Ship Captain Fitness Exam, Mission Prompt A, Post 1: "Routine Beginnings"

“Captain Trykon?” a youthful, feminine voice called from the forward section of the cargo hold, over the background din of men and machines scrambling to stow the last few crates of consumables needed for the coming patrol.  “Eslara says Abrae Control’s cleared us for departure, and we’re all ready to go down here.”

Wyl Trykon, conferring with Doc Gibbs in the aft of the hold about the brand-new bacta tanks up in the Duty’s Med-lab, pointedly ignored the shout behind him.  “Well, keep Three Tank drained if you think it’s necessary, Doc, but I want One and Two available for the mission.”  He thumb-signed the datapad bearing Gibbs’s request, and handed it back to the Duty’s Chief Medical Officer.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow.  “Sir…?”

“I heard her,” Trykon sighed.  “But she needs to learn some discipline.”

“Aye sir,” the other said, giving a circumspect nod.  “I’ll just be in Medical, then,” the blue-eyed healer said, making his way to the lift.

“Captain Trykon?” the high-pitched voice repeated, closer this time.  Trykon closed his eyes and exhaled, and waited until the approaching footsteps faltered and then halted behind him.  With a slow, deliberate grace, the captain of the Warden-class Light Cruiser Duty turned around and leveled a cold stare at the speaker.

Triz Bukk, his young Chief Engineer, looked up at him hesitantly.  “Um, Captain…”  She trailed off, withering under Trykon’s disapproving look.

Trykon felt his glare soften, looking at the bright-eyed Zabrak engineer.  It was difficult to be stern with anyone so earnest, and after all, Trykon had known what he was getting into when he’d requested Bukk for the Duty.  Sure, the sallow-skinned Zabrak had acquired a reputation at the Academy as a kind of prodigy, but for all her savant-like skills with machines, Bukk was barely post-pubescent, and her youth really showed in her ignorance of military regulations and occasional lack of focus.  And if I can’t teach her the importance of concentration and proper discipline, she may never get beyond late adolescence, Trykon thought.  When he spoke, he forced steel into his tone: “You’re on a warship in the service of the Vast Empire, Ms. Bukk, not some pleasure barge with your friends.”

Bukk’s shoulders slumped.  “Okay,” she muttered.  “I mean, yes, sir.  Discipline,” she added, declining her head for emphasis in an endearing gesture which also managed to convey contrition.

Wyl couldn’t help but smile, but he resisted the impulse to laugh and put the young engineer at ease; being friendly now would only blunt the lesson he was trying to impart.  “That’s right, Ms. Bukk: discipline.  Discipline is the only thing that keeps this little durasteel box together when the blaster bolts cross.  You’re going to need to cultivate some discipline if you want to keep your friends alive up there,” he pointed at the hold’s ceiling, and the sky far beyond, “so just get in the habit of calling them by their surnames when you’re on duty, okay?”

“Yes sir.”

“So, why don’t you tell me again what you were so eager to report that you yelled at me down the length of the deck,” he prompted gently.

The Zabrak screwed up her face in thought, the delicate lines of her tattoos accentuating the muscle movements.  “There was a message for you from Chief Brin, up on the bridge, sir,” the youngster said with exaggerated care.  “She relays our clearance from Command to lift off.”

“Much better, Ms. Bukk,” Trykon said, with a genuine smile.  “We’ll make a sailor of you, yet.”

The Zabrak returned the grin.  “Yes sir,” she nodded.  “I also wanted to add, sir, that all ship’s stores are aboard, and the Duty awaits your command to get underway.”

“See, Ms. Bukk?  Navy-talk’s easy, once you get into the rhythm.”  He flashed her another smile.  “Very well.  Report to the Engine Room.  It’s time we start this patrol.”

Triz saluted, sloppily, and turned to leave for her post.  Wyl let his gaze wander from her retreating form around the cargo hold, at all the droids and crewers going about their business.  He took a deep breath.  My ship, he thought.  My crew.  Let’s go do our duty, Duty.  He made for the port-side lift, and pressed the button for A Deck; moments later, the door slid open, and he walked into the cramped command center of the Warden-class Light Cruiser.

