EVE Fiction

To Caliphus Triet, sitting at the propulsion status display, there was nothing more beautiful than the bridge of a Raven-class battleship. The bridge was at once practical, bold, and impressive, all qualities espoused by the Caldari State. Where aesthetic design might conflict with efficiency of operation, aesthetics were sacrificed without a second thought to the efficacious operation of the massive war machine. Those who found the arrangement of display consoles and workstations confusing or disorienting had no business being on the bridge in the first place.

That’s not to say the bridge was without aesthetic touches, so long as those features did not affect the operation of the ship. Above the entirety of the bridge’s length, a viewport presented a stunning view. Triet gazed upward, taking in the view of the endless black abyss of space, sprinkled with tiny points of starlight. The depth of the blackness clawed at Triet’s mind, dragging it to days that seemed a lifetime ago.

Petty Officer Caliphus Triet reached out to grab the sides of the propulsion display, ignoring the stab of pain from his blood-soaked right arm. Despite his attempt, his grip failed as the Hawksworth violently jerked from side to side, its inertial control systems unable to compensate for the beating the ship was taking. Triet tumbled from his position and awkwardly crumpled onto the metallic floor of the bridge.

Flashes of light assaulted Triet’s vision from all directions. Some flashes were missiles burning away from the massive launch facilities installed on the Hawksworth, some were the glowing plasma bolts from the Gallente fleet, but most were in his eyes only, created by the spikes of pain from his ruined right arm. The pain and blood were evidence that the shrapnel was buried deep.

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