For the Loot and The Glory

[BrassClaw]

For the Loot and The Glory

By Brassclaw (P.A. DeLauw)

 Part 1: Azgam Skullstapma

How could things go so wrong? Azgam thought to himself while sitting on the command throne of the Squig’s Bite. The Squig’s Bite moaned and creaked like dying levianthan. The Brute Ram ship had seen better days, along with its crew and Kaptian Azgam. The ship had been limping through the void for weeks, her engines were coughing like a dying squig. Fuel was low, supplies non-existent and morale was cratering. 

 

Azgam took a long swig from his bottle of fungus grog. How could things go so fracking wrong? He thought to himself again. You see, Azgam used to be on top of the Freeboota game. He once commanded a fleet of 800 ships. His flagship, the Deadnot Mork’s Revenge was one of the powerful ships to sail the void of the Octarius Sector. His base, Da Skull Yard was a large asteroid field complex in the galactic east in the Octarius. It served as one of the largest pirate havens in the sector. He even had Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka visit HIM at Da Skull Yard, although Azgam thought he was a bit of a blowhard. He was on top of the world when it came to ork pirating not too long ago. Until they came.

 

Now Azgam, being a Freebooter pirate, had been one for a long time. You heard a lot of stories that pass through Da Skull Yard. Tall tails, the kind of stuff that orks tell when they have a bit too much squig ale or maybe a story you tell to keep the gretchin in line. A yarn about cursed treasure, or strange alien empires or of monsters that lurk in the void. Azgam never paid attention to these stories, it was all just boasting and hot air to him. Maybe he should have.

 

It all started when Azgam found that space hulk debris out in the void. It had appeared not too far from the base. So Azgam took the Mork’s Revenge to investigate. Space hulks are good sources of loot so it was worth his time to go check this hulk out. The hulk was small, only about 20km long but even small hulks can have good loot. It looked mostly like humans made it, but it had some fleshy bits. It’s not common for a void whale to become a part of a hulk, but Azgam had seen it before. He sent out his boarding parties to check out the innards of the hulk and everything seemed fine. They chose to tow the hulk to Da Skull Yard as it would be easier to strip it for loot.

 

When the hulk was brought to the base, strange things started to happen. Ork started ending up dead, which wasn't strange for an ork pirate base or ship. What WAS strange that no one was taking credit for the kills. Why kill an ork if you’re not going to boast about it. There were no arguments on deck. No “I krumped ‘im good!” from some swaggering Nob. Just bodies turning up in dark corners of the hulk, throats torn out or chests split open like overripe squigs.

At first Azgam assumed it was some new lad trying to make a name for himself. But even the sneakiest Kommando couldn’t resist bragging. The wounds, they weren’t right either. It looked like something had killed for food, not for fun. The bodies kept coming. It had gotten so bad that sections of the ship were isolated. Azgam was paying kill teams to neutralize whatever was hunting them. The bounty reward kept climbing, but the teams were ending up dead. Azgam had enough. He ejected the space hulk into the void from whence it came, after loading it with enough explosives to alter the orbit of a small moon. Then blew the hulk to kingdom come. Revenge, proper orky revenge and problem solved, right?

Things were quiet at first, then the flood came. A flood of spore pods containing more and more of the bug-things. Da Skull Yard’s defenses were overwhelmed in minutes. Flak cannons either running out of ammo or getting clogged with the carcasses of the aliens. Huge flesh ships emerged from the void and before Azgam could board the Mork’s Revenge, it was bitten in two by one of the behemoths. Azgam got on the closest ship he could find, The Squig’s Bite. When the reactor of the Da Skull Yard detonated, it blew The Squig’s Bite free from the swarm.

He’d escaped. Barely. Everything else: his fleet, his base, his legend; devoured by the void creatures.

Azgam blinked away the memories and took another swig of fungus grog. The command throne creaked under him. The bridge was dim, lit only by flickering lumen strips and the occasional spark from an overworked console. The crew was quiet, which isn’t a good thing on a ork warship. It meant a storm was brewing. He could smell it. The fear, the hunger, the doubt.

The Squig’s Bite shuddered as the engines hiccuped again.

“Sir!” spoke a small shrill but familiar voice. It was Azgam’s cabin grot Mogwog. 

“Sir, sorry for distrubin your thinkins, the Mekboss wants to speaks with yous”

“About WHAT!?!” Azgam barked back

“It’s about the fuel situations, sir. We only have enough fuel to make one more warp jump! sir ”

“Sodding Hells, keep your voice down Mogwog. The whole fracking deck will hear you!” Azgam said in a forced whisper. Azgam stood up from the command throne, pushing Mogwog out of his way.

