Bimissari



[INDENT]“Commodore Shipwright,” called a soft female voice. “The shuttle is prepared, sir.”[/INDENT]

The man with the face of a boy turned a black stare over his shoulder. He had been adjusting his collar and cap in the polish of a brass rail. Alone in the pre-flight area Lance had never felt more isolated.

Lieutenant d’Foose appeared in the doorway, her beige fatigues in stark contrast with the clinical white of the waiting area. She carried a flight helmet under her arm, long auburn locks flowing down the back of her flight suit.

Some things were very different from the Imperial Academy indeed.

Despite himself Lance found his eyes tracing the outline of her figure against the bulge of the military issue garment that contrived to hide her features. A play of the light drew his gaze up to her hair, he smiled.

“Excuse me Lieutenant, I am a little overcome by the size of this assignment. I did not mean to stare.” He sounded almost convincing.

“Not to worry sir. I understand.” She did not sound coy nor did she imply any displeasure that the Commodore could detect. “This way.”

A self conscious hand, a barely conscious action, found Lance dusting the lapels of his uniform while smugly studying the rise and sway of d’Foose’ rear. He chided himself, checked his stride and followed the Lieutenant onto the tarmac.

Commodore Shipwright immediately froze upon witnessing his conveyance.

Ringed by half a dozen space superiority star-fighters sat a squat and heavily armed transport. Anti-artillery packs bulged at odd angles only to be reinforced by double-thick bulkhead armor.

Though unfamiliar with the design of these particular vessels his skilled eye immediately began to pick the ships apart.

He did not immediately resume his course which drew the Lieutenants attention. With one foot planted on the deck of the ungainly shuttle, her flight helmet donned but not secured, she turned an incredulous eye on her superior officer.

“Sir?”

“Hmm, oh yes.” Lance withdrew from his private study and, with a hand, managed to board the vessel and struggle uncomfortably into his seat. “A squadron escort, is that really necessary?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sir.” From the cockpit, separated by a narrow door from the passenger compartment, d’Foose lost her voice to the roar of the engines. “I’m just the driver.”

Cramped in his seat, straight-backed without enough padding, Lance found that the shuttle, more then anything, reminded him that he was, in fact, in the service again. Surrounded by the utilitarian he felt out of place, as though his two years on the rim had instilled in him the sense of the immortal self.

This too would pass, as Ferguson had indicated. On post, given his own command, he would be commanding a much more liberal branch of the armed forces… one dedicated to science and innovation.

… as Ferguson had promised along with so much more.

“Eight hours until arrival at rendezvous. ETA for hyperspace in t-minus thirty five mikes and counting.” Over the in-flight intercom Lance noted that d’Foose sounded almost inhuman, almost mechanical. Maybe it had more to do with her training, he thought.

For now everything else could wait.

Lance closed his eyes and sunk into a state of sleep-like meditation only the most experienced deep space pilots can manage.

Soon.

The age of inevitability is upon us.

You have before you the means to change reality as we know it.

We are faced with an issue that transcends morality.

Dissemination of invention is over.

Lieutenant d’Foose tabbed through another dozen pages of similarly motivational phrases.

A terrible cramp drew her hand to her shoulder.

“Computers are for the birds,” she groaned and dug a knuckle into her shoulder. Alone in the recreation area of the enlisted barracks her voiced echoed off of the heavy exposed bulkheads.

She gazed out an observation bubble at an unremarkable void marked by a smattering of stars and distant nebulae.

“End program.”

Above deck the young Commodore she had escorted from Bimissari was probably taking command; whatever that involved and try as she might she remained unable to focus on the task at hand.

The terminal blinked off.

Bathed in darkness, save for the ambient light leaking in from the entrance to the rec, she sat and quietly contemplated the man she had known for only a few hours and the man who it seemed would become her commanding officer.

While it seemed unusual for a flight Commodore to be placed in a position of such authority d’Foose had to admit that, given the project, nothing was impossible. She fully expected a full rotation of the higher ranking military personnel within the month.

They called it a “lateral promotion” but what had landed her here, at this post, was nothing short of a total demotion. However; she’d admit that it had sounded better then two years in the stocks.

