Following the destruction of another rebel fleet, the Repudiator squadron patrols the Outer Rim for its next mission. The squadron under Commander Gaunt swiftly and mercilessly crushes all enemies of the Empire, accruing an impressive win-loss record in the process. However, trouble brews on the horizon with the reemergence of a familiar face. What lays in store for the valiant crew of the Repudiator squadron?
"Petty Officer Neel, present as ordered."
A hotheaded young TIE fighter pilot stood at parade rest in front of his reporting superior's desk. His hair matched the intense flame in his eyes in both color and wild, unbridled styling that would never fly anywhere outside of the Outer Rim. He was tall and well built, perhaps a bit too well. His broad chest strained against the seams of his uniform, reminding him yet again of his need to buy a better fitting one. One of his most notable features were his ridiculously bushy sideburns that more than exceeded the standard length and toed the line where they became too big to ignore.
Though his gaze was intently fixed on the unnecessarily large desk that the officer sat behind, the rest of the office was almost as standard issue as their occupiers. The room was not particularly large, but the desk stretched nearly wall to wall, forcing anyone who sat behind it to suck in a breath and shimmy around it. All of the surfaces in the room save the desk were a dull gray; the only details that set this room apart from the others in the crew spaces of the Violator, the flagship star destroyer of the Repudiator squadron, were the number on the door and the configuration of hull protrusions and pipes courtesy of the ship's welding. It gave the impression that, despite the Empire's unlimited resources, crew spaces and comfort were an afterthought. The sole personal decoration upon a sea of austere military colors was a holoprojector that displayed a head of a person he did not recognize. Various officer equipment was strewn on the jet black desk in a manner suggesting that organization was attempted but, if the deep lines and eye bags on the officer's face were any indication, abandoned due to exhaustion.
The young pilot postured proudly; a confident grin and a razor-sharp expression adorned his face. He anticipated that he would be getting an award for his performance in the last engagement. It was only natural; he had destroyed one of the rebel ships with a well-placed shot to the bridge after all. He bristled with anticipation at the prospect of getting more respect from the rest of the crew and a promotion if he was lucky. The officer, Lieutenant Farelle, by contrast looked as if he could fall asleep at any moment. The only thing put together about him was his uniform, which was neatly pressed and measured. His hair was cropped with just as much precision, shaved down to all but reveal the sides of his head not covered by his cap. By contrast to what the enlisted called the "standard issue officer", he was tall and quite muscular, presumably owed to time spent at the ship's gym. He probably had to jump over the desk; there was no way he could squeeze around it.
"Neel, some of the NCOs told me that you've been performing your pre-flight checks without your procedure open," the officer said with a tone equal parts bored, fed up, and tired. Neel's heart caught in his throat. So that's what this was; he was here to get dressed down, not up. Panic forced its way into his mind. He knew his recent string of violations was sure to get him kicked off of the crew, robbing him of Commander Gaunt's unflappable commanding. There was a not insubstantial chance that it could happen now. He could not allow it.
So who is Commander Gaunt exactly? Only the most excellent CO a TIE fighter pilot could ask for. He led with confidence and providence. His attention to detail was only matched by his concern for his subordinates. In fact, he was such a great commander that he only ever needed one tactic to subdue his foes, though Neel was absolutely convinced that he could come up with many other brilliant strategies from his impeccable military mind. He also did not tolerate the incompetent, which is exactly what Neel was right now.
Neel's racing thoughts were interrupted by a loud snap. "Neel, you there?"
Neel jolted, the shock caused him to stand straight up as fear tightened its grip on him. "Sir, yes, sir!" Neel shouted. He could not even bear to look his superior in the eye. His lips grew ever tighter and his eyes squeezed shut as he awaited his inevitable dismissal from the Violator.
The officer sighed, buried his face into his hand, and massaged as close to his temples as his fingers could get. "You didn't get out of basic yesterday. Knock it off. Anyway, just keep your procedure open at least while you ready up. I know doing everything by the book would be too slow to actually get anything done, but at least pretend."