“UGRAK!” Azgam yelled out with enough force that Mogwog had to cover his ears.

A large ork with a black eye patch standing in the entry way of the bridge replied

“Yea, Kap?” there was a hint of dismissiveness in his voice

“OUT OF MY WAY” Azmag thundered towards the entryway, stopping within centimeters of Ugrak. “You have the bridge, Ugrak.” Azmag continued to walk through the entryway, down the hallway where he punched the lift panel to head down to the engine room.

The lift doors clanged shut behind Azgam, sealing out the bridge’s flickering lights and the low, dangerous murmur of the crew. Inside the lift, the air was thick with the stink of oil, sweat, and burnt fungus. The walls were dented from years of frustrated Orks punching them during long waits. Azgam punched the panel again anyway, just to feel something break.

The lift lurched downward with a groan like a dying beast. Azgam steadied himself against the wall, his jaw tightening. One more warp jump. One. After that, they’d be drifting. They would be as good as dead.

He could already hear the whispers behind his back.

Kaptin’s lost it.
Shoulda followed Ugrak instead.
We’z all gonna starve out ‘ere…

Azgam snarled under his breath. He’d krumped bigger threats than a pack of hungry Freebooters. But the truth gnawed at him: a mutiny wasn’t a question of if, only when.

The lift shuddered to a stop. The doors screeched open onto the engine deck, and a wave of heat slammed into him. The air was thick with smoke and the metallic tang of ozone. Sparks rained from overhead cables. Gretchin scurried across the grated floor like terrified vermin, carrying tools twice their size.

At the center of the chaos of the engine room stood Mekboss Zagdakka, his massive frame silhouetted by the pulsing glow of the reactor core. His armor was a patchwork of plates, wires, and smoldering welds. One of his mechanical arms twitched violently, sending arcs of electricity snapping through the air.

Zagdakka didn’t look up as Azgam approached. He was too busy beating a malfunctioning coolant pipe with a wrench the size of a boy’s torso.

“ZAGDAKKA!” Azgam roared with an unusual amount of cheerfulness.

The Mekboss froze mid‑swing. Slowly, he turned, one glowing bionic eye whirring as it focused on the Kaptin.

“Oh. It’s you,” Zagdakka grunted. “Wot d’you want, Azgam? I’m busy keepin’ dis heap from fallin’ apart.”

Azgam stepped closer, lowering his voice so the nearby grots couldn’t hear.

“Mogwog says we only got fuel for one more jump.”

Zagdakka snorted. “Dat’s if da engines don’t eat it all first. Dey’re runnin’ hotter than a squig in mating season. I told you weeks ago we needed proper promethium, not dis watered‑down scrap you keep findin’.”

Azgam’s fists clenched. “I ain’t here for excuses. I’m here for solutions.”

Zagdakka turned to face the Kaptin, jabbing a sparking finger at him. “Den you better find us a promethium source, Kaptin. Soon. Or dis ship’s gonna go dark, cold, and dead. And when dat happens…” His metal jaw clicked ominously. “Da boyz ain’t gonna blame da engines.”

Azgam felt the weight of the words settle on him like a chain around his throat. The Mekboss wasn’t threatening him, he didn’t need to. The truth was threat enough.

“Alright, Alright, I will find you some promethium, just give me enough juice for a jump” Azgam said reassuringly 

Azgam pounded the button for the elevator. “One more jump,” he said as he stepped into the lift. 

“You better hurry Kap, time is runnin out” Zagdakka replied as the doors of the lift closed. 

One more jump. 

The words echo in his mind. Azgam pressed the console. There was only one person on this ship that could help him now. Although he was already regretting the choice to go see him as the elevator screeched into action. 

Weirdboys had always freaked Azgam out. He understood their value, especially when it came to navigation. But the Squig’s Bite weirdboy made the insane seem normal. Fizgob was his name. Rumors about him were commonplace at Da Skull Yard. One of these rumours was that he gained his weirdboy powers by shoving a pointy ear shiny stone up his nose. Azgam has never met him before the situation they have found themselves in. He knew that Fizgob only spoke 3 words: Gork, Mork and Jump. Usually when he said the last one, he would grab his nose and  then, would disappear without a trace. No one actually knew what Gork and Mork meant to Fizgob. The main theory was that Gork meant something positive and Mork meant something negative but that was just a guess. 

