Stargrave's Guide to Galactic Blunders

Chapter 2: Two Captains, One Kitchen

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."

Lyra didn’t wait for them. Her boots snapped against the scorched deck plating with a rhythmic, military precision that made Orion’s teeth ache. She stepped over a dangling power coupling, barely glancing at the sparks, and planted herself in the center of the bridge.

"Logs," Lyra commanded, not even looking back at Orion as he stumbled in behind her.

"Excuse me? A 'hello' would be nice," Orion said, trying to regain some semblance of authority by leaning against the pilot’s chair. It groaned and slid six inches to the left. "Maybe a 'nice job surviving that planetary impact, Captain.'"

"I’ll congratulate you when you manage to park without involving a search and rescue team," Lyra said, her fingers dancing across a holographic interface she’d pulled from her wrist comm. "Now, give me the flight logs. I need to see the maintenance records for the last six months."

Orion cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in a smudge on his sleeve. "Maintenance records is a very strong term. I prefer to call them 'the annals of creative problem-solving.'"

"Orion, don't," Cassian warned, slipping into his seat and trying to coax a flicker of life out of the main console. "She looks like the type of person who actually uses a filing system."

"I am the person who invented the filing system for this sector’s logistics branch," Lyra said, her voice dropping an octave. "Where are the logs, Stargrave?"

"They’re... decentralized," Orion muttered.

Lyra turned around, her eyes narrowing. "Decentralized?"

"He means they’re written on the back of protein bar wrappers and stuffed into the glove box," a new voice chimed in.

A panel in the floor popped open, and a woman with hair the color of a supernova and a face smeared with iridescent blue grease poked her head out. Vela Astrion, the ship’s lead (and only) engineer, climbed out of the crawlspace, clutching a blackened piece of hardware.

"Vela! Perfect timing," Orion said, throwing his arms out. "Tell our new... guest... how organized we are."

Vela looked at Lyra, then at the smoking ruin of the starboard sensor array, then back to Orion. "Cap, we use a 'vibes-based' maintenance schedule. You know this. Also, who’s the suit?"

"This is Lyra Celestine," Cassian said from the pilot's seat. "Our new First Officer. Apparently, Corporate thinks we’re a liability."

"First Officer?" Vela wiped her hands on a rag that looked dirtier than the floor. "Does she know how to bypass a thermal regulator using a paperclip and a prayer? Because that’s eighty percent of the job."

Lyra looked like she was about to have a physical reaction to Vela’s presence. "I am here to instill discipline. Why is the primary sensor suite currently reading as 'Toast'?"

Vela shrugged. "Oh, that’s because it is a toaster. Well, the power supply is."

Lyra froze. "I’m sorry. Did you just say you are powering long-range scanners with a breakfast appliance?"

"Look, the original capacitor blew out near Saturn," Vela explained, her tone conversational. "The toaster had the exact same voltage output and a much better browning setting. It’s been working fine until Orion decided to use the moon as a brake pad."

"It’s efficient!" Orion added, sensing an opening. "Multi-purpose tech. It’s the future, Lyra. You wouldn't get it."

"It’s a fire hazard," Lyra snapped. "It’s a miracle this ship hasn't spontaneously combusted. Stargrave, my office. Now."

"You don't have an office," Orion pointed out triumphantly. "That’s my office. And currently, it’s full of the sand we scooped up on the way in."

Lyra took a deep, steadying breath. "Then the galley. We’re going to discuss the new protocols. And someone get that toaster out of the sensor array before I lose my mind."

"I’m keeping the toaster," Vela whispered as Lyra marched away. "It makes the scanners smell like sourdough."

Orion followed Lyra into the galley, his stomach letting out a traitorous growl. The stress of almost dying always made him hungry, and the loss of the snack bar was weighing heavily on his soul.

The galley was small, cramped, and currently smelled like ozone. Lyra was already standing by the central table, staring at the coffee machine like it was a personal insult.

"Is this... sticky?" she asked, hovering a finger over the 'Brew' button.

"That’s character," Orion said, sliding into the bench across from her. "It’s a custom blend of spilt espresso and sweat. It’s what keeps the Star-Skipper running."

"From now on, there will be no 'character' on this ship," Lyra said, pulling up a fresh list on her tablet. "We are implementing a strict 0600 wake-up call, followed by a full system diagnostic. No more 'vibes.' No more toasters. And absolutely no more 'Suicide Slaloms' through asteroid belts."

"You’re sucking the joy out of space travel, Lyra," Orion groaned, leaning back. "The belt was a shortcut. We saved three hours of fuel."

"And lost forty percent of your hull integrity!" Lyra countered, slamming her hand on the table. "You’re a Captain, Orion. Start acting like one instead of a getaway driver with a death wish."

"I’m a visionary!" Orion shouted back, standing up. "I see paths other people don't! That’s why I’m the one in the big chair and you’re the one holding a clipboard!"

"I’m holding a clipboard because your 'vision' nearly turned us into space dust!"

"Oh, please. You’re just mad because you’ve never had a thrill in your life that didn't involve a spreadsheet!"

