The docking indicator started blinking, issuing a sequence number and asking for a check. Mercil thumbed the controls at his side, shrinking from his display the familiar manual "Energy Maneuver Theory and the Pilum Matrix", a dense articulation on kinetic energy transfer and control in space flight, particularly with mecha. It might have been a heavy creased tome at one point in history, but few things were drafted in paper these days. Even in backwater stations there had to be a good reason for using paper, something official. Not that it was uncommon, only there's an intrinsic connection in comfort to each species that founds it. As done on Kriyuu; the long breadth sheets of dilloweed that float near the surface of its salt lakes were the source, or humans and their emulsified and baked wood.  

"CRC fighter Q.0.S., waiting to dock, bay 2", he transmitted.

"Spirit of Adventure to Q.0.S. cleared to dock, bay 2, hangar 2", returned an enthusiastic tone. Doubtlessly some Confederate hard-knocker to be working on the magnificent vessel. The kind with multiple recognitions, a spirited work-ethic, top of their class. Whether you liked them or not, they warranted some degree of respect. 

Mercil synchronized his mechas roll with deck and lulled it into the hanger with gentle ease. Two men stood at the deployment rack ushering him in with wands, intending to immediately slave his mech to the ship. He followed their commands, and began the shutdown procedure as it settled into the rack. When he stepped out of the cockpit and onto the entry-fold, the two crew engineers greeted him with a salute. Through their visors he could see they were both Inadri, the taller one was a dutiful by manner man with a half-cocked brow and black hair and the other a woman, older than he, a stern but friendly and wisened face with her dark hair in a tight bun beneath her helmet. 

"Welcome aboard the Spirit," she sparked up and shook Mercil's hand firmly, "I'm Chief Klisq Oliri, and Sergeant Ubendan Allindir here, we're going to be the ones running hangar 2 for you. So, this 44d here is a bit unusual, has it been retrofitted with the CUN protocols?" She asked wittingly as if expecting a no.

She was sharp. It wasn't secret knowledge, but far from common due to the limited fielding of the mechframe. He could surmise she knew the why's about it as well.

"I just spent the last week in the naval intelligence block, I damned hope so."

"A miserable place," she chuckled "but you guys always have to make things hard with your stubborn tech so we're hard right back." 

"Hey, a hard head makes a hard pilot," he knocked on his helmet and smirked.

The sergeant stowed a data panel in the engineering rack and waved them in.
"Looking good enough!"

"Alright. Where can I get something to eat, this place seems like it would have killer dining." Mercil asked, prodding for some direction.

"We'll find out soon enough, we're the new kid on the block. Just head through the bay gate at the end there, you'll see the bulletin which-" the chief cut him off, "Actually, the boss will be down to welcome you all personally. He'll likely conduct the brief straight away too, so you can just wait there. We can meet later about the Q0S and figure everything out when you're settled"

"Perfect," mercil said relieved, "I'll make sure to have something put together for you Chief." Have to stay ahead of the game, always.

"Sure, we'll see you around" she smiled. He gave them each another shake and they went to their business beneath the deployment rack.

Other hangars opened, funneling in other craft. Another variable fighter was already resting in the hangar space across from him. A tried and true model with some wear to its bones and thousands of hours flight time. A kind he remembers seeing fighting the shodane, and studying thereafter. His mecha was half its age, but he lived in it like a second skin, as his duty. It would be a miracle if he could see the same years before his retirement in obsolescence. Even if the life expectancy of a pilot increased from the war's 1 month, to eight, now fifteen years as its projected in this relatively quiet period. Much too long for a soldier to live; somewhere, Mercil thought, someone with the power to change this is always waiting.