A warship, Corporal Daniels ruminated, should look like a ship of war. It should be huge, blocky, and intimidating, boldly marked with the colors of its nation. It should be a thing of stark beauty formed in armor plate and fusion engine alike. A warship should menace with plasma cannons and missile banks. It should, in simple terms, tell the enemy that here was a half-megaton mass of "Fuck You" here to kick your xenomorphic ass back to the stars. A warship should have a name that spoke of power, like Enterprise , or one that spoke of battles long past, like Iwo Jima or Valley Forge.
It should not look like a giant orchid in space, and it should definitely not have a name like "Starlight Symphony."
"Try to hold back your prejudice, Corporal," Sergeant Lewisky said, chewing thoughtfully on a wad of spearmint-flavored gum. "In all the years since the Diaspora, the Conclave is the one human successor nation that's had a winning battle record against the Geist.