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Commodore Shipwright had leered at her. You never forget first impressions. But it hadn’t been a lustful or improper stare, near as she could tell. Regardless, she immediately disliked the man and she could not honestly explain why. As expected, however; she would not allow her personal feelings to affect her job performance.

Still, something about the man did not sit right with her…

Welcome aboard the Research and Development Ship Uniform.

As the RDS Uniform Project is classified Top Secret please verify Beta level clearance.

“****** ***** ** **** * ****”

Thank you.

Welcome to UniMatee; artificial intelligence interface for the RDS Uniform.

Would you like to take a tour of the RDS Uniform?

“Yes, I would like to take a tour of the RDS Uniform.”

Thank you.

The RDS Uniform is a unique vessel, the only ship of it class and the largest deep-space platform of its designation currently in use throughout the known Galaxy.

Aboard the RDS Uniform Coalition scientists probe the limits of theoretical exploration, conducting experiments that may be unsafe in populated sectors.

Over two kilometers long and host to a number of specialized escort vessels the Uniform functions with almost total autonomy and is largely able to replenish its stores while underway.

“I would like to know more about the dimensions of the ship.”

The RDS Uniform has a two thousand meter keel. The vessel features two distinct hemispheres each with a beam of five hundred fifty meters and an outward radius of three hundred meters. The outermost width of this vessel is one thousand two hundred forty four meters.

Does this comply with your request? Further specifics are available.

“No. Locate the bridge.”

The main command bridge is located on deck 10 of the command module located between the industrial domes.

“UniMate, pause program.”




“It sounds like a school teacher,” commented Captain Dolan. The stern faced officer had taken an immediate dislike to the new Commodore. “Can you do something about that?”

“No,” replied Commodore Shipwright flatly. “This meeting is to inform you and your executive officers of the changes I will be implementing, not collaboration.”

The two officers glared at one another.

Forty something and a lifer in the Coalition navy, Captain Dolan resented anyone recruited from the outside. He particularly resented young, upstart officers with the political clout to challenge his command.

Intelligence had made it perfectly clear that the young Shipwright was to have full run of ship but as far as Dolan was concerned the boy had yet to prove himself.

The first thing Lance had done upon arrival was to order a meeting of the ships command staff, departmentalized. A flight-operations briefing room had to be quickly modified to accommodate the almost thirty beings that had attended.

His uniform was still crisp despite the long flight. Lance stood at the head of the room detailing the first line of projects he expected to be implemented. How he had concocted such a list of demands in such short time remained a mystery to all but him.

“Let me break form for a moment,” spoke the Commodore in a purposefully petulant tone. “Age, race and gender are going to become truly meaningless as this project progresses. I expect you, as the serving arm of the RDS Uniform, will see an almost full rotation of commissioned persons in favor of private sector employees. A number of separate and independent contracts will, in time, be encompassed aboard this mobile research platform; all of which will fall under the final prevue of the higher ups represented by myself.”

“I understand and respect that many among you will have trouble adapting to this new command environment but I also fully expect and demand that you adapt and perform with the level of professionalism inherent in such an expansive unity. Those of you who cannot adapt will be rotated out.”

He let that sink in for a moment and then continued…

“And I am certain that I do not need to remind anyone here that they have already signed non-disclosure forms and sworn service oaths to uphold the secrecy of this project.”

Which was tantamount to threatening lateral-promotion to the most desolate and isolated commands failing this one. Even Captain Dolan had to admit that the lad had direction.

“Alright then, I suppose that you have enough information on the technical applications. The appropriate files have been made acessable to you all through the central computer.”

Commodore Shipwright nodded to the Captain.

“Dismissed,” snapped Dolan.

Dolan and Shipwright stayed behind while the room slowly emptied. A number of the officers diverting towards the Commodore to offer salutations and a general sense of welcome.

As the last man filed out of the briefing room Shipwright said, “Some of them seem genuinely interested in the project.”

With a blast of compressed air the door rushed shut leaving Dolan and Shipwright alone.

“Have a seat,” Dolan gestured toward one of the high backed chairs, spinning one around for himself. “I think we need to have a talk.”

“Yes,” admitted the Commodore. “You’re probably right.”

“I know you were an Imperial,” said Dolan in a nonchalant sort of way that froze Lance half sitting, half standing on the offered seat. “It isn’t any secret really.”

