At the edge of the Vectra System, far from the space lanes to the gas giant Tague and its moon Abrae, the Warden-class Light Cruiser Duty hung motionless against a backdrop of stars.  Fifty-three small, metallic cubes were scattered loosely and randomly all around the Imperial warship, and even though the Duty boasted relatively little mass, the subtle gravitic pull the small ship exerted on the cubes was still powerful enough to start them spinning sluggishly around it into a chaos of overlapping orbits.  The cubes – gunnery practice targets – moved so slowly, in actual fact, that through the viewports of the Duty’s bridge they appeared to be just as stationary as the ship itself.  Even Zark, the Trandoshan Chief Gunner whose vision extended into the infrared range, could not discern his targets’ movements, even though he knew to look for the drift.  Luckily for targeting purposes, the cruiser’s sensors equipment was much more capable than the naked eye of any biological being, and the fine-tuned instruments were able to detect the cubes’ infinitesimal motion.

“Targets deployed according to Distribution Template 53-1148,” a quiet voice said behind Zark.  The whisper belonged to the ship’s Chief Sensors Officer, Kath Notra, and the Twi’lek stared intently at a holographic representation of the ever-so-slowly circling metal cubes as he continued: “Deviation from Template has begun, and is accelerating, but we’re well within the norm for the exercise.”

“Well done, team,” Captain Wyl Trykon said.  “Mr. Phylas, count us off.”

“Aye, sir,” Artur Phylas replied.  “Live-fire exercise commencing in thirty seconds.”  The human Executive Officer leaned over Zark, placing a five-fingered hand on the gunner’s shoulder.  “Alright, Zark,” he said, “best time for this Template was one minute, thirty-seven seconds, set three years ago by the Cerulean's crew.”  The human squeezed Zark’s shoulder.  “Think you can beat that score?”

“Score,” the human says, Zark thought to himself.  An alien knows nothing of “scores.”  The Trandoshan kept his thoughts to himself, for he respected Phylas’s skill with a blaster and was genuinely fond of the little mammal.  He grunted an affirmation to the question and shrugged off Phylas’s touch as gently as he could manage.

“Ten seconds,” the human intoned.  Zark’s clawed fingers hovered over his console, ready to deal destruction remotely to the scattered targets.

“Five… four… three… two… one.”

Zark sprang into action, his fingers caressing dials, flipping switches, and frantically hitting buttons, and the Duty responded to his commands: the two turreted turbolaser cannons fired, their angry blasts of coherent energy lashing out in disparate directions.  And then, the blaster bolts found their targets, and two of the cubes boiled and melted under the onslaught.  The fact that they didn’t disintegrate outright reflected Zark’s restraint: the Chief Gunner was carefully adjusting his weapons’ energy allocation levels, using only enough power in each shot to destroy the target, without waste.  By conserving energy, the guns would cycle more quickly, and fire for longer before overheating.

Phylas would call this showing off, Zark thought contemptuously, as he triggered another volley.  He’s ignorant of true scores, and a stranger to training-devotions.  He does not understand that by practicing religiously, now, my rate of fire and stamina will be increased when we enter real combat, and then, the goddess will be pleased with my kills.  All he sees is a chance to appear more deadly in the eyes of others, rather than recognizing the Truth: training offers a chance to be more deadly in the future.  More of the targets deformed as they were exposed to his controlled energy bursts.  But for all his impiety, the human does seem to understand that real combat is… preferable to training-devotions, even if he does know nothing about the earning of jagannath points.

He’d cleared a wide arc forward of the Duty’s bow, and was just about to order a controlled turn to expose more of the other targets to his batteries when Artur Phylas spoke again, instead.  “Captain,” Phylas told his fellow human with a raised eyebrow, “I’m getting a call for help here, from in-system.”

Zark kept firing.  Absent any specific orders, the exercise was still in progress.  Two more targets were destroyed, as the Captain snatched away his XO’s headset, and listened to whatever transmission Phylas had picked up.  Zark fired again.

“Secure from live-fire exercise, Mr. Zark,” Trykon said after a moment.  “And prepare for actual combat.”

Zark held his fire and grunted in approval, while Phylas shot the Captain a questioning look.

“One of our freighters is under attack deeper in the system,” Trykon said, pointing out a cluster of signals on Notra’s Sensors board.  “Drackon, get us there as fast as you can, if you please.  Shouldn’t take longer than four minutes to get into weapons range,” the former helmsman said, as he did the rough calculation in his head.  “And Zark,” he continued, turning to face his Chief Gunner, “that means we have about four minutes to figure out a way our light cruiser is going to deal with a corvette and twelve starfighters.”

The aliens on the bridge looked worried, but Zark couldn’t hide a toothy smile as he set the turbolasers to recharge.

OOC:

862 words.  This story, when complete, will comprise my "final project" for the Ship Captain Training Program, and if it passes muster, then I will make the grade as a SCAP!  Stay tuned for more exploits of the Duty!  Oh, and I'm pretty sure this is my 25th story post for the VE... milestones all around! 

