Subdivisions

A heaving droning likened to the sound of a bullet carving down a barrel sheared into Ezekiel's ears. It was the kind of noise that sent shivers down the spine of even the most battle-hardened Federation marine, and seemed adamant on driving him to insanity. Ears ringing loudly in the aftermath of the noise, he shook off the headache and put his mind to ease. The horrible sound of searing metal had repeated itself every hour or so since he had awoken, and had become the day's method of telling the time.

The sound was that of the port bow mass driver accelerating a condensed piece of some classified metals down a mile-long barrel, and hurdling it through space, where it may or may not hit its target in a few hours. The marine secondary combat quarters rested just below the mid section of the mass driver's barrel, and seemed the perfect place for catching an earful of the action. Confined to the collection of crew quarter complexes since the engagement had began, Ezekiel was aware that they were most likely near the end of the day. Unless there was a dramatic shift in the tide of the battle, this engagement would go as every other had in the past. The two picket Battlecruisers, the Atrix Nautica and the Judgement of Syrinx, of which he was stationed on, would provide covering fire for the core fleet of ships, while astro-naval commanders on board would bicker and bark at one another for hours before deciding which direction to retreat, and setting the fleet on a warp-space course toward the coordinates. The Atrix Nautica and the Judgement of Syrinx would be the last to enter warp-space, following the trail of the rest of the retreating fleet to wherever they had finally decided on.

Of course, no crew members Ezekiel knew could find place to complain about being the last to leave, as their battle cruisers were more than capable of the job assigned to them. The vindicator class Battle cruiser, of which both ships were a model, was an enormous ship, with a total crew capacity of both marines and naval personnel reaching nearly twenty-thousand, and a hull size reaching over the area of twenty-four cubic kilometers. They were entirely secure in their positions, with defenses and weapons that he liked to think would make a Silician Drophakov duck for cover. Another rattling of the crew compartment coupled with a more distant screeching sound confirmed his thoughts to himself, and let come a smile over his tired expression. That was the sound of the far starboard bow mass driver firing. The sound of the main weapons was so unimaginably loud that It could be heard from where he was, literal miles away. The more and more Ezekiel thought about the ship, the more he became proud to be a human. Of course he had never seen an Arcean enemy starship, and probably never would, but considering that the recon fleet he had been serving with for the past decade was made up of only seven ships and had never lost an engagement was something to consider, at least in his eyes.

The command had come just minutes beforehand that the core of the fleet had decided on a  destination, and had set its engines to engage warp-space. This usuallly meant that within minutes, the ships from the core fleet would be Terran light years away from them, and the final hour or so of battle stations order would come to a close. The concept came light to Ezekiel's heart, as he felt as though nothing would bring him greater joy than to return to standby quarters again. War quarters for Federation Marines were infamously Spartan, with little space for each man, and a but slot in the wall for a bunk. The stress of the Marine Quarters were also more than could be borne by most people, for at any moment, room could flush with a deep violet light, and the call to arms sounded. From there would be no return, as one would be funneled with the crowd into a short-range transport, and shot off into the depths of space at the enemy ship to either hit or miss, or be blown to scrap metal on the way there. Instead of smiling, Ezekiel now shuddered. What a way to die such an honorless death, He thought sadly. Surely he would not go in such a way. After all, he was an Ilearsian Marine, and it was his divinely given ability to survive long enough to give reckoning to at least one before he was sent back to God. Though he had already completed that assignment, he felt he was meant for many more killings.

Stretching himself out to relieve his weary muscles, Ezekiel stared at the reflective ceiling just inches above him. His cot-slot, as they were called among the ships' crew, was one on the top layer of the room, and strayed dangerously close to somehow providing the cot with an even lower degree of comfort. Another curse of being an Ilearsian; he supposed. It was common practice, and he knew this from observation, to organize the quarters with the Ilearsians and Silicians in the top bunks, as they were naturally smaller than other humans. A smirk besmirched Ezekiel's face as he reviewed his own thoughts. Damn right Ilearsians were smaller, he thought, but they were natural born killers. Built for war.

The smile faded as he studied the face now eyeing him up through the alternate dimension that resided on the other side of the ceiling. He certainly didn't look like a born war machine. A long face and large nose marred an already unusual facial structure, contrasted from behind by sprawling black hair that strewn about the cot like a weaving of tentacles. Dark tan skin made its mark by obscuring most of his facial curves and features, save the large nose that protruded out from his face. Though he was trademark Ilearsian by all physicality, the thought lingered in Ezekiel's mind of the photogenic human warrior. Federation recruitment posters often bolstered themselves with a watermark of a well-built Terran human with a square jaw and clad in full federation armor, saluting powerfully to the Federation flag, rifle at his side, and helmet in arm. The grin returned, as Ezekiel assured himself with doubt absent that if he went toe to toe with that human in the picture, he would put him down flat in minutes.

Ezekiel was startled from his thoughts, as a tapping on his left shoulder commanded him to crane his neck to look to the bunk below. The tapping had come from the finger of the marine in the cot directly below him, a man he knew as Kenneth Sampson.

"Yes?" Ezekiel confronted.

The dull blue eyes of the Rhodian reflected a pre-determined question. "Hey jungle runt, what time you reckon it to be? You think core's gone and left us yet?"

"I think we will be leaving soon." He replied heartily, hoping that he had truly understood what he had been asked. "But sleep would be the best thing now. Late sleep is for the late heart, and a late heart is for the ones soon to be under six legs."

Kenneth stared back at him in short silence. Apparently he was confused. "You mean, six feet under? Man, you lost me on that one."

"Yes, of course. Sorry my friend." Ezekiel grinned, and retreated merrily from the glare of the confused man to again lie on his back. Damn the Terran language. Confusing terms and words, too many of them to count. It was after all, not his first language, but merely one adopted out of necessity. What could an Ilearsian do? Any and all official business, primarily military ordering, was spoken in Terran, and very few humans off of Ilearsi knew how to speak his ancient language. But what purpose would it serve to study so deeply a language he felt held little meaning other than formality? His thoughts were his own, and therefore he would keep them to himself. A shrug from his awkward position, and Ezekiel reached to press a large button on the side of his cot.

"Clear hands." He warned as he pressed the button with a lazy slap, and slid into his slot in the wall, wherein the lights darkened, and a strange smell that forced drowsiness filled the compartment. Oh, the wonderful joys of battle stations, Ezekiel recapitulated, nodding off into unconsciousness.