“Rich? Rich, where the fuck is my HUD? Oh wait never mind, there it is.” Seyatte’s fingers, pale in the milky light from her ship’s consol, danced a memorized sequence of keystrokes, a jig of preparation that filled the 9-Ball’s cockpit with canned responses.

Engines green

Weapon systems green

Ion shields green

Navigation green

Life support green

Seyatte’s sheepish smile was hidden behind the thick red plastic visor she wore over the lower portion of her face but Rich, wise to the Captain’s literal flights of fancy, saw the impish joy in her cornflower blue eyes. His flight control screen gleamed like sweat on a flat stomach.

“9-Ball systems are go, prepare for launch.”

“Roger Star Command, 9-Ball is go.”

Pause. Static. Dead air in the wires threaded through her frontal lobe.

“Rich?”

“Sorry Captain, airlock release in 3…2…”

Pneumatic presses lifted the enormous bulkhead door without so much as a hiss and Seyatte sighed when she saw the dead, dark expanse of empty space through the crystal windshield. Her HUD pulsed, blue squares and green dots, yellow flares and orange beams that would guide the wide wings of the 9-ball out of the hanger. The captain felt the throb of her engines as she pulled up on the throttle, felt them rev and rumble between her shoulder blades as her hands slipped into the cylinders of warm water that controlled navigation.

The 9-Ball lifted silently from the sickly gray corrugated metal floor, tucking its landing pallets up into its mustard colored belly, hovering and swaying as if breathing.

“Blast screens up.” The captain said, her ancient patios prompting depleted iridium panels to suddenly spring from the hanger.

“Keep an eye on the clock,” Said Rich cautiously, “Captain.”

Seyatte responded by pumping the engines up to their full capacity, a tinny whirl exploded, the hollow spaces of her chest ached and the 9-Ball lurched forward at breakneck speed. She veered left and climbed. All systems green. The 9-Ball seemed to purr in appreciation of its pilot’s careless control. The small plastic troll with mossy green hair was smiling as Seyatte careened upward and around the hull of the Rynthian Star, pinned to the dashboard by a piece of winter mint gum.

Then the beeping started.

The captain’s weapons cache began scrolling across her left eye in waves of calming, glacial blue. Every warhead was primed, each of the four hard-round Vulcans began to spin and every laser cannon’s winking eye opened to the sky.

“Incoming bogey’s, four o’clock high.” It was Rich.

“I see ‘em. Raising shields. Preparing to engage.”

“Roger 9-Ball, good hunting.”

As Seyatte wheeled around, her HUD highlighted the enemy spacecrafts that buzzed around the high bridge of the Star. She saw wide holes being torn into the orbiting giant’s sleek bow by their particle accelerators and silvery micro debris steam from the gashes. The enemy spotted her exactly as they always did: when she pulled the 9-ball up and over their position and gained lock on the fist. They scattered, spinning themselves into knots of evasive maneuvers, fueled by terror.

Seyatte blasted two out of their jumpboots before she realized how easy this whole affair had become. Two more screamed forward, wiggling their way through the 9-Ball’s dangerous lightshow before taking up wobbly positions at her rear. The captain’s systems squealed tone as the enemy ships took up firing positions and ripped through the 9-Ball’s aft shields.

With her hands in lap, she checked the tiny digital time interface (clock) in her right eye.

Then the 9-Ball exploded into a million tiny pieces.

“Well, that was anti-climatic.” It was Rich.

Seyatte sneered clearly as she removed her helmet and set it on the bench of the simulator. She pounded the side of her fist against the door release and swung her legs over the side. Rich, a tall drink of water with a shock of black hair, stood just outside and offer his hand to help his captain from the simulator’s interior. She graciously took it, stood, and anxiously smoothed the wrinkles out of her red and black flight suit.

“I need a new scenario. Or better, an actual flight.” She spoke as she fell in behind her most trusted sergeant. He nodded thoughtfully, and then shrugged absently. In truth, he felt for his captain and her perpetual lockdown; his grandfather’s grandfather hadn’t been born the last time Seyatte left the Rynthian Star. Rich could feel her eyes burning a hole in the back of his head as they walked and, without stopping, checked the watch on his wrist. We’re late, he thought.

They stepped into the lift together and stared at each other’s reflection in the polished metal doors.

“Who is it this time?” Seyatte’s voice sounded deep and empty.

“Dignitaries from beyond The Eye. Yandicuffs or something like that. Big reptile looking bastards that smell surprisingly like sharp cheddar cheese.”

Seyatte looked at Rich out of the corner of her eye, and warmed her lips up for the plastic smile she would be forced the glue there. Rich did the same.

When the lift doors opened, they were standing at the far end of the receiving deck. Exotic plants, fake blue skies, the smell of chlorinated pool water and a universe worth of cheap perfume greeted them. Beings, of various species and dimension, mulled around; tourists were tourists. Rich and Seyatte stepped off the lift and waited off to the side. A moment later a young private approached them and, after a crisp salute (which was not returned) handed Rich a box of crimson and black leis and handed Seyatte a small, clear tablet. She scanned it quickly, trying her best to figure out the correct pronunciation of Yandicuff (Yarnicoff? Yamdacoif?), dismissing the private with a flick of her wrist.

“Here they come.” Rich lifted his chin and Seyatte followed its pointy jut with her eyes.

“Big fuckers.” She murmured.

“Mmhm.”

The Yandicuffs, flanked by Star security, were ushered over to Rich and the Captain and Seyatte swore she saw one of the security detail wink at her. The lizard people were at least seven feet tall and swathed in golden waves of what looked to be cray paper. And indeed, as soon as they were close enough, Seyatte thought she smelled warm nacho cheese.

Regardless, Sergeant First Class Rich Pax and Captain Seyatte Ireyia screwed on their most welcoming of smiles. Rich placed a lei over each of their bulbous, scaly heads.

“On behalf of the people of Rynth, we welcome you to the Star.” The captain said flatly, trying not to sound rehearsed. “You rooms have been prepared and your luggage will be brought up by our porters. Tonight there will be a luau in your honor on the Tropic Deck and tomorrow is our weekly Who-Done-It black tie event. Again welcome distinguished Yandicuff ambassadors.”

“Yamdicoif,” the big fucker corrected her. She apologized profusely through gritted teeth and stood quietly as the ambassadors stepped into the lift.

Then, she turned to Rich, “I need a goddamn vacation.”