Orion reached out, gesturing wildly to emphasize his point, and his elbow caught the edge of the galley’s main control panel. It was an old, temperamental piece of hardware that Vela had been meaning to fix for months.

A red light began to strobe.

“Security Protocol Gamma-Nine Activated,” a flat, synthesized voice announced. “Emergency Lockdown Initiated.”

"Wait, what?" Orion blinked.

Clang.

Heavy reinforced shutters slammed down over the galley door. The magnetic locks engaged with a heavy, final thud.

"Orion," Lyra said, her voice dangerously low. "What did you just do?"

"I... I think I bumped the 'Intruder Alert' sensor," Orion said, his face paling. "The one Vela hasn't calibrated yet."

"Fix it," Lyra commanded. "Override the lock."

Orion scrambled to the wall-mounted keypad, his fingers fumbling. "Okay, okay. The code is... uh... 1-2-3-4?"

BZZT.

“Incorrect code. Remaining attempts: Two. Activating containment measures.”

The lights dimmed to a deep, ominous crimson. A faint hissing sound began to fill the room.

"Is that... is that oxygen being sucked out?" Lyra asked, her eyes wide.

"No, no, that’s just the air freshener," Orion said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Vela set it to 'Pine Forest' for when we have guests."

"Orion, we are trapped in a ten-by-ten room with a malfunctioning security system," Lyra hissed, stepping toward him. "Override it now, or I swear I will make your court-martial the shortest in history."

"I’m trying! Cassian! Vela! Can you hear me?" Orion yelled at the door.

Silence. The galley was soundproofed for 'crew privacy.'

"The intercom is down," Lyra realized, checking her tablet. "The lockdown severed the internal comms link. We’re on our own."

"Okay, don't panic. I have the master override code," Orion said, sweating. "I just have to remember it. It was something meaningful. Something important to me."

"Your birthday?" Lyra suggested.

"No."

"The ship’s registration?"

"No."

"Orion, think!"

"It’s... it’s 0-4-5-1!" Orion shouted, punching the numbers in.

The keypad turned green. The hissing stopped. But the door didn't open. Instead, a small panel in the corner of the room slid back, revealing a tiny, cramped storage closet used for extra jumpsuits.

"What is that?" Lyra asked.

"The... safety bunker?" Orion guessed.

Suddenly, the floor beneath them tilted sharply. The Star-Skipper gave a violent lurch, sending both of them tumbling toward the open closet. They hit the back wall of the tiny space in a tangle of limbs, and before they could move, the closet door slid shut and locked.

"Are you kidding me?" Lyra’s voice was muffled against Orion’s shoulder. "We are in a closet. We are literally trapped in a closet."

"Hey, on the bright side, the air freshener is really working in here," Orion said, trying to shift his weight. He was pressed firmly against Lyra, the scent of her expensive, citrusy soap clashing with the smell of his own nervous sweat. "It smells like a very clean forest."

"Move your knee, Stargrave."

"I can't! There’s a mop in the way!"

"This is your fault," Lyra whispered, her breath hot against his neck. "This entire day is a direct result of your incompetence."

"My incompetence? You’re the one who came in here and started barkin' orders! You stressed the ship out! The Star-Skipper is sensitive!"

"It’s a machine, Orion! It doesn't have feelings!"

"Tell that to the toaster!"

They sat in the dark for a moment, the only sound the faint hum of the ship’s failing life support and their own rhythmic breathing.

"Lyra?" Orion said softly.

"What?"

"I really miss those granola bars."

"Shut up, Orion."

Just as Lyra was about to attempt to kick the door down, the ship groaned again. A sound like a thousand tiny hammers hitting the hull echoed through the vents. It wasn't the sound of sand or wind. It was rhythmic. Intentional.

"What is that?" Lyra asked, her voice sharp and professional again.

"That’s not the wind," Orion said, his heart skipping a beat. "That’s the docking port. Someone just forced a hard-seal."

"Cassian? Vela?" Lyra called out, though she knew they couldn't hear her.

The closet door suddenly hissed open. The galley lockdown had been overridden from the outside. Orion and Lyra tumbled out onto the floor, gasping for air.

"Finally!" Orion scrambled to his feet, straightening his jacket. "Vela, I’m going to give you a raise, then I’m going to—"

He stopped.

Standing in the middle of the galley wasn't Vela or Cassian.

It was a creature about four feet tall, covered in thick, matted purple fur. It had four eyes, two curling horns that glowed with a faint bioluminescence, and it was currently chewing on a piece of the galley’s seat cushion.

Behind it, three more of the creatures were trotting into the room, making high-pitched, bleating sounds. One of them had Orion’s favorite captain’s hat in its mouth.

"Are those... goats?" Lyra asked, staring in horror.

"Not just goats," Orion whispered, his eyes wide as he watched one of the creatures start to eat the coffee machine’s power cord. "Space-Goats. From the Andromeda Nebula."

The lead goat looked at Orion, let out a loud, mocking bleat, and spat out a piece of his hat.

"They aren't just here to visit, are they?" Lyra asked, slowly reaching for a heavy serving tray.

"No," Orion said, backing away as the purple goats began to swarm the room. "They’re boarders. And they look really, really hungry."