The lift stopped with a loud screeching sound. This was the map room. The map room was a disorganized library of countless scrolls and star charts. In the center of the room was a large table with a holographic projection of the Octarius sector and surrounding sub-sectors. In one of the corners of the room, a hunched over ork with wiry grey hair, dressed in dark red robes. Gripping a staff-axe in one hand. He appeared to be engrossed in reading a scroll, a mystery if he knew how to read.

“GOOOORRKK” the robed figure shouted while pointing at the scroll and looking at Azgam, “GORK, GORK GORK” he continued as if he was trying to show Azgam something in the text. 

“Fizgob, I don’t know how to read. Nevermind that. I have a problem. WE have a problem and I need your help.” Azgam pleaded with Fizgob. “I need you to focus!”

“MORK, MORK…..GORK MORK” Fizgob scudded towards Azgam and taped his staff-axe on his forehead.

Azgam sighed deeply. “Alright, Fizgob. Where are we?” he asked. 

Fizgob climbed on top of the holomap table, and began looking around like tracking squig as if he was searching for something. He then stopped and pointed his staff-axe at a point on the holomap and shouted “GORK!”

The point where Fizgob pointed came to a surprise to Azgam. An freeboota kaptain usually has a good idea where his ship is in space, using his guts to figure out a rough location, but this seem way off. The point on the map was in the Greygar Sub-Sector, still near the Octarius Sector. Maybe it was because the Squig’s Bite was still new to him, but he thought the ship must have traveled farther than that.

“Are you sure Fizgob?” Azgam asked with skepticism in his voice.

With a swift motion, Fizgob struck Azgam’s face with the flat part of his staff-axe. “MORK!” Fizgob shouted as if he was disciplining a grot. Azgam snarled back, almost pulling out his killsaw claw to engage the weirdboy in combat. But he needed this disrespectful ork alive in order to make the jump.

“Ok, Ok, I get it” Azgam capitulated to the orc standing on the table. “ Now, we only have fuel for one jump, what are our options?”

Fizgob then pointed to two stars, one star was north of the position and the second star was to the south. The planet to the south was called Elmeon, according to the holomap it was a 6 planet system that was uninhabited. Azgam never heard of it. The system to the north was called Dengamar, Azgam had heard of it before. Humans controlled it. Rumours had it that it wasn’t really worth raiding, but what choice was there to be had?

Azgam stared at the two glowing stars on the holomap. One dead system with nothing but rocks and dust. One human‑held system with rumors of poor loot and stubborn defenders.

Neither option was good, but only one had even a chance of promethium.

Azgam rubbed his jaw, feeling the old scar where a pointy ear panzee had cut him.

He wasn’t going to die drifting in the void like some forgotten grot.

“Dengamar…” he muttered. “Humies ain’t worth much, but dey always got fuel.”

Fizgob nodded vigorously, tapping the Dengamar star with his staff‑axe. “GORK! GORK!” he shouted, then pointed at Elmeon and hissed, “MORK.”

Azgam didn’t need a translator. Even a lunatic Weirdboy could make that clear.

“Fine. Dengamar it is.” He jabbed a finger at the holomap. “Plot da jump.”

Fizgob’s eyes rolled back into his skull. His wiry hair stood on end. The air crackled with green psychic energy. Scrolls fluttered off shelves. Grots screamed and dove under tables.

Azgam took a cautious step back.

“Oi! Not yet!” he barked. “We ain’t ready!”

Fizgob froze mid‑convulsion, eyes still glowing. Slowly, he lowered his staff‑axe and blinked at Azgam with a confused expression, as if waking from a dream.

“Gork?” he asked.

“Later,” Azgam growled. “We gotta get da crew ready first.”

Fizgob shrugged and hopped off the table, immediately tripping over a pile of star charts and vanishing behind a stack of scrolls. Azgam wasn’t sure if he’d knocked himself out or simply wandered off. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Azgam turned toward the lift. As he stepped inside, he felt the ship lurch again. This was it, the engines wouldn’t be able to last much longer.

“One more jump,” he muttered. The doors slid shut.

The lift rattled upward, slower than before. When the doors opened, the bridge was even quieter than before. Ugrak stood at the command throne, arms crossed, his single eye watching Azgam with a mixture of annoyance and calculation.

The crew glanced up as Azgam entered. Some looked hopeful. Others looked hungry. A few looked like they were measuring his skull for a trophy rack.

Azgam stomped toward the throne and jabbed a finger at Ugrak.

“Move.”

Ugrak didn’t move.

A long, tense moment stretched between them. The bridge crew held their breath. Even the engines seemed to quiet down.

