| Author | Message | ||
     Jeremy Ironside |
“Stop shoving” “I’m not shoving, you’re crowding. I can’t see a damned thing.” “That’s because you’re smaller than I am. You want I should shrink to a more convenient size?” “Well, not really. I could just kick your feet out from under you and put you on the floor, though.” “Oh please, you couldn’t kick the legs out from under your grandmother. Now stop shoving or you’re going to be watching from a viewscreen.” “Oh, big loss that would be. I’d be able to actually see something on a viewscreen instead of your flabby backside.” “Alright, that’s it, ge….” “If you two don’t stop making such a racket, I’m going have you shining boots for the next three weeks.” “Sorry sir,” “Sorry Colonel,” The USS Douglas MacArthur was not an opulent ship by any means. When empty, it was crowded, and when it was full, it was downright packed. Such was the life of a Starfleet Marine. The MacArthur had been recalled from the Meyer system while her marines conducted training missions on the fourth planet in order to transport Coronado’s marines from Reor to Pitstop, where they would once again board their home vessel. The two weeks aboard the MacArthur following the open air of Reorsa had quickly readjusted the spoiled marines to the conditions they would be experiencing again for the foreseeable future; until they were out of a job or the Pfhor obliterated the Alliance. The Colonel hadn’t wanted to leave Reor with Hunters and Hounds still creeping around outside Churchill Downs, but the militia seemed to have things well in hand, and marines never were supposed to remain in one place very long. MacArthur had arrived in Pitstop three hours ago, and had been making a leisurely entry into the solar system past the asteroid belt on its way to Pearl, and Coronado. The Tobruk-class MacArthur, carrying so many armed personnel onboard and so much ammunition, was extremely heavily armoured and hence had no windows to afford its passengers a direct view of Pearl, and Coronado, as the ship approached the mobile repair facility. That is, no windows with the exception of the one on the small control bridge on the dorsal-aft portion of the ship. In this small bridge, designed with two stations and one control seat, were packed as many marines as possible. Colonel Ironside stood closest the window with Stephen Gregg to his right. Behind them, Peter Lightbody was elbowing Dieter Stampfer every once in a while in an attempt to get a better view. Hence the conversation. A dull silence came over the bridge as MacArthur’s pilot banked the vessel around in orbit of Pitstop III. The ship was actually less than two kilometres from Coronado, but the pilot had carefully avoided letting the ship come into view while approaching her to both surprise and delight the marines aboard. Ironside couldn’t help but smile to himself. He had anticipated this, but such anticipation didn’t spoil the moment. Slowly, and gracefully, Coronado appeared to swing out in front of the ship and light up as if hit by a spotlight. The hull shone with a pearlescently; the warp nacelles and deflector glowed with fire and intensity; and slowly but persistently, her running lights blinked on and off. The marines on the bridge let loose a cheer that would have deafened anyone caught unaware. The marines of the 8th Recon Regiment, U.S.S. Coronado, had come home. And it was time to settle some scores. |