“No,” admitted the Commodore again. “You’re probably right.”

For a long moment neither man said a word.

“I don’t make any excuses for that.” Lance shrugged. “A brilliant mind needs brilliant instruction. It was the best option and in all honesty; even if the Design Academy was a military installation most of it was purely technical for the students.”

“Indeed, that is much the same as I’ve heard,” Dolan conceded. “All the same you wear the uniform like a veteran.”

Lance shrugged again. Brilliant though he was the Commodore found himself struggling to get the upper hand. Conversing with Dolan felt too much like talking with his own father.

“How does this work then, Shipwright?” Dolan met Lances gaze with an honest and stern stare that seemed to puncture his every defense and reduce him to a child facing his father. “I know what I need to know about you. I don’t know what I need to know about this project. Six months in, a brand new starship, and a brand new command structure? It all reeks of a black bag.”

“Look, son, I don’t care about politics. If I did I’d be an Admiral by now. I just want to know what I need to know to protect my people.”

Lance broke. Like a frozen river come spring his surface cracked revealing a sort of humanity that he had long denied himself in order to convince others to look past his age.

“I don’t know.” Shipwright stood and yanked open the buttons of his lapel. He snaked a hand around his neck as though struggling for air and, leaning against the wall, thumped his other fist against the white board. “I don’t know what they want from me. I have an idea but this is big; bigger then any project I’ve managed before.”

“I’m an engineer, a geek. I’m a scientist.”

At the outburst Dolan only smiled, a sort of blissful and playful grin that stretched his thin lips from ear to ear.

“What?” demanded Lance.

“If you don’t know what they want, Commodore, then it’s a fair bet they don’t know what they want either.”

It was Lances turn to grin, and suddenly, the puzzle fit.

Deep within the bowels of the computer core located in the virtual stomach of the RDS Uniform engineering team 6-B struggled with a mainframe liquid cooling unit. The ungainly radiator was giving the four man detachment more trouble then any of them had expected today.

“Remind me again why we’re doing this,” demanded Jonson, the team apprentice. “This whole section registered 98.5 %”

“We are doing this, Jonson, because it’s our job and it’s what we’ve been assigned.” Quinton, senior supervisor, rarely allowed for dissention within his units. Civilian or not he expected the highest level of professionalism in everyone who worked under him. “And if you’re not careful you’re going to find yourself pulling waste-disposal duty for a week.”

“Bah!” Stanton, a midlevel human engineer, cursed. “It’s all automated anyway. I don’t think there’s even one crap job left on this boat. Everything is automated and if our new Commodore has his way pretty soon the machines will be doing even more of the work.”

Quinton, like Stanton, dreamed of more illustrious projects and indeed this had drawn both men to serve on the Uniform project. Jonson, they both imagined, was only in it for the money.

“Projected automation of the Uniform will increase efficiency and productivity 34.89 % over the next two months.”

Quinton, Stanton, and Jonson glared at their android counterpart with ranged looks of total incredulity. They had all worked with ‘droids extensively in their careers but few of the units to which they had been previously exposed possessed the processor capability of their Proto-Human Android Counterpart.

“PHAC,” suggested Quinton, “maybe you should take a look at conductor pylon three.”

Once the android was safely out of earshot Quinton turned to address his cohort directly.

“I’ve heard about this Shipwright fellow. You all know me and I wouldn’t lie to you. This kid is going to change everything. Mark my words.”

Lieutenant d’Foose studied her hand. Over the edge of her burgeoning full-house she also studied her opponents.

Recently the flight crew had been on extended stand down. For the past few weeks the enlisted personnel had enjoyed a welcome period of relaxed duty. The Uniform had moved into safer territory to take on supplies and exchange yet another rotation of civilians. Aside from escorting the tide of vessels in and out of sensor range there remained little call for the fighter jocks to wind themselves up.

The result was that sabaac had become the most popular ship-board activity.

“Check,” she said in a flat monotone, her face a perfect blank.

Unfortunately, with amount of free time she found herself with d’Foose was unable to keep her mind off of the Commodore. It was virtually impossible to escape the name Shipwright, so pervasive were the changes he had been implementing few crewmen could save themselves a bit of idle gossip.

