"Olympus Beckons - Part 4"
"Stand down all drives, thrusters off, reactor to stand-by. Release incidental systems to station control."
There was a flurry of activity throughout the bridge as her crew carried out their instructions with practiced efficiency and she nodded to herself,
"Guess all the drills are paying off. We might make a warship crew out of them yet."
She felt the slight shudder running through the ship as the umbilical's were attached, and the vessel began to draw power from the station. Her XO examined the readings before looking up, "All systems showing green across the board. Airlock seals are good."
He turned to her, "Docking complete, Captain."
"Very good, Damon, smoothly done."
"Thank you, Ma'am."
"Very well, have the Officer of the Watch take post and deploy sentries to the inner hatches, and once that's done you can crack us open," she grinned, "then, I suppose it's only fair we start releasing the off shift and non-essential personnel for shore leave and R&R."
There was a rustle among the bridge crew, like the release of a pent-up breath. It was always the same when a ship reached any port during a deployment, and they'd been in space for a long time, near enough four months. Everyone was eager to get ashore to spend their credits and maybe indulge in a little well-earned debauchery, or whatever other licentious behavior that rocked their boat. In her younger days she'd been no different. Her lips curled in a wry smile at the memories,
"Probably worse than most, come to think on it."
She had watched the station growing in the viewport as they made their approach. Zesta was a busy place, an important commercial and industrial hub out here on the rim, and she had felt herself leaning forward to observe, with professional interest, as refinery ships, transports, scoutships, and merchant and cargo vessels of all shapes and sizes moved about as they were serviced by the lumbering station. Her eyes flicked across the many smaller mercenary craft her tactical computers had dutifully identified and tagged in order of threat. Most were armed and heavily modified civilian vessels that prowled about the larger ships like remora, and she grunted,
"Bounty-hunters, the jackals of the universe."
One of the little fuckers had actually intruded into the periphery of her defensive sphere, and she'd had tactical lock the cheeky bastard up with the targeting systems, it was good practice after all. Given it wouldn't have taken anything heavier than a quick burst from her point defence autocannons to open him up like a tin can, he'd gotten the message pretty damned quick and moved off at speed, almost slamming into the side of a bulk carrier in the process.
Damon moved alongside and nodded at the station in the viewscreen, "Zesta has quite the reputation. They say you'll never find a more wretched hive of scum and vill-"
She snorted, "Yea, yea, so I hear, but the crew deserve a bit of diversion. They've performed well, especially with all the drills we've been running them through. And if the bosun has to bail a couple of them out of pokey for minor shit, then I can turn a blind eye."
The XO nodded in agreement, "As you say, but with the Captain's permission I'll make sure Mr. Sweet has a quiet word with the worst troublemakers before we set them loose. Just in case."
Giving the man a grin she nodded, "He can be very persuasive when he puts his mind to it, in that jovially intimidating way of his. But I leave handling the crew in your capable hands, Damon. If you think a few words from that old brigand will keep the Pollywogs from straying too far from the straight and narrow, then have at it. Now," she rose smoothly from the command chair, "I have an appointment with a mountain of paperwork before I present my "After-Action" report to Command. You have the con; I'll be in my quarters if you need me."
The man came to attention as he returned the formality, "I have the con; aye," he gave her a grin and took her place as she stretched her back and cracked her neck, "but we're safely in dock. What could go wrong?"
Pausing mid-stretch, she turned to stare at him incredulously before shaking her head in disgust, "Oh my God, Damon, really?"
***
"You're ordering me to what?!"
Commodore Byng was a tall, slender man, who favoured a pencil moustache. Sadly, given his hair was so thin and fair it was near enough invisible the wispy affectation was hardly the daring fashion statement he clearly thought it to be.
He sat behind his desk with a great window behind him, offering a fine view of the docking port, and Frances had cast a wary eye over its orderly neatness. Every item was precisely laid out, exactly in place, from his meticulously arranged marker pens to the staples and paper clips,
"Who the fuck uses paper clips in this day and age."
The man's outfit was immaculate, though why anyone would bother to wear formal dress uniform instead of standard work coveralls defied any logical explanation she could think of. The well-tailored costume did show off his medal ribbons rather prominently and she eyed them, noting the lack of combat citations,