Eslara Brin was waiting for him.  “Captain on the bridge!” the red-skinned Twi-lek announced, and the four other officers on the command deck quickly pushed out of their chairs and stood at attention.

As a first-time ship captain, Trykon found that having the customary naval courtesy directed at him was actually quite touching, but it wouldn’t do to let his emotions show in front of his new crew.  “As you were,” he said, waving the bridge officers back into their seats.  “We’ve got work to do.”

Everyone resumed their preflight tasks, except Eslara, who took a small step toward Wyl and whispered conspiratorially: “How are you feeling, Captain?”  The Twi’lek’s green eyes sparkled affectionately over her characteristic, knowing smile, and Wyl could feel blood rushing to his face.  So much for not letting the crew see your emotions, the new captain thought, as the heat of the blush peaked.  Then again, Eslara’s more than a mere subordinate.  Trykon thought of their brief service together on the Hammer, and their subsequent holo-correspondence, and his conflicted decision to put in for Eslara’s transfer to his command.  Exactly how much more she is, I’m not sure.  But for now, it’s nice to have somebody aboard who knows me as more than an Imperial Captain, he thought, his embarrassment beginning to subside.

“Anxious,” he admitted, in the same hushed tone the Lethan Twi’lek had used.  “Both in the sense of being nervous, and in the sense of being eager.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Eslara cooed, reaching out to stroke Wyl’s arm reassuringly.  He instinctively pulled back from the touch, glancing at the other crewers.  The Twi’lek’s brain tails twitched wildly.  “Sorry,” she whispered, slowly letting her red hand drop back to her side.

“Gotta be captain-y in front of the crew,” he said, forcing an easy tone, and silently cursing the presence of the others.

“Of course.  Go be a captain.  And don’t be nervous,” she added with a wink.  She turned, sweeping her lekku over her shoulders, and walked up to the Duty’s Helm, to her position at Astrogation.

Trykon took a moment to survey the Warden-class Cruiser’s bridge: his human pilot Drackon was completing his preflight checklist, with Eslara warming up the astrogation computer beside him; the other Twi’lek, Kath Notra, was manipulating a tactical display at the Sensors station, while his gruff-but-efficient Trandoshan Weapons Coordinator Zark looked on; his dark-haired human second-in-command, Master Chief Phylus, nodded at him from the Communications station.  He thought of Gibbs draining a bacta tank in the Med-lab, and young Bukk degreasing some engine component down on D Deck, and he smiled.  They’re a good crew, he told himself, so be a worthy captain.

“Orders, Cap’n?” his XO asked.

“Up and out, Chief.”

“Very good, sir.  Department heads, report.”

The command crew reported all sections ready for departure, so Trykon came up behind Phylas and flicked a switch on the Communications board.  “All hands, this is the Captain.  Take a look around you.  The Duty is a fine ship, with a select crew, tasked with a sacred responsibility: we serve the Vast Empire, enforcing Galactic law and order, supporting stability and prosperity, and defending the lives and livelihoods of Imperial citizens.  Be worthy of your crewmates on the Duty, and never forget her name.”  He cut the transmission.

“Nice speech,” Phylas said mildly.  At first, Wyl thought his XO might be teasing him, but the man’s expression was sober and respectful.  The other officers, too, seemed to be sitting up a little straighter in their seats.

“Thanks.  Let’s get spaceborne, team.”

Under the control of its competent crew, the Warden-class Light Cruiser Duty lifted off from the planet Abrae, and minutes later Wyl’s first capital ship command in the Vast Empire Navy cleared the world’s atmosphere, beginning its first, month-long patrol with Wyl Trykon as Ship Captain.

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1,369 words

Ship Captain Fitness Exam, Mission Prompt A, Post 3: "Surprises and Solutions"

Captain Trykon’s voice came over the comlink in Master Chief Artur Phylas’s hand: “Inspection team, we’ve got a confirmed seal.  You’re clear to board.  Good luck.”

