Perry Introductions
Perry Introductions
Arc: Transfer to Majestic
Summary: On Perry Station, some of the personnel waiting for transport to the Majestic encounter each other at the Perry's Pilot Lounge.
Date: 2659.202
Related Logs: None
Participants: Phillip Singh Seelig Walsh Zorro

Perry Station, Garrison's lounge.

A handful of pilots are hanging out in here, drinking a variety of mixed drinks. Several tables are presently empty with several more populated by a small groups of pilots, all with the Perry Station Garrison Patch on their shoulder. A few of the tables, however, have only one individual drinking by themselves. Notable, these pilots must be awaiting final transfer since on their shoulders sits patches designating a particular capital ship rather than the Perry Station patch that the garrison pilots have. Sitting at one of these tables is 2nd Lt. Bradford - an average height, average build, average-seeming pilot. He is intend on his data pad, reading or viewing something. The glass in his hand from which he occasionally sips, appears to be a simple cola-like beverage. The patches on his shoulder label him a member (or soon to be) of the 1087th Minutemen Squadron on-board the TCS Majestic.

2nd Lt. Singh enters the bar, off duty, she goes up to the bar and orders a virgin cosmo appletini…Extra sweet

The bartender gives the pilot a nod and begins prepping the drink.

"Hey, how's it going around here? Is there a sound system in this joint? I see the dance floor is empty." Karen pulls out her holoplayer. "I got the latest Carr album. Also, the speakers were boosted, this should fill the room." Karen scouts the room for a dance partner.

“Heh, dance floor? We don’t get much call for that in pilot lounges.” Responds the bartender. “And that tune is one of only three we got. Sound systems are on the bottom of the list for.”

Karen points at the entry passage. "You're telling me that's not a dance floor? Man, I was shuttling captains and crewmen all day, all I want to do is unwind…"

“Huh, maybe if ya move the tables. Look, this is not some fancy New Detroit night club, it is a place for pilots to sit and drink,” the bartender clarifies.

Lt. Bradford looks up from his pad and notices the young Lt. at the bar as well as the patch on her shoulder. “Lt. come have a seat, “ Phillip calls over.

Singh grabs the drink and leaves a tip. "Sure thing! I've had such a day, could you believe that barman? I bet his name is Bob or something… I don't think we've formally met, I'm Julianna, I've been ferrying brass and grunts all day… can't believe half of what they say… Non stop talk about their deployment, that the Kilrathi can ambush… Not a single person knew anything about Sol or Vega's music scene! I don't see how people can have priorities so backwards sometimes."

Singh adds, "I hope I'm not being too forward, I see your badge… Lt Bradford is it? Where have I seen that name before…Did we work together? nah… I'm being pulled in, you look like you were born with wings. Oh I might ramble a bit when I'm nervous, happy, sad, anxious, tired or angry."

"So… how are you doing?" Karen asks before she inhales.

Phillip responds with a bit of smile, “that must be all the time. And no you probably haven’t seen my name before unless, you said something about ferrying?”

"Ah, maybe not then, I'll tell you what, don't believe what you've been told these free traders and Dray buses are nowhere near as glamorous as the recruiter tells you they are."

“Hmm… well the only thing I believed the Recruiter on is killing Kilrathi," Phillip notes.

Singh adds, "And they never clean themselves. It's not like those fancy ventures, or so I've heard. No self cleaning seats or glass. Do we have a crew to do this? No, it ends up being me."

Singh then notes, "So… I see the Magestic's wings… which squad ribbon is that?" Karen starts sipping her drink like syrup.

“You’ve piloted a venture? I thought those were normally manned by navy?” Phillip asks before answering, “Oh and I’m with the 1087th fighter squadron.”

"I haven't piloted one per-se, I was aboard one and the captain showed me the control room. The modern ones pretty much fly themselves." <micropause> "the minutemen, huh? I heard they had quite a history… didn't they record the first Vak sighting?"<swig> "Glad I didn't have to fly that minefield." Karen then peeks at Bradford's drink.

