Pilot Gamma-Tau 453 personal log: birth offset date 4067, relative time +220637.1.
Security code: <redacted>
The Navy’s always had a weird sense of humour, at least that’s what I’ve been told, even going back to the days of seafaring vessels in the Sol system. Lots of in-jokes lost to history, obtuse terminology, and language designed to exclude civilians and make us feel like part of a family, even as we sacrifice our personal humanity for the greater good.
I’ve been doing research, trying to understand some of it before it’s my turn to go into the hospital ship known colloquially as the Bee, or Barry Eugene, official designation USS Odobenus, to do my part for the future of what’s left of our species. They’ve got a weird tradition of making sure that every commanding officer changes their name upon appointment to Whyte. The current Captain Whyte is not a personable individual.
Some genetic scientist figured out “The Process” is better when it involves real human mothers rather than growing people in gene pool vats, and I expect I’ll be called up in the next seven hundred days or so, but I’d rather be running defence patterns, boring as they are, that protect The Orphan Fleet. Or better yet taking on real threats. They’ve limited our live-fire exercises since the Epsilon Eridani b incident, and I can’t say I blame them, but it’s no fun.
In the meantime, I’m on patrol, my fighter describing lazy figure-of-eight patterns around the Bee and the military training ship, the USS Limerence, nicknamed Christina. That’s apparently some sort of witticism as well, according to the psych docs. Either way, it’s where they train us to “Be infatuated with our duty”.
If I’m honest, it’s more like indoctrination, but I keep those opinions between me and this log. I don’t know why they’re included in the sweep pattern, they certainly don’t need that much defence. Enormous railguns, and a hex-patterned laser defence grid powered by nuclear fuel rods, commonly known as Maggies (another ancient pun I guess…) are just the start.
The oath we all take is a bit odd. As soon as you can speak, you promise to serve The Fleet and believ… hold on. The comms panel is lighting up, priority Alpha hailed from Fleet Tactical Command.
Attention all fighter pilots. Disengage current exercises and adopt defensive tactical plan Phi Seventeen, repeat Phi One Seven. Reinforcements inbound. This is not, repeat NOT, a drill.
Phi Seventeen? Damn, that means a species-ending, potential threat incoming. Maybe I wished too hard for some excitement.
Oh, I’ve left my personal log running. No time to wipe it now, I’ll do it after this is over.
Powering up weapons arrays.
Switching to long range scanners, triangulating with Fleet data.
Jesus. Look at the size of that thing… and it’s coming in fast. Is that an escort party of alien interceptors launching?
Damn, an EMP blast. All systems down. We’re sitting ducks.
Their weapons are glowing.
Mom, I’m sorry.
