The Wyvern most likely wasn't anyone's first choice as a vessel – she was one of the oldest in the Hielsrane fleet. While many of the other ships were almost lethally aerodynamic, with elongated front decks resembling snarling dragon muzzles and fearsome nacelles shaped like wings, the Wyvern was a clunky and shapeless monstrosity from a bygone era of space travel.
Certain updates had been made, naturally, to keep her from being relegated to the scrap heap. Newer weapons systems, for example, and interstellar engines capable of traveling between systems without burning out and filling the engineering chambers with toxic green smoke.
However, these improvements hadn't been “integrated” so much as carelessly welded on as afterthoughts. The undercarriage was bristling with jagged clusters of rotating blaster tubes and space-to-surface missiles like spears shoved into the belly of a beast, and the new lightspeed drives were ugly lumps bulging from the sides of the hull.
Still, it was all mine.
I hadn't interacted with many humans in my lifetime, but when I was much younger, I visited a distant cousin who kept a human slave as a storyteller. The Earther told us of a crazy old man from his home planet named “Don Kee-Ho-Tee” – an amusing dotard who, as a result of his whimsical senility (or perhaps the effects of sunstroke), saw remarkable and magical things in mundane objects. To him, a collection of battered pots and pans was a suit of armor fit for a warrior, and a windmill was a giant challenging him to combat. The tale had delighted me and had remained in my mind long after other children’s' stories from my youth had faded.
Now, gazing proudly at the Wyvern, I felt like that old coot in his set of cookware armor. To me, this ship wasn't some decrepit pile of junk. When I tilted my head and squinted at it just so, the armaments became the deadly claws of a swooping predator, and the engines took on the shape of a raptor's wings unfurling with the thrill of the hunt.
“I'd be squinting pretty hard too, if I'd been assigned to such a floating pile of rubbish.”
I turned and saw the all-too-familiar form of Ranel coming down the corridor toward me – thick and muscled, with broad shoulders, ruddy scales, and hair that was just starting to go grey at the temples. His yellow eyes were tired, and the grin he wore was lopsided and jaded. He held a data tablet in one claw, and a long black blaster rifle with a crooked, two-pronged barrel in the other.
“Then again,” he went on, “I suppose I'm even worse off. I've been assigned to the captain who's been assigned to that garbage-hauling monstrosity. Not exactly where I saw myself at this stage of my career, but here we are, I suppose.”
I smiled. Ranel was known for his bad temper and crusty demeanor, but he'd always been a good friend and mentor to me, and I was immensely pleased to have him as my first officer.
“Complain all you want,” I told him. “But to me, she's a thing of beauty.”
“I'll have to make the fleet admiral aware of that at once,” he shot back. “We certainly don't need captains who are half-blind and simple-minded leading raids for us. You know what your problem is?”
I couldn't help but sigh at this. “Ranel, if I had a credit for every time you started a sentence with 'You know what your problem is,' I could buy myself a private moon.”
“Your problem,” Ranel continued relentlessly, “is that you're too nice. Everyone says so. You should have demanded a better ship. You should have growled and roared until they gave you one. Instead, you got down on your knees, put your forked tongue right up the commodore's scaly green ass, and said, 'Yes, sir.' And what did you get for your trouble? A scow, that's what.”
“How could I say 'Yes, sir' with my tongue up his ass?” I took the tip of my long tongue between two claws, stretched it out as far as it could go, and gave it my best shot: “Yuh thur.” I let go of my tongue, reeling it in again. “See? Doesn't work.”
“Go ahead. Goof around. The Pax will love that. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be studying these scouting reports and formulating an invasion plan, instead of standing here fondling yourself over your new command?”
“I've already gone over them.”
“And?”
I took a deep breath, regretfully tearing my eyes away from the ship to give him my full attention. “There are nine mining camps on Nort, and according to our data, the N-7 camp is the weakest link in the chain by far in terms of planetary defenses. Their surface-to-orbit cannons are outdated models, with shorter ranges and lower ammunition capacities than those installed in the other camps. Even better, its location is ideal for fending off surface-to-surface attacks due to the mountain ranges surrounding it. Any battalions coming in will be spotted immediately, giving us plenty of time to prepare our defenses.”
“Good. So you can read, instead of just preen and joke. What's your plan, then?”
“N-7's workers and refineries operate day and night, just like the other camps. Needless to say, they have the slaves, overseers, and guards working in shifts. Based on the report, the shift change occurs at the same time each solar cycle. At that precise moment, we'll hit N-7 with the Wyvern, knocking out their communications array and deploying landing parties. Once we've seized control, we'll release the drop-shuttles to fan out and attack the other mining camps before they have a chance to get organized.”
Ranel nodded sagely. “Glad to hear you've thought this through. But what happens next?”
I frowned, confused. “Well, it'll be a close battle at first, but once we send word that we've completed our initial raid and the reinforcements from the Hielsrane fleet arrive, taking and holding the rest of the planet shouldn't be a problem...”
“There won't be any reinforcements.