“Between Dolan and the Commodore the command staff has been completely changed. I mean it’s the same stuff we were talking about six months ago but this guy is actually doing it.”

D’Foose listened distantly to the other players talk amongst them paying little attention to who actually said what.

“Have you seen some of the civies they’ve brought aboard? You won’t catch me complaining about the women.”

“It sure is different from my old post aboard the Reliant. No civilians there.”

“I really can’t believe the information lockdown protocols though. Reading our mail?”

“Everything we do here is for the greater good. We’re on the cutting edge out here. The stuff they’re working on in the labs is just amazing. Rumors about a new stealth torpedo system are pretty common in the engineering sections.”

“That’s nothing. I ran point on a shipment of bimolecular scanners last week. Since when are we doing genetics work?”

“You boys and your toys,” d’Foose interjected. “Commodore Shipwright is just like this.”

She played her hand.

“He’s a perfect sabaac.”

“Reduce photonic fifteen degrees off pole.”

Commodore Shipwright studied the design floor; the flurry of activity as technicians and engineers bustled about, occasionally coming near blows. Holographic renderings resolved themselves above a dozen workstations; each displaying some integral schematic for the new vessel. Data-pads and film cartridges cluttered the floor.

“Fifteen percent reduction in photonic charge is confirmed,” reported a technician seated just to the Commodores left. A cacophony of audio input danced through an array of pie chart and sectional renderings. “We have a negative response on pole, Commodore. My projections clearly indicate that anything over twenty will destabilize the matrix.”

A dry explosion shook their feet. From the design floor someone shouted.

“Twenty is confirmed. Damage crews report to DS-Dome-109 on the double; follow radiation protocols.” Lance drummed out the orders in a dull monotone. Explosions had become the flavor of the day. “Restart the engine. Non-essential personnel… take five.”

Lance Shipwright did a weary about face. He jerked a finger at the technician and angled his feet in the direction of the project-staff lounge. DS-Dome-109 was a fully contained project area, only the Commodore and damage crews came and went (the latter under harsh scrutiny).

The lounge was, in fact, just another conference room though with the addition of snacks and beverages. Only coordinator level staff came here to socialize. Commodore Shipwright seated himself at one end of a long table. Polished boot heels on the tabletop, he kicked the chair back onto its two legs.

“This project would be on ice without you and yours, Delta.”

The technician, a human in coveralls, perched himself neatly in a chair not too far from the Commodore. Delta, as the Commodore had addressed him, nodded politely.

“Androids have been instrumental in many similar projects,” replied Delta in a matter-of-fact sort of voice. “However I find your estimation of… our… worth in relation to this project to be overstated. The total computing power of the RDS Uniform is, currently, unparalleled by any publicly known system. I have observed a fifty percent additional increase in productivity since the incorporation of android counterparts.”

“Indeed, and this is to say nothing of the more classified issues I have directed your group to pursue. It is about this that I want to talk with you, Delta.”

The android nodded.

“Stanton and Quinton, hardware crew in section Gamma; I understand one of your units was assigned to their detachment to address a build-up issue in one of the processor cores. I would like you to transmit audio and video recordings from that unit to my offices on the command deck. Also, I will need you to compile a summarized progress report to transmit to Intelligence in the next four days.”

“Affirmative,” confirmed the android. “How... summarized… do you wish this project report to be?”

“Just enough to keep Ferguson and his brood happy for another month or two. It will be transmitted through the usual unofficial channels.”

“Affirmative.”

Commodore Shipwright nodded.

“Excellent. I’d like you to oversee the next series of trials on the project. Report directly to me. Also…”

Something akin to worry creased the Commodores features.

“Do you believe your nature has been compromised as of yet?”

“Negative, sir,” responded the almost-human replicant. The android employed an emphasis on the word ‘sir’ that seemed to imply a level of trust hard to achieve between mechanical and biological mediums. “I have done as instructed, I have distanced myself from the biologicals. If I may… I believe they see this unit as aloof and administrative, an association I am led to believe is common among biologicals subservient.”

“Indeed,” the Commodore chuckled. “Indeed.”