“You must be thinking of a different squadron, the minutemen were actually a reserve squadron in Gemini until about 2 years ago.” Phillip says before taking a sip of his cola.

"Oh, must have been another." Karen shifts awkwardly in her seat. "So I have to ferry the daughters of a rear admiral to some lunch, let's catch up later, this was a great chat, I learned so much from you!" Karen runs off leaving a sticky glass on the table.

“Okay, see you around Singh,” Phillip says as she leaves.

Karen upon her name, had a little skip in her step.

An hour or so later, a heavyset man walks into the bar, he is emitting a fairly strong aroma of flux and plasma burns. He walk straight to the bar and sits on a stool, looks at the barman and says. "Beer" The barman asks what kind, and the man grins and asks for a "bitter stout, new Caledonian style."

He then takes a seat and slowly sips his drink.

He is followed by a dark-haired Latina woman who walks over to the bar and asks for a vermouth.

Bradford had gone back to focusing on his datapad, earbuds now in both ears - eyes intent on footage of some kind.

Seelig scans the bar, looks at the clock and curses under his breath. "The next patrol should be in soon, these designed by comitty epees are such a pain in the cunning linguals to fix."
He then orders another dark ale. Proceeds to drink in a brisker pace.

"Ey Bradford, you flying out today?" Seelig says over at Phillip

"Huh…." Phillip responds, barely noticing and then immediately noticing the Technician. He takes out his earbuds, and says, "Oh not yet, I'm still waiting on your friends in tech crews to finish putting those new planes together. I swear, a Yorktown carrier would get them here from the factory faster than it takes those techs down there to put together those pre-fab Rapiers."

Seelig heaves his butt off the stool, "You know son, I'm sure you're a hotshot pilot and an enginerd to boot, but let me tell you something about these birds. They are made by 12 different plants, each with their own tolerances, some in Metric, some in Imperial, some in mopok. For frogs snacks, they can't get everything working together. But, here's the fun news for you. One misplaced bolt, a slight misalignment in your fuselage, and at your next bank, your reactor will just shear off! If you want a fighter well built, and I mean Skookum as frigg, you can't go around to the lowest bidder and expect the usual scumbags to give you a product that will pass the mustard. Now, on a lighter note, you won't notice a misalignment, these cockpits are fly by wire, all the control is done by angry pixies going through the confuser. So you won't know it, then boom! heheh, but that probably won't happen because you have a good crew doing proper testing just so you don't breathe more vaccume. Then again, my shift doesn't start soon, I think I'll just have another beer."

He then finishes his beer and orders some sukkhar mayya.

Phillip chuckles, "I'm sure your guys know what they are doing, it's their efficiency I doubt. I've been here two days, and from what I've heard, they won't be ready for another three. Now the Majestic's crews would have the job done in half that time."

A short time later, Seelig is on the flight deck, wearing his cleaner jumpsuit and a toolkit on his back. Looking around, he sees many techs scrambling back and forth from the parts to the ships, also several technicians are lying down exhausted. "Well, I guess the kid may have been right. FAQ!"

Not long after Seelig had left:
A tall, harried-looking man enters the lounge, lugging a full sea bag. Several messenger bags hang from his shoulders. He's dressed in civvies — a well-worn T-shirt emblazoned "Douglas Aerospace - Team Arrow", and khakis. A lanyard slung around his neck identifies him as TCSF personnel.

He beelines for the nearest unoccupied horizontal surface. Flumping down with a heavy sigh, he looses most of his burden to clatter deckward, seeming to take no particular care except for one bag placed gently.

Phillip eyes only temporarily dart to the tall… pilot?? that just entered. A spark of recognition flashes and fades so quick, it was like a dying lightbulb was turned on for the final time. Had they met previously, unlikely, fought in the same action, iffy at best, but seen one another before, perhaps.

The newly-arrived man raps his knuckles on the table edge in frustration as he signals for the barkeep. "Get me a dry cider, thanks. Oh, and barkeep — heads up — you're likely gonna see a flood of Majestic personnel, likely some degree of pissed off."