Phylas raised the comlink to his lips.  “Boarders away,” the human said.  “We’ll make a quick sweep and then I’ll have an initial report.”  He clicked the comlink off, and clipped it to his uniform.  “Okay.”  He looked over his hastily gathered “inspection team:” there were two young men from the communications section, an old engineer’s mate named Gasim, himself, and the imposing Trandoshan Weapons officer, Zark.  Some boarding party, he thought wryly.  Well, it’s just a routine inspection… the appearance of strength is all that’s really needed.  Still, the human executive officer was glad to have his Weapons officer along: the reptilian being was a formidable fighter, whether targeting a turbolaser battery or firing a sidearm.  “Zark has point,” Phylas said quietly, “and I’ll follow up.  You three,” he continued, making eye contact with the other humans, “just keep us in sight, and don’t shoot unless we do.”

The three human crewmen nodded, their eyes wide, and Zark hit the door panel.  The airlock double doors ground open, and the five-being squad crossed through to the freighter calling itself the Diligence.

The air on the small freighter was dry, and stale, and the hallway they entered was narrow, and very dimly lit.  It was also unsettlingly empty.

“No one to greet us, then?” Gasim murmured.

“Silence!” Zark hissed, his blaster carbine raised in a ready position, sweeping the gloom at the end of the hall.  The old human engineer’s mate glowered, but said nothing more.  Suddenly, hurried footsteps could be heard approaching from within the freighter, a single pair of heavy boots clanging on the metal deck in a measured jog.

“Coming,” a voice echoed from around the corner.  “I’m coming!  Sorry to keep you waiting!”  The footsteps grew louder.

Swiftly and silently, Phylas and Zark padded to the end of the airlock hallway, where it intersected with the central forward-aft corridor of the freighter.  At a nod from Phylas, they simultaneously peeked around the corner in opposite directions.  The Trandoshan peered right to scan the freighter’s stern, and the human looked left, down the length of the corridor towards the TL-1800’s forward sections – the direction from which the footsteps were coming.

“Alright, hold it right there,” Phylas ordered in a commanding voice, his blaster carbine at the ready.  “Hands on your head.”  The footsteps stopped, and Gasim and the others filed into the central corridor, their own carbines raised.

“Aft clear,” Zark whispered behind them.  Phylas nodded, and took a half-step toward the being who’d been running down the corridor to meet them: a broad-shouldered human male with his hands held aloft – and a blaster on his hip.

“Remove your sidearm, citizen,” Phylas said.  “Slowly.”

The side of the man’s mouth twitched, as if suppressing a grin, but his voice was conciliatory, and even a little plaintive: “Alright, now.  We’re all friends.  It just took me a second to shut down the engines, and I’d forgotten about this little thing, is all,” he said, gingerly laying his blaster pistol on the deck and sliding it towards the Imperials with a gentle kick.  “Don’t shoot, eh?”

“We’re here to inventory your cargo, not shoot,” Phylas said, but he did not lower his weapon, nor block the other Imperials’ lines of sight by stepping any closer to the muscular human.  “Where is the rest of the Diligence’s crew?”

Phylas could have sworn the muscled human twitched another smile before his expression settled on an apologetic frown.  “It’s just me and Jonesy.  I’m sure he don’t mean no disrespect or anything.  He’s probably just sleeping.  In that stateroom, there,” the man said, indicating with a half-nod a door to his left, between him and Phylas.

Right, Phylas thought.  I’m sure.  “Well, no disrespect to Jonesy, or to you, Mister–”

“Micklin.  Aldo Micklin,” the burly human answered quickly.

“No disrespect intended on our part either, Mr. Micklin,” Phylas continued, “but I think I’d like you to open that door, if you wouldn’t mind overmuch.”

This time, there was no mistaking the grin.  “If you like,” the man said.  He sauntered to the door, and knocked three times.  “Jonesy,” he yelled.  “These nice folks from the Vast Empire want to say hello.”  He keyed the door panel, and disappeared into the stateroom. 

And then, suddenly, the muzzle flashes of three different blasters lit up the far end of the darkened corridor, and red bolts screamed in at the boarding party.  Phylas’s curse was drowned by the sounds of the incoming fire, and by the gurgled death rattle of the crewman standing just behind his left shoulder.  “Cover!” he bellowed.

The Imperials dove into the starboard airlock hallway facing the one through which they’d boarded the freighter, all except Zark, who ducked back the way they’d come, to port.  “Three shooters,” he hissed.