Wyl Trykon, captain of the Warden-class Light Cruiser Duty, pressed the communications headset against his ear, straining to hear the transmission his executive officer had dubbed a “call for help.”  The connection was weak and the line crackled with static, but through the interference Trykon could hear a shrill, panicked voice echoing across the void: “…respond!  I repeat: this is the Bountiful Harvest to any Vast Imperial vessel.  Pirate blockade runner and full squadron of starfighters attacking in the Vectra System!  Our escort is moving to intercept the corvette, but the fighters are all over us!  Please, respond!  I repeat…”

Trykon instinctively reached for the control switch which would allow him to respond to the distress call, but stopped himself short, his mind racing with possibilities.  If I transmit, I might be able to calm them down over there, sure, but the pirates will pick up my signal, too.  But, if I stay silent there’s a chance the scum won’t notice our approach.  He frowned.  And against a CR90 and twelve starfighters we’re going to need all the advantages we can get, including even a chance at surprising them.

He turned to his Trandoshan Chief Gunner.  “Secure from live-fire exercise, Mr. Zark, and prepare for actual combat.”  He gave more orders, and the Duty accelerated along an intercept course, its crew preparing for a fight.  Trykon looked around the cramped bridge of the light cruiser, and began to nod slowly.  Surprising them, he repeated the thought to himself, is probably the only advantage we have.  They outgun us in a straight fight, but if we can just surprise them a bit, we can probably buy the Bountiful Harvest enough time to escape.  “Phylas,” he said aloud to his XO, “I have an idea…”

OOC:

293 words.  A short post by itself, but Slasher, this post would be included with the previous one to form one post of greater than 1,000 words, if this were in response to prompt C of the SCFE.

As the Duty raced toward its rendezvous with the pirates, fear seemed to pulse through the ship itself as the crew members – all young beings, and most new to military life (and death) – realized the terrible odds they faced.  Chief Engineer Triz Bukk passed several of her fellow crewmates on her way to the Engine Control Room, and she recognized the panic and despair rising behind their eyes as her own.  But to her surprise, the young Zabrak girl realized that while her feelings were intense, they were not crippling.  She was breathing regularly, if heavily, as she ran to her post, to do her job.  She was alive, and she intended to stay that way.

As Bukk entered the Control Room and met her veteran Engineer’s Mate, Gasim, the old man gave her a reassuring, lop-sided smile, and a part of her smiled too, as she recognized within herself the same professionalism and true discipline under pressure that Gasim was exhibiting – the same discipline she’d always been asked to prove, throughout her life, first by her father, and then by Chief Deenik at the Academy, and then by Captain Trykon.  Being disciplined was no longer a matter of winning approval, it was a matter of winning a battle, and to Bukk’s immense relief, she was doing it without even trying.  Without pause or distraction, the seventeen year old Imperial Engineer went to work, manually readjusting the power transfer levels between the ship’s systems to prepare for the coming combat.  Gasim glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as she worked her panel, and Triz barely even noticed the old man’s approving nod.

The patrol vessel’s three engines were operating at peak efficiency, hurtling the small ship toward the enemy blockade runner and starfighters, hopefully quickly enough to distract the raiders from the slow, vulnerable freighter they were attacking.  With all discretionary power shunted to the engines, however, the laser turrets were recharging much more slowly after the ship’s live-fire exercise than they would under a more even distribution scheme, and the deflector shields, while fully charged, wouldn’t last long under fire.  Triz frowned, and nodded back to Gasim.  “Okay, we’re going to have to finesse the power distribution, Chief.  We need engines now, but we’ll need shields more than anything else in a minute.”

“I’m patched through to the bridge.  Notra says a flight of fighters just broke off to welcome us to the party.”  He gave a snort which was equal parts derision and amusement.

“Alright, I’m putting some juice into shields,” Bukk said, her yellow fingers dancing across dials, switches, and buttons.

“Bridge, Engine Room.  Thirty seconds till they’re in range, Zark,” Gasim said over the internal comm.

“And, Bridge, you’ve got all the speed we can manage, and you can fire at will,” Bukk added, her voice clear and strong.

“Thank you, Engine Room,” Trykon’s voice came back.  “Stand by: we’re going to need quick adjustments here in a moment.”

The old human grunted, and the young Zabrak grinned.

“Yes, sir.  Gasim and I were thinking the same thing.  Discretionary power awaits your orders, sir.”

“Okay, then,” the Captain said softly, his whisper barely audible over the comm.  “Mr. Zark, you may fire when ready.”

OOC:

Word Count: 542.

“What in hell are you doing?” Artur Phylas demanded, his voice an anguished mix of disbelief, fear, and the anger that can only come from being betrayed.