The barkeep nods, "Oh I know, already have some pilots cooling their heels bored, waiting for their final transfer… something about fighter delays." As he says this, he prepped and slide over the cider, "Oh, your card, sir."

The man — military id names him one 2nd Lt. Sam "Ozone" Walsh — slides his card toward the barkeep. "Not only that, some arsehole at Fleet's jerking us around. I got recall orders, only to have them rescinded halfway to departures. — TWICE!—"

"Sounds like too many cooks to me," responds the barkeep and it passes the card near the scanner and hands it back.

"Yup. Too many cooks, not enough brain cells. So now I'm sorta stuck in limbo waiting for Higher to scrape enough neurons together to figure if they want us back or not." Walsh takes a large gulp of his fresh drink. "Keep crying wolf like that and I'm probably gonna start ignoring them. Problem is, that rabbit-hole leads to me in the brig and several MPs nursing broken noses, if I know me."

"Oh and I've know a thing a two about that as I have seen a thing or two," the bartender remarks. "Well, you will find some of your comrades, new or old, coming in here on a regular basis," the bartender adds nodding in Phillip and a few other personnel's directions.

Walsh follows the barkeep's gesture towards the other pilots, some slight recognizance forming in the recesses of his mind at the sight of Lt. Bradford. He swipes up his glass and starts in that direction. "Guess I'd better go make nice then." he says, half over his shoulder.

Phillip nods to the approaching pilot having finally finished his cola. "Hey, have a seat." The lieutenant offers the pilot. "Just come back from leave?"

Walsh takes the offered seat, scanning the other man's uniform for the pertinent information. "Something like that. — If Fleet can get their shit straight." A pause to rearrange himself and settle in. "I take it you didn't get the recall orders and subsequent rescinding of such — in plural?"

"Huh…. Oh nothing like that," Lt. Bradford responds, "I've been away…" "On medical, he quickly adds. And they have now cleared me for duty." A little smile crosses the pilot's face, "Apparently, my return to the Majestic now, means that I've missed all of the good action here in Gemini."

"Mmm. I was gonna say 'never a dull moment', but we know what military life is actually like." Lt. Walsh quips. "That being said, 8th fleet does live in interesting times of late.

"Hehe, yeah, war-keeping along the Gemini front….keeping the war out that is." Phillip replies.

"Damn straight. Furry bastards thought they had the express lane to Sol all worked out. Someone needs to teach them the truth of it," Walsh retorts.

"So I take it you are returning to the Majestic as well," Phillip probes. "How has the ole girl been doing the past year?"

"Yeah, back to the grindstone." "Well, we've taken our share of lumps. But we've managed to push the furbags out of Nexus and Tingerhoff, and given the local pirates a bit of the ol' what-for as well. Certainly not clear skies and calm waters, but…" Walsh shrugs. "Progress?"

"That's certainly a better appraisal than I've been able to glean from these reports," Phillip nods to the datapad. "Oh I see that Tizona is still kicking around. She doing okay?"

"We're not all space junk yet, so that something." Walsh says, scratching his chin. "Tizona — yeah. She's probably neck-deep in paperwork and entrails about now. Queen is now the wing's XO, and they pinned Captain and CO on her, joy of joys."

Phillip's eyes blink twice, he then looks at a few messages on his pad. "Woah, either she's changed or she pissed someone off… maybe both, so she is now my CO." "I guess the squadmates will have stop checking out her posterior, eh?" Iceblade says jokingly.

Walsh can't help but grin at Phillip's reaction. "Yeah, shocker right? She's been dragged kicking and screaming into a fair bit of maturity, over the last few months, but good ol' Tizona — and her sweet arse" he says, with a barely perceptible twinkle to the eye — "is still in there , when the brass aren't looking too closely."

Phillip laughs at the turn of phrase… brass looking closely and arse in the same sentence. The twinkle goes unnoticed. "Well I'm ready to get flying real confed fighters again."

Walsh gives Phillip a conspiratorial squint. "Implying you've been flying something else during your .. medical leave?" He waves his hands dismissively. "Nevermind. I see nothing, I hear nothing and I know -nothing-"

Phillip skews his eyebrows, "Well I was referring to the sims. Plenty of sim time, little actual flight time in Confed's good craft."