Neel stood straight up, his terror unassuaged by the lack of anger in his superior's voice. The officer's eyes narrowed in annoyance, and after a few seconds of silence passed between them he spoke up.
"You're dismissed."
Neel's eyes went wide and his heart sunk. He stayed frozen in place as the world went quiet save the loud ringing in his ears. His worst fears were confirmed; his incompetence had finally caught up to him. He would have to find a way to say goodbye to Commander Gaunt and Flight Lieutenant Ada, his heartthrob, before he left. Neither of them had really acknowledged his existence, but he would try anyway. Ada deserved one last box of chocolates and for Commander Gaunt he could get on the bridge when…
His thoughts were interrupted once again by the junior officer in front of him.
"Neel, let me let you in on a secret. This is the part where you leave my office and get back to your job," the officer whispered, leaning forward and cupping his hand over his mouth as if there were someone that cared enough to know said secret in the room. He detected a hint of mirth in the officer's tone, but abruptly followed his orders to leave before the officer changed his mind about the dismissal.
Neel spoke not a word as he about-faced and goose stepped out of the office. He heard the officer let out an exasperated groan and the chair creak as he leaned back into it on the way out. Neel stopped after the door shut to breathe a heavy sigh of relief and collect himself before he made his way over to the rest of the crew. Things had been going so well up until a few minutes ago. His heart had swelled after he left chocolate for Flight Lieutenant Ada, and had inflated until it almost burst when he was called into the office. Now his ego had been thrown straight down the trash chute and crushed until there was almost nothing left. He sulked down the hallway until he bumped into someone, causing a hot liquid to splatter onto him. When Neel looked up he was faced by Wing Commander Rosh's famous mildly agitated look and caf soaked uniform.
Wing Commander Rosh was a middle aged man who perfectly fit the stereotype of a grizzled veteran pilot. His hair was cropped to millimeter precision in the spots that would have failed him on an inspection: the front of his head, sideburns, and neck. His receding hairline greatly aided in keeping the maintenance for hair low. In fact, it had receded so much that the sides of his head were nearly bald and a widow's peak formed uncomfortably close to the top of his head, further emphasized by his tendency to comb his hair straight back. The back of his head told a different story, though. It was mostly well-kept, but bore cowlicks that greatly contrasted his otherwise miserly perfectionist personality. He also wore a great mustache that paired well with his chiseled jawline and strong chin. To no surprise, his uniform was unimpeachable unless something was spilled on it.
"I'm so sorry, sir, it won't happen again I swear…" Neel pleaded, waving his hands feverishly as his words devolved into unintelligible babbling. Rosh cut him off with a grunt and continued down the hall as if nothing happened. Neel held his breath as he watched the wing commander go by and breathed a sigh of relief once there was a good distance between them. He needed to go back to berthing to fix his uniform before he was called into an office for the final time. In order to do that, he had to cut through one of the Violator's many hangars. He marveled at the sheer scale of the place as the hatch behind him hissed shut.
The ceiling towered so high that an AT-AT could fit comfortably with plenty of room for the roof scaffolding that pilots used to enter TIE fighters and ample space to detach and launch. The floor of the hangar was polished to a glassy black sheen. That same black material was used for the walls, but it was broken up by polished steel-colored ribs that seemed to support the structure. It was hard not to feel a bit powerful in here; every footfall reverberated through the tile and echoed deeply when the hangar was quiet. During these hours, though, it was anything but. Instead, the echo worked against the crew as the cacophony in the hangar harmonized. It took him a bit to get used to but it came eventually.
Equipment was strewn everywhere as maintenance crews rushed to complete their checklists on schedule. He watched his step to avoid the various cables and hoses and the occasional loose tool. There were designated walking paths to preclude injury, but he was taking a detour to visit a very special someone. The easiest place to find her was by her trusty TIE/sa bomber and find her he did. He stopped next to the chassis of another TIE bomber under maintenance when he saw a heated argument going on next to her "baby" as she called it.