Then Ugrak stepped aside.

Azgam dropped into the throne, gripping the armrests like he was taking back a piece of himself.

“Listen up, boyz,” he growled, his voice echoing across the bridge. “We’z got one jump left. One. And we’z gonna use it to hit a humie system called Dengamar.”

A murmur rippled through the crew.

“Humies?”
“Dey got promethium?”
“Dey better…”

Azgam slammed his fist onto the console, silencing them.

“Now, I don’t know what’s there. But its are only shot and we are going to take it, if not we dies in the void”

He leaned forward, eyes blazing.

“I’m still da Kaptin. SO THIS IS WHAT WE GOING DO”

Azgam jabbed a button on the throne.

“Bridge to Weirdboy. Fizgob, get ready.”

A distant, muffled “GORK!” echoed through the ship.

Azgam grinned.

“Set course for Dengamar.”

The Squig’s Bite groaned, engines whining as they prepared for one last leap into the unknown.

“One more jump,” Azgam whispered.

And this time, it didn’t sound like a curse.

End of Part 1

[BrassClaw]

Part 1: Gul Dumir

Thuds can be heard in the corridor of the crew deck of the troop transport Bromhead. It was the sound of meat hitting leather. Gul Dumir stood in his officer quarters, covered in a heavy sweat. Striking a heavy bag, the thudding continued. Gul Dumir is tall and broad-shouldered, he has dark french cropped hair. The man was young, only 18. Wrapped bloody hands hit the jabbed at the punching bag. The rhythmic pounding of the bag seems to put Gul in a trancelike state. Flashes of that night flicker in Gul’s mind. Images of an old seer woman, her holding and examining his hand, the look of horror on her face, Gul pulling out his side arm and shooting her. The capital city is in flames.

The door chimed and broke the induced stupor that Gul had been in. Gul exhaled and blinked the haze out of his eyes. He shouted “Coming” and walked towards the door. The door slid open, Standing in the corridor was a young, brown haired woman, dressed in the navy blue uniform of the void corp. She carried a black case in both hands as if she was too afraid to drop it. “Sir!”  she said abruptly. “Are you Lieutenant Dumir?”

“Yes, you are?” Gul inquired 

“Postal yeoman Madison Ross, at your service , I have a package for you. It’s from Lord Benjamin Dumir” Madison handed the black case to Gul “It also came with this letter, sorry it took so long for us to process it, the post office has been in such a state…”

Gul grabbed the letter from the yeoman’s hand and pressed the door button to close it. A muffled “You need to sign for it…” was heard but Gul didn’t pay attention to the yeoman outside. Gul looked at the parchment letter, it had a red wax seal with the Dumir family sigil, a giant squid, on it. 

In the cramped quarters of Gul’s room, Gul placed the case on his bed. It was about 45 inches long, black and glossy. The imperial aquila was set in silver along the case. There was a finger print scanner, located on the bottom right corner of the case. Gul pressed his thumb on the scanner. The case scan Gul’s thumb print, hiss and then popped open up.

It was a power falchion, a family relic called “Sea Snake” that had been in the family for at least 1500 years. Gul had seen it once or twice in the family vault when he was younger, but never had he imagined holding the sword. The reason why it was called Sea Snake was because it had a decorative hand guard with a snake coil around it.

Gul turned his attention towards the letter, cracking open the wax seal. He started to read:

My son,

By the time this letter reaches you, the matters Hydris City will have been

resolved. I trust you understand the necessity of your departure and the

importance of distance in times such as these.

The Sea Snake is yours now. It is a weapon of our line, carried by men who

did not flinch from duty, consequence, or blood. You will uphold that

tradition.

Your assignment to the 88th Dengamar Grey Regular Guard is confirmed. You will

report to Guard Captain Hestian upon arrival. Serve with distinction. Restore

honor to our name.

Do not fail me again.

— Lord Benjamin Dumir

Patriarch of House Dumir

Gul’s jaw tightened. The words do not fail me again burned hotter than the workout he’d just finished. He folded the letter slowly, deliberately, as if the parchment might tear under the pressure of his hands.

He looked back at the Sea Snake resting in its velvet-lined case. The blade’s power field emitter hummed faintly, as though recognizing its new master. The coiled serpent guard gleamed in the cabin’s dim light, its jeweled eyes staring back at him with silent judgment. 