Phylas nodded across the corridor and over the dead body to the Trandoshan.  He’d counted the flashes, too.  Three, plus “Micklin,” if the bastard’s got a blaster in that room.  He glanced behind him at old Gasim and the remaining kid, now unmistakably terrified.  Four in total, versus me and Zark.  Not good.  He unclipped his comlink.  “Phylas to Duty.  We’ve been attacked.  Man down.  Request instructions.”  There was no answer.

“Phylas to Duty.  Do you copy?”  Silence.  The human Chief Petty Officer cursed again.  This is really not good.  “They’ve got an active local jammer, Zark,” he called to the Trandoshan, who snarled in reply.  He turned to the other humans.  “Stay here, and shoot anybody who comes round that corner who isn’t me or Zark, okay?”

“Aye, sir,” Gasim said.  The other just stared blankly.

Phylas shook his head.  “Trick better give me a blasted medal for this,” he said under his breath.  “Zark!  Covering fire!”

The Trandoshan leaned out into the corridor and loosed a steady stream of bolts.  As he did so, Phylas somersaulted into a kneeling firing position, behind the relative cover provided by the corpse lying prone in the middle of the deck.  More bolts jostled the body, but none found their living target, and Phylas added the sound of his own carbine to Zark’s.  A third joined them, and Phylas turned back to see Gasim shooting, too.

The triangulated return fire was devastating.  Gasim’s shots weren’t terribly accurate, but they were distracting, which gave Phylas and Zark critical seconds.  Seconds were all that the Trandoshan needed: his shots were chillingly accurate, and he chose targets with a cold efficiency.  Almost as soon as it had started, the lightfight was over, with all three enemy shooters crumpled at the end of the corridor.

“Clear left,” Zark said in his husky voice.

“Clear right,” Gasim echoed.

“Alright,” Phylas said.  He regarded the old human engineer.  “Gasim, hold here.  Guard the airlock and make sure Micklin stays in that room while Zark and I sweep the rest of the ship.  If we don’t report in two minutes, pull back to the Duty and seal the door behind you.”

The old man nodded, and grabbed the arm of the communications mate cowering behind him.  “You heard him,” he muttered, dragging the frightened kid across the main corridor, past his dead friend, to the open airlock.  “We’ll hold, sir.”

“Right,” Phylas said.  “Zark, get up to the bridge and see if you can’t shut this jamming down.  Don’t bother checking the staterooms: just blast the door controls on your way.  That ought to prevent any more interruptions.”  The reptilian being nodded.  “I’m going to check out the cargo bay, and then I’ll join you on the bridge.”

Phylas turned to the freighter’s aft, and heard Zark’s blaster shots ring out behind him as the Trandoshan fused the door controls of all the rooms on the central corridor on his way to the bridge.  The human took a deep breath, and opened the door to the aft cargo hold.

The sight that greeted him confirmed all his worst fears: the bay wasn’t overlarge, but it was crowded with containers and cluttered shelves, with labyrinthine trails snaking through the detritus – a perfect place to stage an ambush.  Phylas weighed his options.  “Nine hells,” he muttered.  “I’d really rather not.”

He took a step backwards, resolving to return and search the maze of cargo containers later – accompanied by proper reinforcements.  But as he crossed back into the central corridor, something small clattered away behind him: he’d kicked something out of the intimidating room in his hasty retreat.  He closed the door to the cargo bay, and shot the door panel twice to temporarily seal it.  Then, he turned to see what it was he’d kicked.

The object was a small metallic tube with black sides: a multi-dose vial of spice, straight from Kessel.  Glitterstim, he thought, turning up his nose and holding the tube between thumb and forefinger, as if it stank more than the corpses of every being the vile substance had killed, directly and indirectly, since its psychoactive properties had been discovered in a time long past.  Looks like these are Diarbach’s buddies.  I’ve got to report to Trick.  He passed Gasim on his way to the bridge.  “Keep holding.  I’m gonna see if we can’t talk to the Duty from up at the bridge.”

