In which the Captain questions her position in life.
Ms. Arasha’Ssabi knew she was the pride and joy of her family. After all, she graduated young from the Academy, and through sheer will and discipline, made it through the ranks all the way to captain of her own ship, Starbinder, in less than two centuries. This earned her a pretty pair of lapis lazuli ornaments for her hood, complimenting her lime-green scales. You would think that she was happy and satisfied, right?
Hahaha, oh you.
Of course there was foul play at hand.
While her skill and effort were legit (with a bit of laziness and shortcuts, not gonna lie), the rewards were not without their “irony” as a byproduct of an industry filled with ambition and competition. And when your society numbers in the billions for almost everything, you bet your ass competition is high.
So, Ms. Arasha’Ssabi, a young Jornissian captain filled with dreams of making great space discoveries and yearning for highstakes galactic adventure, didn’t need to be seen in person by the higher-ups before they knew that 1) she was yet another rookie with delusions of grandeur, 2) they already got too many “discovery channel” crews going around, and 3) somebody had to deal with the actual drudgery of running a galactic society, and the ol’ guard sure as hell ain’t cutting it right now. Thus, Captain Arasha’Ssabi of Starbinder was immediately issued the most elemental of missions: space station relocation.
Yes, I know. You would think that with hundreds of thousands of years of spacefaring experience and technology, all space stations would be self-propelling (and by that I mean capable of propelling beyond a planet’s orbit onto another planet’s orbit), but the reality is that it’s always cheaper to build them without it if they are going to stay in the same relative place for centuries.
You can imagine, then, that such a job is low in activity, since the need to relocate an entire space station to a new spot is virtually non-existing (specially if we consider the alternative of just building a new one. And specially if the new one is self-propelling).
So, what to do in between “official missions”? Why, you take on any cargo available in your sector and become yet another space trucker.
Arykins (as her closest confidantes amongst her crew would call her) didn’t take long to shoot herself on the proverbial foot because of her dreamy attitude, immediately taking on jobs that seemed to be “grand space adventures waiting to happen”. But, after years of going back and forth through the same boring and safe galatic routes, dealing with the same cumbersome paperwork and samey cynical C&B officials, memorizing the entire catalog of raw materials moving in the sector, and over all, dealing with a slowly-getting-tired-of-your-shit crew; Arykins soon learned that she was not getting that magical journey through the cosmos (unless putting on a perpetual “resting bitchface” could be called a journey).
“<…And how long ‘till that side is reinforced?>” Said Arykins, working on her console with the enthusiasm of limp spaghetti.
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“[10 hours.]” Said a Karnakian engineer from outside the station. “[But, it won’t stop the main support from cracking eventually. I still suggest we-]”
“
“[That would only make the other hallway more congested, and put more strain on its own framework ‘till it busts.]”
“
“[Ok. I’ll let you know when it’s done.]”
“
With the chat over, Arykins just returned her console’s screen back to the main desk. This was the same drill as every other day: chat with engineering about the current state of smol deathtrap #DX192 and its neverending quest of self-inflicted doom, check on supply deliveries and other wonderful paperwork, chat with officers in charge of supervising the remaining crew, ensure everything is stable enough so accidents don’t kill people, and just stall boredoom long enough ‘till something fun (generally Potato related) happened.
That last part was perhaps the light at the end of the tunnel, as it was both a reminder of her “official job” as a Station Relocator and the (hopefully true) exotic space adventure she was yearning for.
Indeed, she did feel a bit of happiness when she was finally put on a mission that would be officially recognized in her records. And she was even more excited when said mission was relocating a smol space station to a better and safer spot.
Unfortunately, she soon realized the job was just as botched as the rest of them, as said smol station turned out to be a piece of junk that would fall apart at the very moment you stopped looking at it, making transport practically impossible. Then, she got the news that she was now going to be in charge of it, as it was now a Mixed-Species Station and they needed an administrator in short notice. Then, its smol crew abandoned the wretched thing without so much as a “thank you for your help, see ya next Tuesday”, and now it was her responsibility to keep its alien technology as intact as possible despite having zero clue about what makes it tick. (She took a loooong sip of her drink just for remembering that.)
It would all be in vain if it wasn’t because it also let her meet The Potato Crew and (whom she thought) their leader.
Arykins nonchalantly pulled up a small video on her console, where a certain ruby-red Jornissian danced in all his naked glory. “Stupid Sexy Savage.” Thought the Captain with a hungry look.
Beep beep An emergency call came on.
“
“[Captain! The Potatoes just attacked one of our guards!]” Said the Dorarizin officer.
“
Arykins dropped her drink.