Captain Trykon flashed his teeth in an appreciative grin.  “I’m saving our skins,” he replied, softly and gravely, continuing to hold down the “transmit” key on the communications board.  “Hostile corvette, I present to you the Warden-class cruiser Duty, as a gift of goodwill between myself and your boss, Mr. Diarbach.  Stand down, and together we can subdue the Bountiful Harvest and hyper away.”

For a moment, everything stopped.  The shaking let up as the punishing hail of turbolaser bolts ceased, and Phylas matched Trykon’s grin: the gambit had worked.

A gruff, baritone voice crackled over the comm: “Hold your position, Duty,” the pirate ordered, even as the blockade runner grabbed the Imperial ship with a tractor beam, “and do not interfere.”

Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, Wyl thought to himself.  “Understood.  Trykon out.”  He cut the transmission, and turned to Phylas.  “Convincing,” he said, letting his smile widen.  “You should have been an actor.”

“Maybe next time you’ll give me more lines,” the executive officer replied with a smirk of his own.

“They’re turning, sir!”  Kath Notra’s exclamation drew the Captain’s gaze to the sensors plot: the corvette was coming about, just as Wyl had hoped, returning to its pursuit of the hopelessly slow Bountiful Harvest… and exposing its aft quarter to the Duty.

“Hold,” Trykon commanded, watching the distance-to-target widen.  “They’ll be watching us for signs of a double-cross: they’ll have their rear shields reinforced, until…”  Ahead of the corvette, the Imperial freighter’s Guardian-class escort dutifully slowed down, turning its own guns toward the approaching corvette, and opening fire.  Despite the Duty’s apparent treachery, the escort’s captain was doing his job, even in the face of certain destruction.  I’m putting that ship’s captain in for a commendation, Wyl thought, assuming any of us live through this, that is.  Trykon waited a few seconds, watching the asymmetrical exchange of energy, and then turned to his Chief Gunner: “Now, Mr. Zark!”

The Trandoshan triggered a salvo of two concussion missiles, accompanied by the strongest laser blasts the Duty’s cannons could manage.  The onslaught – unbelievably accurate at such a range, and impossibly powerful for such a small ship, thanks to the inclusion of the non-standard missile-launchers the Vast Empire had quietly installed on the Wardens in its service – brought down the blockade runner’s shields with a brilliant flash, and the big ship’s brightly glowing drive section was suddenly exposed.  Zark hissed in satisfaction, and triggered another volley of missiles and bolts, which slammed into the corvette’s now-unprotected drive section.  The pirate vessel’s engines detonated, overwhelmed by the damage, and the spectacular chain of multi-colored explosions reminded Trykon of a fireworks display he had once seen over Kuat city: beautiful, impressive, and triumphant.

But this victory was not without cost: even as the blockade runner died, it lashed out at its murderers.  The pirates’ forward turbolasers punched through the Guardian-class ship’s shields even as their own were overwhelmed, and the gunners kept pouring energy into the Imperial craft while their own vessel exploded around them, while the aft batteries hammered away at the Duty.  By the time the pirates were all dead, the Imperials were effectively out of the fight, too.

“Report!” Trykon barked, ignoring the warm wet trickling down his cheek.

“Corvette’s gone, sir,” Phylas said happily, standing over Notra’s shoulder.  The Twi’lek pointed at something on his screen, and Phylas sighed.  “But so is the Guardian.  Neither ship launched any escape pods.”

Trykon grimaced.  A posthumous commendation for that ship’s captain, then.  “And what’s our condition?”

The bridge crew reported, and Trykon’s shoulders sagged: the Duty had no more missiles, their guns were overheated, and their shields were effectively gone.  About the only systems still working were the sensors, and communications.

“Those fighters are still out there,” Phylas warned.

“That’s it, then,” Eslara Brin said from her seat at Astrogation, staring blankly at Trykon.  “We’re dead.”

Trykon ignored her, and went over the damage reports again in his mind, dispassionately weighing his resources: sensors, and communications.  Communications.  “No,” he said softly, nodding to himself as an idea took shape.  “We’re not.  Give me an open channel,” he ordered, and Phylas complied.

Wyl took a breath.  “Hostile starfighters, you have seen the fate that awaits any who defy the Vast Empire.  Persist in this criminal action, and I will have no choice but to destroy you all.  Stand down now, and you will not be harmed.”

There was another moment where time seemed to stop, as the pirate pilots weighed their options.  Then, the five remaining uglies cut power to their engines, and stopped chasing their prey.  The battle was over.

“Signal the Bountiful Harvest,” Trykon said.  “Tell them to keep running until the system fleet gets here.”  He exhaled heavily.  Sixteen Imperials dead and a Guardian lost, a wrecked corvette and a handful of captives floating in space, and enough combat damage to require time in drydock, Wyl thought.  So much for a “shakedown cruise.”  “Really well done, team.  Now let’s start picking up the pieces…”

OOC:

Word Count: 864.

This post concludes the Duty's Shakedown Cruise story!  Total length: 3,717 words.