Zark was unsurprisingly seated at the weapons station on the TL-1800 when Phylas stepped into the freighter’s small cockpit.  “Both laser cannons are charged and ready for combat, sir,” the reptilian being hiss-sighed.  “And it looks like they’ve mounted a remote-controlled quad battery under the nose.”

Phylas rolled his eyes.  “I’m more interested in the damn communications black-out, Zark.  What are we gonna do with a few laser cannons, anyway?”  He worked the comm controls: “Inspection team to Duty, do you read me?”

Captain Trykon’s voice answered almost immediately, the comm static unable to mask the man’s relief: “Phylas!  You’re alive!”

“Yes sir, I am.  But Crewman Rouge isn’t so lucky, and–”

“Chief, there’s a Wayfarer-class coming this way, and we think she’s hostile.  Secure that freighter and get back to the Duty, now!”

Phylas cursed.  “Check the sensor board!” he snapped, and Zark confirmed the incoming starship.  The human turned back to the comm station.  “Sir, I have a man down and at least one bad guy still alive on this ship, barricaded in a stateroom.  We can’t secure this vessel before that ship gets here.”

There was a pause.  “Alright, Phylas.  I would have preferred to capture the Lover’s Delight, but if that’s not possible I’ll settle for destroying her.  Get your team back to the Duty, double quick.”

Phylas thought of all the evidence this freighter held – the glitterstim in the cargo hold, the prisoner locked in a stateroom, and the illegal weapons modifications – and he had a sudden flash of insight.  “No sir.  I’ve got a better idea.”

“A better idea?  Are you mad?” Trykon asked shrilly.  Someone else in the background said something indistinct, and a beat went by before the captain spoke again: “Well, I hope it’s a good one, Artur.  The Wayfarer just brought its engines online.  We have to detach from the Lover’s Delight now.  Your team is on its own.”

“We’ll be alright, sir.  Just don’t shoot us.  In fact, ignore this ship as if we had secured it, and left it adrift, and we may just be able to help you out with that incoming ship.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Chief,” Captain Trykon said, and cut the transmission.

“Yeah,” Phylas whispered to himself, “me too.”  He caught the Trandoshan gunner’s eye.  “Okay, Zark, here’s what we’re gonna do…”


“They’ve started their engines, sir, and they’re coming about!” Kath Notra warned from his position in front of the Sensors station.

Wyl Trykon, captain of the Warden-class Light Cruiser Duty, sighed, shaking his head.  “Well, I hope it’s a good one, Artur,” he said across the comm channel to his Executive Officer, still aboard the smuggler’s freighter Lover’s Delight with an Imperial customs inspection team.  “The Wayfarer just brought its engines online.  We have to detach from the Lover’s Delight now.  Your team is on its own.”

“We’ll be alright, sir.  Just don’t shoot us.  In fact, ignore this ship as if we had secured it, and left it adrift, and we may just be able to help you out with that incoming ship,” Phylas said, the excitement in his voice apparent even through the static of a poor communications connection.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Chief,” Trykon said, and cut the transmission.  “Seal the airlock and detach.  Helm, bring us around to face the Wayfarer.”

In a sudden flurry of activity, the Duty broke away from the dilapidated Suwantek TL-1800 freighter, and turned to face the incoming Wayfarer-class transport.  As Trykon had feared, two more signals appeared on the scanners: the ship had launched a pair of starfighters.  “Two snubfighters inbound now,” Kath Notra reported.  “Headhunters,” he clarified.

“Thank you, Mr. Notra,” Trykon said to his Twi’lek Sensors officer, running through the strengths and weaknesses of the old Z-95 Headhunter in his head: Fairly slow and vulnerable, by modern-day starfighter standards, with no hyperdrive, but two concussion missile launchers, each.  Those could prove to be problematic.  “Roth, priority target is the carrier: maybe we can convince them to bow out of this fight, leaving the Z-95s stranded unless they withdraw, too.”

“Sir!” Notra broke in again.  “Looks like the Wayfarer was doing some boarding too, sir!  They’ve detached to engage us, now, but they were hooked up to another, smaller starship while they drifted toward us: there’s a powered-down HWK-290 behind them!”

“This day just keeps getting stranger,” Trykon muttered, frowning.

“Headhunters in missile range sir – they’re firing!”

