Angels of Death. Our modern nuclear deterrent. Those sneaky fucks.
The Io-class Strike Frigate.
An innocuous name for one of the most deadly and feared weapon delivery systems in the universe. The first thing I noticed as the vessel approached the dock is that it was sharp. Long and thin with a conspicuous black paint job, apparently meant to greatly reduce the ship’s albedo and make it just that little bit harder to detect. Three long fins were extended from its sides running lengthwise from roughly halfway along the ship to its rear, glowing slightly as the ship vented its heat safely.
The second thing I noticed about it is that it was small. Really small. It’s one thing to be told that the ship you’re being posted on only has a crew complement of around 40, but it’s another thing entirely to see with your own eyes that the ship which delivers relativistic kinetic kill vehicles to enemy planets and flagships and stations alike is smaller than some capital ship weapons systems.
I felt the sweat trickle down the back of my neck as I watched my new home, the place where I would live and work in for the next year before shore leave, and for another 4 years after that, attach itself to the docking tube outside the window. I wasn’t required to report to the ship until 1400, and it was only 1200, but I needed to prepare myself. Steady my nerves, or maybe just force that tiny part of my brain that still couldn’t believe I was being put on the modern equivalent of a nuclear submarine to acknowledge it.
—
As I headed back to the station barracks to grab my duffel, I wondered what it would be like, living on a ship whose time away from port eclipsed that of your normal naval cruisers and destroyers by a factor of 12. Before I disembarked from the TNV Cairo, a small patrol cruiser out of Wolf 1061, I had been told by my bunkmate that I was lucky, that in the interest of not driving the crew space crazy on ships that stayed hidden out in deep space for so much time, rules regarding fraternization on strike frigates were relaxed a bit. You could call officers by their names, you could invite the Executive Officer to your weekly card game, hell, you could be friends with the Captain. Sitting out in the void, running silently, and just waiting for potential enemies to start cracking planets led to relatively light duties, so you would likely become familiar with every person on the ship, and as they say, familiarity breeds contempt. Knowing the flaws of your ship’s officers quickly banished the mystique and respect that officer country held on more typical vessels.
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I honestly wasn’t sure whether I was lucky or not. Joining a regular ship was like being a new gear slotted into a clock. It didn’t matter that you were new to the system of moving parts, as long as you spun correctly, as it were, everything was fine. Everything I had heard about joining the crew of a strike frigate painted it more as trying to join a friend group composed entirely of strangers, or walking into someone’s house at Christmas and plopping yourself down at the dinner table. It would be weird, and awkward and honestly kind of terrifying. Granted, unlike those scenarios I was actually required to join this friend group, invited to sit down at this stranger’s Christmas dinner, but still. Everyone would know everyone else, and I would know no one, for a while at least.
—
Standing near the airlock, waiting for whoever would be escorting me onboard was nerve wracking. I had shown up 15 minutes early, because first impressions were important and there was no way in hell I was going to let anything make me be late. I had to constantly resist the urge to adjust my uniform, or run my fingers through my short brown hair. Whoever was standing watch inside the ship had to be able to see me through the airlock security cameras, so as far as I was concerned, introductions had already begun. Suddenly, there was a hiss, the sound of the slight equalization of pressure between the airlock and the hallway I stood in and out stepped a man. I dropped my duffel to my feet and snapped into the sharpest salute I could manage.
“Engineman 3rd Class Damien Manelis reporting for duty as ordered, Sir!” I barked. Rumors about a relaxed environment be damned, I was going to follow military protocol to the letter until indicated otherwise.
The man in front of me was tall and fit, with olive skin and black hair, just a bit longer than regulation. He looked about 30 and had the slight stubble of a man who hadn’t shaved in a couple days. He smiled at me, and the skin around his dark brown eyes wrinkled slightly.
“At ease EN3 Manelis. I’m Lieutenant Jacob Michaels, I am your direct superior in engineering. Come on in, spacer. We’ll get you settled, then I’ll take you to meet with Lieutenant Commander Tavarov, the XO, then take you on a tour of the ship. The captain is taking care of some administrative business for the rest of the day, and she likely won't be available to meet with you until after we push off tomorrow morning. I know it might feel a bit scary, stepping on board the big bad super-weapon, but truly, Damien, on behalf of the entire crew,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder, “Welcome aboard the TNV Ozymandias.”