"I'm telling you, it's a great idea!" Ada exclaimed, excited to dump her next bomber design recommendation on the aviation maintenance officer unfortunate enough to be surveying the maintenance in her general vicinity. Neel overheard a rumor that they had made a schedule specifically for walking through her area due to the frequent occurrences of the argument unfolding in front of him.
"Ada, you know this isn't possible. It was hard enough getting that cluster missile authorized. Development and materials were still expensive even with the extremely detailed engineering models you provided. There has been no other pilot in the history of the Imperial Navy that got one of their insane ideas fully implemented, so please do us all a favor and stop asking," the officer said with a resigned sigh. He leaned back with his foot turned to leave as he frantically looked for ways to disengage. He would not escape so easily.
"No, no, this one's easy! All you have to do is reprogram the ship's control system to deliver power to the weapon systems and put in a few wires so that the power can get there and a switch setting on the console; we don't need all of those buttons anyway! Simple!" she explained giddily with a balled fist on one hip and her helmet cradled by her free arm.
To Neel, Ada was perfect. She wore her hair in all sorts of ways that were as wild as his attraction to her. The only commonalities between the styles were her flagrant disregard for grooming standards and perfect part to show off a large, cool scar that ran down most of her face and over her eye. The eye was still intact, thankfully, because he couldn't see her doing anything other than piloting her TIE bomber. She had apparently gotten it during a dogfight where she took down 12 X-wings. Not to mention she had these piercing blue eyes that lit up whenever anyone said something that even sounded like the word "bomber". She was so cool. He kept his comically large sideburns at least in part to follow in her footsteps.
"Making a new weapon system is one thing since it doesn't modify the base design of the fighter. TIE fighters are built to…"
"Bombers," she interrupted. Her eyebrow twitched. One other thing that the maintenance officers disliked about working with her was her berserk button related to TIE bomber trivia.
"...bombers are designed and built to very rigorous safety and performance standards. Rewiring and reprogramming them violates their operating envelope, which is completely unacceptable," he growled through gritted teeth. A vein started to bulge out of his reddening forehead.
"Think of how much better it will make the bombers, though! Being able to freely distribute power will grant so much flexibility…"
"Good day, Flight Lieutenant Ada," the maintenance officer nearly snarled as he hurriedly pushed past her. She stared daggers at him so intently that he probably felt them stab into his back. After he put a good distance between them, Ada shrugged and went back to tinkering with some of the neatly laid out parts she had pulled from a panel on her spacecraft. Neel knew she would almost certainly kill him if he interrupted her quality time with her baby, so he decided to linger and watch her, but just long enough for him to avoid potential knife hands from lurking NCOs.
Neel made his way into berthing, briefly looking into the small crew's lounge attached to it. It gave the junior pilots reprieve partly due to its proximity to berthing and because shinies (their colloquial name for officers and NCOs) rarely came through there. His crewmates were playing a popular game, Death Rebels. Zombie games were all the rage right now and this one was probably the best of the bunch. The plot involved some intrepid imperials investigating an abandoned rebel ship only to find some horrific human experimentation that turned people into zombies. The entire crew was zombified and predictably the objective was to leave the ship. Sounded on brand for the rebels to Neel.
Neel quickly changed his uniform and joined his friends in the lounge.
Down in the bowels of the ship LT Astar stood up straight, lethargically minding the many readouts in the Solar Ionization Reactor Control Room, or reactors as it was commonly known among the crew. In general her job was to maintain order in reactors and take command in the event of any casualties, but right now her job was to prevent herself from collapsing onto her station.
She'd kill for some stim or caf. Getting stim to everyone who needed it would likely bankrupt the Empire who'd now have a rash of drug addicted operators on their hands. Caf of course was unacceptable because spilling it could ground out some of the controls, rendering reactors unusable. She knew the plant front and back, so she knew it was a crock of bantha fodder. Procedure is procedure; however, despite the headache it caused she found herself leaning on it when in moments like these where she operated on instinct.