With uncanny ease of ability Lieutenant d’Foose turned her experimental starfighter in a tight series of maneuvers designed to test the structural integrity of the craft. At only eight meters long, unarmed and unarmored, the prototype responded with unusual acuity, her every command answered by a complex grid of electron-gyroscopes and inverted thrust vector vents.

“Is this thing for real?” Her attention focused on avoiding a series of hyperspace buoys, d’Foose clicked her aural microphone on. “I mean, will it work?”

The craft was a perfect sphere. Its surface, some flat tone black alloy seemed to be inlaid with a network of bulging gyro-domes. A thick ring of bracing supports gave the craft an octagonal appearance.

Inside the pilot, in this case flight Lieutenant d’Foose, was kept upright and immersed in a virtual environment composed of all those elements pivotal to any starfighter. To fight the crafts inertial momentum from shaking the vessel out from under her d’Foose had to keep the compensators dialed to maximum. Even the beefy units mounted just behind her, with their auxiliary energy boosters, were hard pressed to keep her totally secure.

“Control, you’ll need to tell those engineers to have a look at redesigning this brace.”

Her hands were strapped into complex throttle/keyboard combinations that kept her arms spread too wide to properly support her own weight. And even with her calves strapped firmly into the leg braces she was finding it difficult to manipulate the food pedals.

“The ship is great,” she reinforced. “It flies like its part of me… almost. I’m totally coming loose in here.”

As if to punctuate her point, to the tone of torn fabric and popping clasps d’Foose tumbled out of her brace. With her arms and legs still secure, however; her own weight nearly broke her arms.

“Gah!” She exclaimed aloud. “Halo!”

The simulator stopped immediately. A mechanical voice informed her, “You have terminated this program, security word recognized. Thank you.”

“Blew it again,” observed the Commodore over the communicator. “Get her out of there. Refresh and resume the simulation.”

“It’s not the design,” admitted d’Foose once free of the simulator rig and rubbing her sore wrists with bacta cream. “It’s the interface. I know you’re guys are trying something new here but do you really want fighter pilots to have to adapt to this new standing formula?”

“You see to be adapting well,” observed the project coordinator, a lanky human female of perhaps thirty cycles.

“With all due respect Sandrax, I’m a woman.”

Commodore Shipwright smirked. “Your point, Lieutenant?”

“I believe I understand the problem,” said Sandrax, interrupting the pilot. “It’s a musculature problem. We have projections for species conflicts…”

“Disregard them immediately,” declared the Commodore. “The project is to incorporate both male and female pilots, using humans as the template. I believe that was stated in my earlier memo.”

At this Sandrax looked abashed. Taken aback it took her a moment to regain her composure.

“The project was, as I understood when I signed on, a multi-species effort. I cannot imagine that…”

“Then I suggest you find a way to imagine it or your title as Project Leader could become compromised.”

Caught between the two Lieutenant d’Foose and the rest of the design team fell deathly silent.

“I will do as you instruct,” conceded Sandrax uneasily. “I apologize for not doing so when you first made it evident.”

“Excellent,” the Commodore adjusted his collar. “Then I won’t keep you fine folk a moment longer. There is work to be done.”

Against the black backdrop of deep space the RDS Uniform sat bright and aglow in an otherwise dismally isolated sector of no where. A flurry of activity, workers in EV suits and construction ‘droids alike, chocked local space in a thick cloud of seemingly unorganized debris while, on the far edge a trio of heavy cargo freighters were actively unloading their cargos into the open vacuum.

The Uniform sat, squat and immobile, with its two massive pylons splayed open. On either side of its hulls two vessels were taking shape. Their keels had been laid only eight months earlier.

Commodore Shipwright had pulled out all the stops. With the help of the Coalition he had been able to redouble the Uniforms workforce and, in many cases, staff had to be reassigned from other projects. For eight months, between three shifts, the activity had been nonstop. Supplies had been streamlined in from Bimmisarri, often having been re-routed from other distant ports of call.

Inspections were regular, though never from outside the project.

Delays had arisen but in all cases had been quickly resolved. With the right motivation Commodore Shipwright had been able to exercise some authority in speeding the project along both inside and out. Ultimatly even those few delays in shipment, generally influenced from without, failed to detract from the overall progress of the thing.