Phillip gives a mental sigh.

Walsh returns a "definitely not convinced" shrug. "Well, none of my business, and I'm not really interested in probing. You either went secret squirrel on us, or you didn't, and either way changes not much." Sotto Voce, he adds, "You wanna sound more definite about the medical leave though."

Phillip quickly moves on, "So, how is Mr. Ducttape and superglue doing? I see where Sabres are now a main feature of the complement."

Walsh can sometimes even pick up on social cues. "Yup. We're putting the Broadswords out to pasture. As much as they've been a workhorse, they sure are lumbering brutes, whereas Sabres can actually dogfight with a straight face. Don't take up the whole flight deck either."

Phillip replies, "Heck, if they keep making ships like that, we may no longer need escort fighters, just send in all Sabres and watch the fireworks from the carrier."

Walsh mocks horror. "You hear this? They're trying to steal our jobs. It's an -outrage- I tell you." He adds some fist shaking for good measure.

Phillip laughs, "Nah, I'm sure they will need Light fighters to fly those dangerous scout missions, but Rapiers and Raptors may be a thing of the past. Just triple the sabre complement. "

"Hmm. Rapiers might still have a use as something of a .. heavy interceptor .. or some such, and I can still see a role for them in-atmo, but they can take the Raptor, I don't mind." Walsh downs the last of his cider, having been mostly nursing it, and beckons for a refill.

"You always need some form of escort fighter", Zorro says as she goes over to the table where Walsh and Bradford are conversing. "For escort missions. To protect Draymans and so on. Multi-role invariably is a jack of all trades, when sometimes you need a king."

"Huh, true enough, of course, I doubt much will change with introductions of the Sabres even if they turn out to be the be-all end-all," Phillip says as he offers a seat to the Captain…. Captain of the Minuteman squadron. "Hey, a fellow 1087th? New transfer or old hand?"

"New transfer", Zorro replied, "Although I'm a pretty old hand in other regards."

Phillip nods, "Oh, and where are my manners," the Lt. stands up to shake the Captain's hand, "I'm Phillip Bradford, Second Lt., and this is…. " Phillip then realizes, he and his conversational partner (known to the reader as Walsh) never exchanged names. He squents at the badge around Walsh's neck. "Lt. Walsh, heh, we never actually exchanged names." Phillip adds a bit embarrassed.

"Captain Espinosa", the new arrival replied, "Nina. I guess I'm your XO". She looked at the other guy and waited for his response for a bit.

Walsh pushes and pries himself to his feet, and offers Phillip a half-shrug. "Heh. How 'bout that. Too busy chatting to exchange pleasantries." He turns to the the new arrival, extending a hand. "Second Lieutenant Sam Walsh. Two-twenty-first. Welcome to the party boat, I guess." He cracks a trademark cheesy grin. "I kid of course — even our parties are dangerous affairs." He (presumably) shakes the Captain's hand, then swivels to proffer the same appendage to the Lt. "Look at this, all formal and stuff."

Phillip nods, "Yeah." After shaking hands, he sits back down, "Now where were we, oh yes, you are the XO. You'll have to meet the CO sometime, she's quite a surprising figure for a command role. Not exactly rigorous and polished."

"Well", Zorro replied, "I'm not exactly rigorous and polished myself. Especially when off duty. Define dangerous parties…"

Juliana walks into the bar, slouching. She gets a double soy caramel frappuccino with extra sugar.

Bartender gives her a coffee with extra powdered cream and sugar.

"Oh, uh, for one, some of the pilots threw a pool party in the fitness center and there were a couple of near drownings," Walsh replies, "I also heard murmurs about one hell of a bar fight that happened planetside a while back. I'm sure there's been other examples too, but details evade me."

Phillip’s eyes eschew, “Drowning? Really? That’s a new one.” Bradford then looks to the new XO, “Anyway, Captain, what sectors have you been fighting in… at least officially?”