"Pelican Zulu Oh-Three-Three touching down, all personnel clear Pad Two." The voice booming over the frigate's intercom was barely enough to break out over the noise of the Agincourt’s hangar deck. All around, Warthog jeeps jockeyed for position to tie down in the motor pool and crewmen in gray and orange jumpsuits shifted crate-loads of food, ammunition and all manner of other supplies needed for a prolonged interstellar voyage either by hand or in hulking Cyclops exoskeletons, the utility mechs moving metric tons of material at a time. A big, blocky Pelican dropship hovered just a few meters over their heads, rotating its wing pods frantically to align its thrusters and settle in for a graceful landing.