Four concussion missiles streaked out from the two snubfighters.  In a TIE, Trykon would have relied on his craft’s maneuverability and his own piloting skill to evade the deadly projectiles; on the Duty, that course of action was unavailable.  “Shunt power from propulsion to shields!  Roth, return fire at will, but save our missiles for the carrier.”

Trykon hadn’t even finished his sentence before the missiles hit.  The Duty’s forward shield, reinforced as it was, held up to the onslaught, but only just.  The snubfighters roared past, jinking to avoid the Imperial vessel’s sporadic return fire.  Trykon couldn’t help but wonder if Zark might have done a better job at the Weapons position.  Yeah, he thought, he might have taken out one of them in their first pass, sure, but he’s not here.  Roth is.  Focus on the here and now!

The pocket carrier, now under power, accelerated toward the Duty.  It was an aggressive, gutsy frontal assault: even against a base-model Warden-class ship, the Wayfarer would be outgunned, carrying only a quad laser battery and a supplemental laser cannon, but its criminal captain was apparently emboldened by his starfighter support. Little do you realize, Trykon thought, that the Vast Empire has made a few additions to the base-model Warden-class ships in service.

“Wait for the Wayfarer to come in range of all our weapons, then give them a full volley, missiles and main batteries together,” Trykon said softly.  The ship trembled as one of the Headhunters made another strafing run.  “And even out power distribution to deflectors,” he added.

“Enemy ship coming into range now,” Notra breathed.

“Hit them,” Trykon said.

The Duty lashed out with its two laser cannons, followed seconds later by a barrage of missiles.  The Wayfarer’s shields absorbed the blaster bolts without a problem, but the civilian-grade shields couldn’t handle concussion missiles.  With a snort of derision, Roth reported: “Their forward shields have failed, Captain.”

“They’re turning about,” Kath Notra added, “and the Headhunters are breaking off as well!”

Trykon stood up and looked at the Twi’leks displays at the main Sensors station.  He pointed a finger at the central screen.  “So they are.  Looks like they’re going to recover the fighters and hyper out.”  His finger moved to another blip.  “The HWK-290 looks okay, whatever they did to it, but,” he paused, “where’s the Lover’s Delight?”  The smuggler's ship wasn't behind the Duty, where it had been when the fight began.

“There, sir!” Kath Notra said, indicated a signal in front of the retreating Wayfarer, his brain-tails twitching in excitement.

“Artur Phylas, you clever son-of-a-mynock,” Trykon chuckled.  As he spoke, the Lover’s Delight – which Phylas had stealthily flown around to block the enemy’s escape while both the Wayfarer- and Warden-class ships had been distracted, focusing on each other – opened fire on the retreating transport.  The commandeered freighter didn’t have powerful weapons, but that didn’t much matter, since the Duty had managed to strip the Wayfarer-class of its deflectors.  The red blaster bolts slammed into the unshielded transport’s hull, just as the first snubfighter came in to land in the modified hangar.  Durasteel melted, gases vented, and the Headhunter pilot panicked, crashing his fighter into the transport in a bright (but brief) fireball.  On the bridge of the Duty, two sensor signals winked out.

“I’m going to have to give that man a medal for this,” Trykon said with a grin.  “Status?”

“Enemy transport and one Headhunter destroyed.  The other fighter is powering down, and transmitting a surrender signal, in the open,” Notra said jubilantly.  “We won, sir!”

Trykon gave the bridge crew a moment to congratulate each other, and release the accrued tension with laughter, before he spoke again: “Signal the Lover’s Delight to form up to be boarded, and tell Chief Phylas his idea was better than mine.”  Trykon let out a chortle.  “Much better.  Drackon, get us alongside the freighter, and I’ll organize another boarding party.  Mr. Notra, signal Abrae command and let them know our status and position.  Once the Delight is secure, we’ll see what’s up with that HWK-290 they were messing with.  Maybe we’ll see about getting another ship out here to help with salvage.”  Every face in the small cockpit bore a smile.  “Well done, everyone,” Captain Trykon said.  “Now, let’s get back to work.”

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3,025 words

Chief Petty Officer Trykon passes the SCFE