericho, this was beyond embarassing. The ship's bridge at the front of the ship had a total of four positions; and that included his own spot; packed into a tiny dagger-shaped compartment. He'd gone from a heavy destroyer with over a hundred men down to this tub which only held over a dozen because someone needed to pilot.. and maintain.. the fighters. 

He had precisely two pilots, two weapons officers, and two sensor officers; who would run in twelve-hour shifts while the ship was in-system. Four fire-teams of marines, who had enough training to cover watches on the bridge in a pench.. six fighter pilots, and three engineers. 25 people. 

And, of course, six fighters and a shuttle. On the plus side, they weren't out-dated Valkyries and Angels taken off a Dub resale lot the way most of the fighters he'd seen were; but brand new, barely-tested, Beta-IV fighters based on a purchased design from some corporation thousands of light-years away.

He was reviewing his crew, checking for who could be safely allowed to keep the bridge watch during the long trips through the darkness.. when he heard footsteps. Loud, annoying, footsteps.

When he glanced behind him and saw the man, the recognition was instant. He was the spitting image of the Prophet back in the days of the founding. Young, blond, chiseled, with a perfect form to that salute. And, of course, a fighter pilot, so undoubtedly arrogant and unlikely to make a good starship captain. 

"Young major Path. Welcome aboard. You're late." Barely. He was supposed to report in perhaps ten minutes ago.

"I apologize, sir. I wasn't informed of the transfer in a timely fashion. I was on patrol at the time."

Jericho believed him, of course. But he made a show of checking the scheduled arrivals, and noting that.. 'Cracked' had arrived back from patrol so recently that making it here on time would have been impossible.

"Do better in the future. You're in charge of the six fighters on this ship, and need to lead by example. Soon enough you'll either be an XO of a much larger ship, or a CAG on a carrier. You won't be as experienced as you should be, but hopefully we can at least make you marginally competent by then."

"Understood. And... I'm sorry."

"No worries about that, major. I doubt doing much better would be possible."

Philip blinked. "Oh. Not about that, sir. You're one of the best captains in the fleet. You should be out on the front lines; but you got this babysitting duty because someone wanted the best to safeguard the 'golden boy'."

Jericho studied him for a few seconds, before turning back to his console. "Secure your fighters, Work out schedules with your pilots. I want two men in their cockpits ready to launch at all times, and all six ready to go within fifteen minutes."

"Ahh... Yes sir."

***

"Alright people. Every system we go through is technically alliance territory. But unless you've got the guns to enforce it, nobody really recognizes that unless you've got a permanent base in-system. So most of these systems aren't important... yet... but we're the guns enforcing our claim."

The 'flight deck' was tiny. The fighters didn't even entirely fit inside the ship at the same time; only the tail end and rear hatches were visible at the moment, each beside a lift for refueling and reloading equipment.

Philip looked at the five pilots; two men, three women; all fairly short, in excellent shape; Philip himself, at 1.7 meters, was on the tall end for a fighter pilot; another few centimeters and he wouldn't fit in the cockpit of anything smaller than a gunship.

"We're the only human star nation left, so its safe to assume that anyone you run into won't be one of us. Offer surrender,  but assume you're going to have to shoot to kill. Any questions?"

One of the women nodded. Her callsign was, apparently, Hellcat. 

"Is it true you're the prophet's grandson, and the captain's an immortal cyborg?"

Philip blinked. "Great-grandson. And cyborg, I think so? I believe the second mutiny was some anti-cyborg nutjobs."

"Second mutiny!?" The women blinked. "There were two!?"

He gave a long sigh. "Maybe you download the official news reports. We're going to be on the same ship for the next year and a half; you'll have plenty of time to read up on this."

***

Vivid red and white, the classic colors of the Dakaran alliance; and the paintjob of the wedge-shaped Eternal Vigilance, as the craft detached from its bay, heading out into deep space. Few of the crew expected this to be an exciting journey; all were looking forward to bigger, more exciting things that would come afterwards. 

Only one of them knew that the entire crew would be dead before they made it back home.