Commander Cayston

Thomas Cayston was convinced that his military career would end before it began. All it had taken was one affair with an Admiral's daughter, and he had been demoted a rank and sent to this backwater of a backwater. He was the commanding officer of a “waste processing center”. He, a son of one of the great houses of the Principality, was a glorified garbage man! The icing on the cake was that, if the news was to be believed, his House had just participated in a coup, and he was stuck here. The advancement opportunity of a lifetime, and he was trapped at a garbage dump! He had spent the morning moping around and feeling sorry for himself, only getting out of bed and into uniform when his aid signaled him to wake up for the fifth time. He walked onto the pitiful little closet someone had dared to designate the “command deck” and checked his schedule.

He had to at least make a pretense of doing his job. He breezed through it. Typical monotonous crap. Five hundred tons of new unprocessed garbage. The bio waste transport had taken off for its first route to the compost facility a half hour ago, the recyclable materials transport had taken off for the recycling facil-

“Sir!” the comms officer called out.



“What is it Lieutenant?”



“Unidentified ship entering system.”



It wasn’t much, but it was something different “Well, hail them.”



“But, sir...it’s ID transponder...it’s the Royal Yacht, sir.”



Suddenly, things were looking up for Tom. The lieutenant was from house Oskerd, a minor house that, if he recalled correctly, was a cadet branch of Draymor. I smell an opportunity, and I’ll bet he does too.



“Send a transmission through the Hyper relay. A private one, to house Cayston."



“...Aye, sir.”

---

An hour had passed. Long range sensors placed the Royal Yacht at the edge of the system. Perhaps it was making repairs. Lieutenant Commander Cayston was beginning to lose hope of capitalizing on this opportunity, when the hypergate outside the system signalled an incoming ship. The garbage scows from the outer colonies only showed up once on Thursdays, and it was Tuesday, which meant that the incoming ship had to be his help.

The hypergate lit up, a dull, grey hole in space tore open, and out of it popped a black corvette. The comms lieutenant from house Oskerd brought up a visual from the hypergate cams on screen. The ship was small, and black as the void it flew in, only visible by the shining of the systems small red dwarf star’s light reflecting off of it. It looked state of the art, especially for the Royal Fleet.



“Sir, The yacht is moving.”



Cayston watched the sensor screen as the little blip on the star chart started moving further towards the edge of the system. The black ship fired up its warp drive, and was at the edge of the system in a minute. Very fast indeed. They haven’t made any contact with me. Business first, I suppose.

The Royal Yacht activated its own warp engines, and headed straight towards the station. It lasted for a few minutes, before slowing to sub-light halfway to the station.

The black ship dropped out of warp to flip itself around. One of the many inconveniences of traveling several times the speed of light: you couldn’t make a sharp turn. T

he yacht had bought itself an extra minute by shooting right over the head of the black ship, but it was a futile effort. Its warp drive had gone down. It could only chug helplessly away at sublight.



“Sir, the bio waste transport is breaking off of its course, and heading towards the yacht.”



“What is that fool doing?”



“He appears to be on an intercept course with the black ship.”



“Who’s the pilot?”



“Warrant Officer Staples.”



“Damn, a commoner. Oh well, it’s not like he can do much in that tub of his.”



A few moments passed, and then the Royal Yacht slowed. “Have they been caught?” Cayston asked. Okerd scrunched his face up, “It’s hard to tell, I can’t track the Black Ship, so I can’t tell if they are boarding it.”



“Can you get a visual?”



“Negative. Too far for an accurate visual-Wait! I’ve got something, A heat signature spike. It’s gone now...but there’s a faint trace of it...definitely not the yacht. Tracking...yeah, I think it’s the Black Ship...it’s breaking off.”



“What! Why?”



“Couldn’t tell you. Maybe the Yacht managed to get a lucky shot with its PD.”



“Hail them!”



“Understood...No response. Perhaps their comms were hit?”



“Where is the Black Ship now?”



“Hauling ass to the edge of the system. They’re either spooked, or the damage is worse than we thought.”



“Damn it! The most advanced ship in the sector, and they still blow it. We’ll have to do it ourselves.”



“What did you have in mind?”



“Battle stations. Launch our fighter squadron. The ship’s barely armed, and the odds of them getting another lucky shot like the one they got our friends over there are slim to none.”



“So...we’re directly attacking the ship with fighters now? What if they wanted the ship alive?”



“You’re right. Tell the boys to shoot to disable. And charge station’s defensive systems, just in case things go south.”



“Understood.”