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The following story tells of Wing Marshal Prein and what happened to him when he was out joyriding!




Jettison



Wing Marshal Prein was enjoying himself.

Prein scooted hither, made a tight turn, and zoomed thither. The agile maintenance shuttle he had requisitioned responded readily to his tiniest gesture. On he flew, circling around the dictator class cruiser that had been home for his flight squadrons the past eight months or so. The cruiser, aptly named Emperor's Fury, glittered in the dim light of a nearby white dwarf, myriad pinpoints of light shining from tiny observation bays all along her dark hull. It was a grand sight indeed.

It had been long since Prein had been out solo. As a Wing Marshal, It was his duty, nowadays, to control his squadrons from the command deck. It was an important duty, he knew, and vital for the survival of his charges. But still... Keenly he missed the days of his youth, when he had taken the fight to the enemy upon his own stellar class fighter. Grand times...

Eyes misty with reminiscence, Prein spun skillfully around a sensory complex and streaked along the keel of the cruiser. The sight above reminded him of a nighttime hive. There were avenues up there, and chapels. Dimly lit, but visible nevertheless. Prein swooped upwards for closer look.

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'Sanitory Chief Argontus!'

Argontus, the Sanitory Chief for sector four, looked up from his dataslate where he had been scrutinising the efficiency of his sweeper teams. It looked to him that one of them was lacking behind in his daily duties. Discipline was obviously needed. Old age was no excuse for sloth. 'What is it Sandy?' Argontus asked.

'It's Andy, chief.'

'Sandy, Andy, whatever. Now, state your business. I'm quite busy as it is, Sandy.'

'Well, it's the septic tanks in the starboard artillery section, chief. They're near full, chief.'

'Near full? But we just jettisoned them four days ago!'

'Yes chief. But they're full anyway. I checked the sensors myself. Thousand litres, that's all they have left to take.'

'I see... Ahaha, it seems our so called steadfast artillery crews got a bit nervous during our last engagement, eh, what, Sandy?'

'Chief?'

'Oh, never mind. Just jettison the tanks, will you. Aim for that dwarf and the gravity will take care of the rest.'

'Are you sure, chief? The fleet's still around. There might be small craft out...'

'Nonsense, Sandy. Look here, the log says only three maintenance shuttles are out, and they are smart enough to keep away from our septic outlets, right?'

'If you say so, chief.'

'Well, I do. And anyway, we are about to hit the Warp, and you really do not want to jettison anything in there. So just spurt the crud... No, wait, don't bother. I might do it myself. I'm going that way anyways. Gonna talk to that old Tom. He thinks being old and half blind gives him the right to idle during duty. It's high time I tackled him... You stay here and guard my gahvey.'

'Will do chief.'

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Wing Marshal Prein executed a flawless roll anticlockwise, an astonishing manouveure, given that the craft he was flying did not have manual side thrusters, and came along the starboard artillery bays. The gargantuan guns stood silent, brooding. They had taken a beating during the latest engagement. But given back just as good. Prein slalomed between the sturdy barrels, enjoying the G-forces, when suddenly...

SPLASHCRASH!

His craft was hit and blinded! Instinctively, Prein pulled full stop.

Silence filled the craft, broken only by an occasional ping of the cooling engine casements.

Prein sat in the cockpit, trying to gauge his situation. It was dark, with only the eerie, green glow from the dials giving away any light. The said dials, thank Emperor, seemed to tell the shuttle was all green. No leaking air, no permanent frame damage, nothing. But then, what had happened? Mystified, Prein switched on his helmet lights and directed the orange beams to the cockpit's plexiglass. And goggled.

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'This is Wing Marshal Prein to Emperor's Fury. Do you copy, over?'

'This is Flight Control at Emperor's Fury. We copy loud and clear, sir. State your business, please.'

'Will do, son. Ummm, you have a name, son?'

'Henson, sir.'

'Henson, eh? Not Archibald Henson, surely?'

'No sir. Archibalds my dad, sir. He's off duty now.'

'Well, Henson junior. Nice to meet you. Your father is a good man, and an old friend of mine. Now, this might seem a tad unofficial business, son, but could you tell whether the ship just jettisoned one of her septic tanks..?'

'Septic tanks, sir?'

'Yes, Henson.'

'Okay, sir, let me just look... Oh, yes! The starboard artillery tanks were jettisoned about five minutes ago.'

'Ah, I thought so. Now, son, could you, by any chance, find out who it was that jettisoned those tanks? I would really appreciate it...'

'Well, it's not against regulations per see, so let me just, ah, passwords... yes... and there! Sir, it was, by the maintenance logs, one Sanitory Chief Argontus that both authorized and manually executed the jettisoning manouvers. Might I ask why you were so keen to find this all out, sir?'

'Well, son, it so happened I was under the starboard artillery bays during the process...'

'Good Emperor, sir! Are you saying you..?'

'Yes, son.'

'You all right there sir? Your craft's not leaking or anything?'

'I'm fine and the craft's fine. Blinded, what with it being buried inside a mountain of offal, but otherwise fine.'

'That's horrible, sir! You need a towship to take you in?'

'Nah. I still have my sensors. And one external targetter camera seems to have a visual. I'll bring her home.'

'Wait, sir! We do have watercrafts! Maybe we should send them out before you dock...'

'Watercrafts, son?'

'Yes, sir. They're craft that washes the hull insignias and stuff. With high pressure hoses, sir.'

'I see, yes. Very clever, that. But no. I do not want the offal washed off. Not yet anyway.'

'What do you mean, sir?'

'Firstly, what I mean is to dock this shuttle. Secondly, I mean to go and have a word with our Sanitory Chief Argontus about the folly inherent in the jettisoning of septic tanks without regulatory warnings to outlying craft. And thirdly, I mean to have a steaming mug of gahvey and sip it while watching the said Sanitory Chief Argontus wash off all this excrement with a standard issue toothbrush. You got that, son?'

'Loud and clear, sir! Hehe! I'll put the kettle on for you sir. Shall I call up this Argontus fellow for you?'

'Good idea, son. Send him to the bay seven locks. It's where I'm headed. But do not tell him what's up. I do not want him make a runner!'

'Understood, sir. Have a safe docking.'

'Will do, son. Over and out.'


The End

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P.S.: Readers will be pleased to hear that after he had cleaned the soiled maintenance shuttle (which took him two smelly weeks) Sanitory Chief Argontus was demoted to a lowly rank of a gundeck sweeper. Sandy, I mean Andy, his former second in command of sanitation, was then promoted to Sanitory Chiefdom. First thing young Andy did in his new job, was to grant old Tom two months leave. Good for him, agreed all the crew concerned.

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