These two vessels would be the first ships-of-the-line designed by Galactic Technologies under partial contract. Commodore Shipwright intended to see to it that the first of these ships would be deployed in escort of the RDS Uniform, his command.

At four and six hundred meters respectively, the design and construction of these warships had been a massive undertaking. The RDS Uniform could function as a shipyard, in a limited capacity, but with only two slips, neither of which had been designed with such large construction efforts in mind, the projects had pushed the ships tolerance to maximum.

The foundry modules worked without pause to pump out the massive steel girders needed to form the ships superstructures. Engineering and electrical crews followed perilously close behind the teams working ahead of them laying pipe and bulkhead. Each component had been produced “in house” thanks to the constant stream of supplies being ferried across space to meet the demands of such an ambitious evolution. Everything about these ships was being designed and built from the ground up, which is not to say that they had not borrowed some qualities from external sources.

At over six hundred meters, when complete, the largest of the two starships would become an area-defense destroyer. On launch it would be christened ‘Colonial’ DDG-001 and the line to follow named for the first in their class. Designed as a long-range escort-type destroyer, the Colonial-class ships would work in tandem with their smaller counterpart, also being constructed at the Uniform shipyard. Of the two ships in construction this would be the more heavily armed.

The smaller keel, spanning some four hundred meters, would become the first Commonwealth-class multi-role patrol frigate. It would feature a moderate compliment of weapons while mounting powerful shields and boasting a thick, armored hull. Powerful engines, driven by a fission/fusion micro-power plant, would hopefully drive the destroyer at incredible speeds for a vessel its size.

At only two months from completion, the ships would soon be put through shake-down trials.

“They are doing what?”

Commodore Shipwright stormed onto the bridge of the RDS Uniform, a retinue of ‘droids and technicians alike trailing behind like so much debris.

Civilian coveralls had replaced military garb as the common dress aboard the ship, though a few key personnel chose to retain their customary fatigues and such. Lance Shipwright was not among those.

He had instituted, through a series of memos, an informal dress code that allowed independent units to easily establish seniority where necessary.

Generally speaking however; it had become almost impossible to distinguish project staff from one another.

Indeed, the title Commodore had been falling by the wayside, as had many other traditions typical of a military installation.

“Details are still sketchy,” said a man in a long white laboratory jacket reading from a data-pad. “It looks like they’re sending someone to check up on us, Lance.”

Lance Shipwright frowned deeply, his focus shifting inwards.

Outside, the two massive pylons, Galactic Technologies shipyard slips, sat squat and splayed open like the maw of some massive beast waiting to swallow up another deluge of supplies. Work crews toiled endlessly alongside heavy machinery and androids alike to lay down keel after keel while the endless river of resources poured in from outside.

All of this, painted in startling vivid images across a four-story view screen, was slowly absorbed by the ever contemplative Lance Shipwright.

He reached out a hand and absently snapped a started systems operator out of its daily work routine. The bobble-headed Bith spun around in his seat before skittering to a stop at the edge of its communications station. Its lobe-mounted goggles slipped down around the creature’s neck.

“What have you got?”

Lance had to kneel to put himself at eye level with the seated alien.
“Very little, Sir.” Evidently the Bith was uncomfortable given the proximity of his superior. “We’ve been monitoring secure communications with, if I may say so, veracity. More then once now we have nearly been exposed to the local counter-insurgency measures.”

“We have a name, sir.”

“Digital crime is not a crime at all,” observed Shipwright. “Keep a good ear to the ground. Your team is doing well and it has not escaped our notice. Carry on”

Lance Shipwright stood, adjusting his cover-all in an absent minded fashion, and started towards the bridge proper.

“Well, if it’s an inspection they want, then it is an inspection they’ll get.”
Absolved of their duty to cloud about in his wake, the previously attentive retinue slowly dispersed among the chaotic bridge crew. Many of them, human, android, and alien alike, represented one or more project development teams. Each would have data and analysis to gather, absorb and report to Lance Shipwright in turn.

“Place all projects coded Red or better on suspension. Move anything you can into the sub-levels and secure them accordingly. Inform our enlisted personnel that it would be wise to return to formal dress for the duration of this endeavor.”

Lance Shipwright lowered himself into one of the senior interface pods near the rear section of the command deck. His fingers a blur, the Commodore entered his security codes, legitimate and otherwise, while digging through the deep reserve database.