She still stood tall despite her sleep deprivation. Even if they never said it, she knew that the manner she exuded had a significant effect on those stood watch with. Her coarse hair was fashioned into a bun as tight as the coils that characterized it. Her dark skin had a sheen to it that was a testament to how hard she worked to keep it moisturized and healthy despite her hectic schedule. Her uniform was impeccable despite the fact that it was a working uniform and the relaxed uniform standards down in the power plant. Otherwise she was of average height and build for a woman in the Imperial Navy, uncommon as they were.
Her station was situated behind the operators in a manner similar to the captain on the bridge, but she was given no chair; long watch rotations did not leave much time for sleep so it was probably best that she stand anyway. A number of screen-clad pedestals displaying most of the important plant parameters encircled her. Reactor temperature, reactor pressure, power grid voltage and current, ship compartment conditions, and equipment conditions were the important ones but there were enough to make monitoring them all an impossibility. Luckily the system warned her when it detected unsafe parameters and even predicted possible casualties based on trends. Enlisted and more junior officer personnel buzzed in front of her, minding their stations to control various parts of the ship's power plant.
The reactor itself was a marvel of engineering. It consisted of a spherical power generator with a hypermatter reactor at its core. The core generated power by creating what was essentially a star but with the much more energy dense tachyons. The process was not nearly as simple as smashing nuclei together as it would in the core of a star, but for an operator it made little difference. The circular core enclosure provided multiple levels of power extraction and heat removal for maximum efficiency. The main structure of the core acted as solar panels of sorts with multiple layers to absorb all spectrums of radiation. Thermocouples made up the next layer, converting the excess heat from radiation with incredible efficiency. The penultimate layer consisted of a pressure apparatus that converted the hydrostatic pressure into useful energy. The final layer was a cooling jacket filled with a liquid with a very high specific heat to absorb as much energy as possible before being pumped to another array of specially designed thermocouples.
Star destroyers typically had 3 reactor plants with 1 of her peers stationed at each reactor. 1 reactor could power the entire ship, but they were designed around the principle that the ship was capable of escaping if one reactor failed and one was destroyed during battle. They minimized the risk of a reactor accident by keeping as few reactors as possible. Two reactors were run at a time to share load and were rotated periodically to minimize risk of reactor failure. The Empire apparently did not like the prospect of hauling a star destroyer back to refit if the ship's batteries ran dry.
When she was younger, she regarded the reactor and its operators as hallowed. They were the best of the best; quick response and vast technical knowledge were the name of the game in the plant. When she finally became an operator, the reality was not quite as glamorous as she hoped. The job certainly was as important as she imagined, but the rub was that it was extremely high stress with long hours and little sleep. She still liked her job, but certainly did not like the bureaucracy and the insane regulation that came with plant work.
She massaged her temples before she spiraled down a hole about all the paperwork to be done. She had already written her tasks down and made a schedule to accomplish it. One thing at a time. She perked up when she heard a troubling conversation between two of the operators in front of her.
"Hey Carver, you think our uniforms are puncture resistant?"
"No idea Kishanti, you should probably try it out," Carver said jokingly. Their eyes sported heavy bags, so Astar watched them closely to try to prevent what might be soon to come.
"Knock it off, you two. The uniforms are not puncture resistant," she stated flatly.
"You don't know until you try," Carver said provocatively, apparently still under the impression that nobody was that reckless.
Kishanti for reasons known only to himself quickly pulled his knife out of his pocket, and despite Astar's protests plunged it straight into his leg. She looked on in horror as a stream of blood poured from his knife wound. Carver looked just as shocked as Astar. All of reactors immediately turned to look when Kishanti screamed after afflicting himself with a stab wound. The room erupted into tumult as personnel rushed to get medical equipment for the wounded operator while maintaining awareness of their stations.
"You numbskull; I thought you were just going to pull out your pant leg and stab that!" Carver yelled as he was handed a bacta patch and attempted to staunch the bleeding. Astar had thought the same, but what actually happened was beyond her bar for on watch antics. However, she was too busy attempting to corral the pandemonium and direct emergency actions to pay it anymore heed.