The Value Of Punctuality
It wasn’t the shudder of the Death Star that woke him up. On a prototype of any kind, you expected the occasional shimmy or shake to happen. When you’re an engineer, you are fully prepared for the bumps in the night. It’s part of the territory. Mostly because those damn designers think they know everything. Let those squints spend just one week onboard one of their pet projects and see how THEY like it.
But it wasn’t the second shudder that woke him up. It was the persistent pinging from the computer that finally got his attention. Bleary eyed, he stretched, his toes hitting the end of his bunk. Maybe he could live with the sound after all. He rolled over, pulling the blanket a little higher on his chest.
As if on cue, the console started blinking.
“By the Emperor…” he swore as he climbed out of his bunk.
“What could possibly be so important?” he grumbled to no one in particular.
An urgent message flashed onto the screen.
To: Supervisory Engineer Dagrem
From: Office of the Grand Moff
Re: Repairs Requested (See attachment)
Sir, your skills are required at Section 1138-Gamma, Deck 515 at once. It has come to the Grand Moff’s attention that the Imperial Defense and Research Station (aka Death Star) is in need of immediate repairs. You are hereby authorized to use whatever means at your disposal to complete these repairs.
Remember, the Emperor is counting on YOU!
He rolled his eyes at the last line. The typical propaganda that signed off every email was getting stale and routine. Dagrem knew the Emperor had better things to do than count on each little peon within the vast Galactic Empire.
Another shudder rolled through the deck, causing Dagrem to hold onto the console for support. One shimmy was expected, but three within ten minutes? There must be a problem with the engines to cause this frequency of movement. Those damn designers always under-powered their ideas. He pressed his communicator.
“Kanya, what is…” but he was cut off by the frantic engineer.
“No time! No time! I’ve got to seal off this plasma lea…” and she stopped speaking.
Dagrem shrugged his shoulders. Kanya was always acting like every little problem was the end of the world. One plasma leak on a station one-hundred and fifty kilometers in diameter was a pinprick. He chuckled when he remembered how pale Kanya’s face had turned just because a tractor beam emitter went down. After all the fuss, it turned out someone had just bumped the de-activate button at one of the stations.
He made a mental note to add a login and password to all tractor beam consoles.
Dagrem's eyes widened as he read the attachment. After reading it three times, he let out a low whistle.
“Son of a wookiee,” he muttered. “Someone is going to get fired for this.”
Another low rumble shook the deck. Dagrem quickly dressed, throwing on his uniform and grabbing his boots. He half-walked, half-hopped down the corridor, putting his boots on as he went. The corridor was mostly devoid of people. Those few that he saw were running in various directions.
A sudden feeling of cold washed over him. He felt the shadows grow until the darkness threatened to engulf him entirely. Three individuals walked briskly past him. All of them were tall. All of them wore black.
“Several fighters have broken off from the main group, come with me,” the tallest of them growled in a voice that shook Dagrem to his core.
As quickly as the feeling had come, it was gone.
He shrugged his shoulders and moved on. After all, he had work to do. It was no wonder the Grand Moff was anxious to have this repair completed. As he rode the turbolift to his destination, he couldn’t believe that the fool-headed designers could be this stupid.
What moron put a thermal exhaust port directly above the reactor with only a thin layer of ray shielding to protect it?
They were probably concerned with space debris, not knowing that this research station could be a target for the rebellion. Or they just didn’t care. After all, they’re sitting behind cushy desks at the Kuat Drive Yards or someplace where they didn’t have to worry about bumps, shimmies, or rebels.
“May the Emperor help me,” he muttered as the color drained from his face. Fighters had broken off from the main group? Bumps and shimmies? A plasma leak?
Dagrem half-thought about summoning an engineer team, but he shook it off. By the time he selected a team, pulled them off their assigned duties, it would certainly be too late.
He rushed down the access tunnel, staring up at the stars as he sprinted. Several small fighters zipped past him. Dagrem recognized them as INCOM made fighters, but they moved too fast for him to identify what type. He let out a whoop when he saw the Imperial Navy’s TIE fighters scream after them.
There was only one way to solve this in the short-term. When the Death Star entered hyperspace, all ports were sealed by a retractable meter-thick piece of durasteel. The metal slid it into place only before they broke the light-speed barrier. If he could fool the computer into thinking they were going into hyperspace, the port would seal itself.
Dagrem's hands flew across the console. His heart pounded inside his chest as he accessed the controls to extend the durasteel that would save their lives.
High above, something caught his eye. What was an old Corellian transport doing in a battle-zone? Perhaps he could get an idea of how the battle was going by listening in on his comm channel? That would give him an idea as to how much time he had to work with. The YT class freighter was notorious for having open comms. Dagrem gained access just in time to hear his last words.
“…now let’s blow this thing and go home!”
By: David Gremillion,
Author and owner of Get Your Geek On podcast
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