Stargrave's Guide to Galactic Blunders

Chapter 1: The Art of the Crash-Landing

"Left! Left! Cassian, for the love of the stars, pivot left!"

Orion Stargrave’s scream was nearly drowned out by the groan of stressed metal and the frantic chirping of a dozen proximity alarms. He was currently gripped onto the back of the pilot’s chair, knuckles white, as a jagged hunk of carbonaceous rock whizzed past the viewport, missing their hull by a distance Orion preferred not to calculate.

"I am pivoting, Orion! Physics just doesn't work as fast as your panic does!" Cassian Voidmere yelled back, his hands dancing across the flight console with a calm that bordered on the insulting. He spared a second to blow a stray lock of dark hair out of his eyes, sighing audibly. "And could you stop breathing down my neck? It’s not helping the aerodynamics."

"I’m providing moral support! And tactical oversight!" Orion adjusted his flight jacket, trying to regain a shred of dignity as the ship banked hard, slamming him against the bulkhead. "Did we lose them? Tell me we lost them."

Cassian glanced at the sensor suite. "The scavengers? Yeah, they decided that following us into a Class-V asteroid belt wasn't worth a dented fender. We’re clear."

"Ha! See? My 'Suicide Slalom' tactic worked perfectly," Orion crowed, dusting off his shoulders. He puffed out his chest, ignoring the fact that his knees were still vibrating. "Exactly as I planned. Total control."

"We’re trailing smoke from the starboard nacelle, the stabilizers are screaming, and I’m pretty sure I heard something vital fall off three miles back," Cassian said, his voice flat. "But sure. 'Total control.'"

"Details, Cassian. Details are for people who don't have vision." Orion stepped toward the back of the cockpit, squinting at a flickering panel. "Anyway, we need to look sharp. We’ve got that corporate inspection on the desert moon in twenty minutes. If we show up looking like we just crawled out of a trash compactor, they’re going to pull our charter."

"Then you might want to look at Engine Three," Cassian said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "Because it just went from 'concerningly loud' to 'ominously silent.'"

Orion froze. He listened. There was a faint clunk, followed by a sound like a wet towel hitting a fan.

"Okay, okay, don't panic," Orion muttered, more to himself than to Cassian. "I’ll fix it. I’ve got the wrench. I’ve got the skills."

"You have a space-wrench and a DIY video you watched half of," Cassian reminded him. "Please don't touch anything."

"I’m the Captain! I touch things!"

Orion scrambled into the cramped crawlspace leading to the engine bypass. The air smelled like ozone and burnt hair. He found the primary coolant line, which was vibrating with a rhythmic, sickening thud.

"Just needs a little... nudge," Orion grunted, swinging the heavy multi-tool toward a stubborn-looking bolt. "Come on, you piece of junk. Work for your keep!"

"Orion, what are you doing back there?" Cassian shouted from the front. "The pressure gauges are going into the purple. Is purple bad? I feel like purple is bad."

"Purple is just... passionate! I’m almost—ah! Got it!"

CLANG.

The wrench didn't hit the bolt. It slipped, smashed into a bright red lever labeled 'EMERGENCY EJECT: CARGO B,' and wedged itself firmly into the mechanism.

A loud, mechanical thwump echoed through the ship.

"Orion?" Cassian’s voice was dangerously quiet. "Why did the long-range scanners just pick up a cloud of debris behind us?"

Orion peered through the small observation port in the floor. "Uh. Define 'debris.'"

"It looks like... square packages? And is that the vending machine?"

"Okay, so, good news and bad news," Orion said, crawling out of the hole, covered in black grease. "The good news is the engine stopped vibrating."

"And the bad news?"

"We no longer have any snacks. Or the spare parts. Or the floor wax."

Cassian stared at him for a long beat. "You ejected the snack bar? We’re going to a desert moon, Orion. A desert. Do you know what they don't have much of in the desert? Granola bars."

"We’ll forage! It’ll be a team-building exercise!" Orion scrambled back into the co-pilot’s seat, his face pale. "Forget the snacks. Look at the horizon. Is that the moon?"

"That’s the moon," Cassian said, pulling the yoke back. "And we’re coming in way too hot. I’ve got no thrusters, Orion. The 'nudge' you gave the engine killed the secondary breakers."

"Can we glide?"

"This ship has the aerodynamic properties of a brick, Orion. We aren't gliding. We’re falling with style toward a very expensive-looking docking bay."

Orion gripped the armrests. The desert moon of Arrakis-7—not that one, the other one—was rushing up to meet them. He could see the gleaming white domes of the research station and, more importantly, a single, pristine landing pad where a lone figure was standing.

"Is that the supervisor?" Orion squinted. "She looks... small from here."

"She’s going to look a lot bigger when we’re embedded in her clipboard," Cassian hissed, fighting the controls. "Brace yourself! I’m going to try a manual brake!"

"Manual brake? We don't have a manual brake!"

"We do if I hit that sand dune right before the pad!"