“Find out who is being sent. I want to know their area of expertise, any diplomas or degrees they may hold…”
Overhead the image of shipyard pixilated badly, blurring around the outer edges.

“I want a family history, complete biography and dental records if possible...”

At length the image began to resolve itself.

“I want to know everything there is to know about our Mr. Mal’Gro”.

Lance Shipwright cast an accusing digit at the image of Irtar Mal’Gro.
"Be certian Lieutenant d'Foose is on standby to escort our guest. Won't hurt to make a good impression..."

The old Y-Wing creaked slightly as it exited hyperspace and entered realspace, the swirling expanse beyond shifting back to stars twinkling off in the distance. Before him sat the large station that was his destination. Irtar put his tools away and sat down the little device he was working on, and took position back at the comm. A yellow button on the dash began to flash indicating there was a priority signal coming through. With a click, a voice came through from the station.

“Identify yourself or prepare to be fired upon.” Came a clearly stern and clearly female voice over the channel. Irtar’s more long range communications immediately beeped, noting that it was disabled/blocked.

“This is Irtar Mal’Gro, Ambassador of the Coalition. Is this the Uniform?” Irtar asked, hoping that he had entered the proper co-ordinates into the helm. He was beginning to get it, but he was still not a great pilot and errors were made from time to time. Hitting a one instead of a zero and the like….

“Your ship doesn’t have a Coalition Signal.” The woman said after a moment, obviously trying to authenticate who he was.

“Well, considering how this is supposed to be so top-secret they couldn’t tell me anything more other than I was coming to a space-station, I decided to take a bit more of a hidden approach.” Irtar replied, happy that he had come up with an ingenious idea for one of the first times in his life. Well, beyond engineering of course. Though Irtar then began to worry his ingenuity would get him blown to bits by his own people….

“You’ve been cleared to land. You’ll be tractored into the bay.” The woman said firmly, as the Y-Wing began to shudder as the tractor beam took ahold of the old bomber. Irtar ran a hand through his hair thankful that he made it passed that. After an exceptionally long couple of minutes, the Y-Wing was settled within the hanger.

Outside the cockpit a number of guards stood there with leveled weapons, and Irtar cautiously opened the thing. With hands in the air, Irtar got up and out. Then that same voice from over the comm was heard and the men lowered their weapons. From out of the door frame came a woman that Irtar’s jaw almost dropped when he saw. Even the uniform had trouble containing her.

She walked up and extended her hand to Irtar who was still in what seemed like something of a daze. “Lieutenant dFoose, it’s a pleasure to meet you Ambassador.” She said, her voice some sweet as if she was completely ignorant of how out of it Irtar seemed.

“Uhm, heh.” Irtar said with a shake of his head as he took her hand and shook it somewhat awkwardly. “A pleasure to meet you as well Lieutenant, but I guess all the guys say that?”

Irtar laughed in a very off pitch tone as the lieutant turned with a shake of her head and a motion of her hand for him to follow. Irtar’s head drooped feeling like such an idiot, he was here on official matters and he let such physical things hit at his mind? He was a Jedi for the Force’s sake! A padawan but still.

Irtar followed her down the hall towards a lift, where she happened to be the one to try and break the silence that settled over them. “So… how is that you got out of your work in the Raioballo system?” dFoose asked him as they entered the lift and she entered the commands to take them to the bridge.

“Well, I talked to Chancellor Chao, who’s the current head of the planet Sinsang, and he set up a thing where people think I’ve gone to Mon Calamari to help with the war effort against the BDE.” Irtar said with a bit of a laugh. “But guessing from what I saw, I was too far off from the truth.”

“Hrm?” dFoose grumbled as she turned her head with a raised eyebrow, trying to understand what he meant.

“Come on! Bays that wide are only used on shipyards. So what is this? Some sort of secret tech shipyard?” Irtar asked the woman who smirked slightly.

“You’re not too far off from the truth again Mister Mal’Gro. But I think I’ll leave it to the commander to explain our purpose to you.” dFoose said as if on cue a soft pinging sound was heard and the door of the lift opened to the command bridge, the pair stepped out and into the seemingly hive of activity that was the RDS Uniform.