"That’s not a brake, that’s a collision!"

"Potato, potato! Hold on!"

The Star-Skipper screamed as it hit the atmosphere, the heat shields howling in protest. Orion shut his eyes tight, screaming something incoherent about his insurance premiums.

CRUNCH.

The ship hit the crest of a massive dune, launched into the air, skipped once like a flat stone on a pond, and then slid—screeching and throwing up a literal mountain of sand—straight across the landing platform.

The sound of tearing metal was followed by the hiss of escaping steam. Then, silence.

Orion opened one eye. The cockpit was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. Through the cracked viewport, he could see the desert sky.

"See?" Orion gasped, his voice two octaves higher than normal. "Tactical landing. We’re on the pad."

Cassian slumped against the console, his forehead resting on the flight stick. "The pad is inside the ship now, Orion. We are literally wrapped around it."

"But we’re alive. Presentation is everything." Orion stood up, wobbling. He wiped a streak of grease across his forehead, inadvertently making it worse, and tried to straighten his jacket. "Check the hair. Do I look like a rugged, daring captain who just survived a harrowing ordeal?"

"You look like a chimney sweep who fell off a cliff," Cassian muttered, though he began checking his own pulse.

Orion ignored him and kicked the emergency release on the main hatch. The door didn't slide open; it groaned and fell off its hinges, hitting the scorched pavement with a heavy thud.

Orion stepped out, coughing as the dust settled.

Standing ten feet away was a woman. She was wearing a crisp, charcoal-grey uniform that didn't have a single wrinkle. Her silver hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful, and she was holding a holographic tablet that cast a cool blue glow over her unimpressed face.

"Captain Orion Stargrave?" she asked. Her voice was like a crystal bell—sharp and very, very cold.

"That’s me!" Orion flashed a winning smile, or what he thought was one. He leaned casually against the side of his ship, which immediately groaned and dropped another piece of plating. He didn't flinch. "You must be the welcoming committee. Sorry about the entrance. We had a bit of a run-in with some pirates, then a black hole, then... well, you know how it is. Space is a wild place."

"Is it?" Lyra Celestine looked down at her tablet, then back at the wreck. "According to the orbital scanners, you hit a stationary asteroid because you were arguing about a 'spinny thing,' then proceeded to eject your entire pantry into the vacuum, and finally ignored three separate 'Reduced Speed' warnings from the moon's traffic control."

Orion’s smile flickered. "The scanners are... prone to exaggeration. Who are you exactly? The head of logistics?"

"I’m Lyra Celestine," she said, stepping over a piece of the ship’s landing gear. She began tapping on her screen. "And you’ve just committed fourteen separate safety violations in the last six minutes. That’s a new record for this sector."

"Look, Lyra—can I call you Lyra? It’s a great name. Very stellar." Orion started walking toward her, trying to look imposing but mostly just limping. "I know the ship looks a bit... seasoned. But she’s a thoroughbred. We’re the best crew for this contract. Ask Cassian! Cass, tell her how professional we are!"

Cassian appeared at the shattered hatch, covered in sand. He looked at Lyra, looked at the wreckage, and then looked back at Orion.

"I'm just the pilot," Cassian said. "I just do what the 'visionary' tells me."

Lyra sighed, a sound of pure, refined exhaustion. "Captain Stargrave, I’m not here to give you a citation and go home."

"Oh? Well, that’s a relief." Orion chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, I figured a woman of your stature would see the value in a little... unconventional flair."

"You misunderstand," Lyra said, finally looking him dead in the eye. Her gaze was chilling. "The corporate board is tired of your 'unconventional flair' costing them millions in insurance claims. They’ve decided that the Star-Skipper needs a more... disciplined hand on the bridge."

Orion blinked. "Wait. What does that mean? You’re replacing me?"

"No," Lyra said, clicking her tablet off and tucking it under her arm. "They don't think anyone else would be crazy enough to take this ship. So, they’re sending the discipline to you."

Orion felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his back. "Sending it... where?"

Lyra stepped forward, invading his personal space. She smelled like expensive soap and burnt electronics.

"I’m not your supervisor for the week, Captain," she said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm level. "As of five minutes ago, I am your new permanent First Officer. And our first order of business is cleaning up this mess. Grab a shovel, Stargrave. We’re starting with the sand."

Orion stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

"First Officer?" he whispered. "But... I’m the Captain. I make the rules."

Lyra leaned in closer, a tiny, predatory smile touching her lips. "Not anymore. Now, you’re just the guy who’s going to help me fix this ship before I decide to court-martial you for the vending machine incident. Move."

Cassian, still leaning against the hatch, let out a slow, appreciative whistle. "Well, Orion. You wanted a more professional look. I think you just got it."

Orion watched Lyra march toward the airlock like she already owned the place. He looked at the wreck of his ship, then back at his new partner.

"Cassian?" Orion squeaked.

"Yeah, Cap?"

"I think I liked the pirates better."