House Dumir, a sword that cuts both ways. It was the second most powerful house on Dengamar and with that came expectations and privileges. During the founding of Dengamar, the Dumir line was fisher house. Gul remembers tales that his grandfather would tell him, that back in the founding the men of House Dumir would ride out into the great sea on small surface craft and hunt the large sea creatures, great leviathans for food since Dengamar has no soil, just sand. Now, House Dumir uses large factory ships to catch and process its bounty from the sea. Gone are the days of hunting. The leviathans of the great sea are all gone, fished to extinction.

House Dumir had always been an ambitious house. Never resting on its past glories. Currently the House Dumir still has many vassal families that run its fish factories but no proper scion would run these facilities. House Dumir’s goal was to be Dengamar’s political and military elite. House Dumir has poured its wealth into Dengamar’s planetary defense forces even to its detriment. This culminated in the construction of the Palace of Glass in M38. This is where Gul thought his placement would be, and maybe it would have been if that night happened differently.

Gul let the letter fall to his side as memories of the Palace of Glass flickered through his mind. He had walked its halls as a child. The palace was a monument to House Dumir’s ambition, a declaration that they were no longer lowly fishermen scraping a living from the sea, but rulers of Dengamar’s future.

The vox speaker boom in the cabin. “APPROACHING PROMETHIUM EXTRACTION ORBITAL FACILITY BETA”

Gul straightened his shoulders, put on his uniform, grabbed the Sea Snake’s case, and stepped into the corridor. Troopers parted around him, some nodding respectfully, others glancing at the case with curiosity. None of them knew who he truly was. None of them knew what he had done.

He took a look out the nearest port hole, there he saw it. The planet Shu, 7th planet in the Dengamar system. The planet was a wash with bands of white, yellow, brown, and red. With spots of orange that were massive storm formations. He could also see the promethium  facilities, two of them in low orbit of the planet. Each of them is a twin of the other. They both looked like spinning tops made of black iron.

The twin rigs hung in orbit like iron idols, their silhouettes stark against the swirling storms of Shu. Each one rotated slowly, stabilizing itself with ponderous gyroscopic arms. Thick pipelines extended from their lower sections, plunging into the upper atmosphere to siphon volatile gases. The rigs’ upper decks bristled with comms arrays, docking arms. Gul could see the Hydra flak platforms that guard the rig arms.

The vox speaker boom again overhead “DOCKING IN 5 MINUTES, PLEASE REPORT TO YOUR STATIONS, CONDITION YELLOW” Gul prepared himself and looked for the nearest airlock. He was tense. This was going to be his posting for the foreseeable future. This was the first time off planet, away from his home at the Palace of Glass.

The Bromhead lurched as the airlocks connected. Gul filed off the ship with a group of about 20 or so passengers. They were on the outer ring of the rig. There he stood on the tram station that would bring him to the central spire. The tram station was relatively empty. The tram was already parked at the station, awaiting passengers to get on. Gul boarded the tram and walked back to the last car. With all the passengers in the tram, it jerked into life and started its journey towards the spire. Gul noticed that the tram car was dirty and unkempted, likely due to overuse or lack of services.

Gul looked out the window, there he saw the condenser field. A vast field of silos where the promethium was stored. He guessed that there must have been at least 300 tanks.  He could also see the vast web of pipes criss-cross on the ground below. He could also see crews working on the pipes and tanks in void suits. Seeing the sparks of welding torches and servitors that appear to be carrying equipment of some sort. The tram then entered a tunnel, casting the tram car into darkness. 

Gul could feel a cold sweat come across him, even though he was sure that he was alone in the tram car, he could feel a presence with him. He blinked, and he thought he saw the old seer woman from that night. Her wrinkled, ancient, eyes clouded with cataracts yet somehow piercing straight through him. The look of fear on her face. He blinked again, then the tram was alight with orange and yellow flame that engulfed the car from all sides, sitting across from him was the old woman, this time there was no fear in her eyes, but unhinged elation. She was pointing a finger at him and laughing with a horrible cackle that seemed to stab into his chest. 

Gul shut his eyes, this couldn’t be real but the crone cackling continued, he could feel the heat of the flames. He could feel the smoke of the fire entering his lungs. Then he felt something touch his right shoulder.

“Excuse me sir, the tram has stopped” a voice said as if piercing the nightmare.

Gul opened his eyes. The woman was gone. The fire was gone. In its place was a young boy of 10 or 11. Gul stood up sharply from his tram seat. Pushing the boy out of his way, Gul stepped off the tram car. Walking quickly through the tram station. He spotted a holo-map. Catching his breath, he examined the map intensely. The name of a building caught his eye, GUARD PRECINCT HOUSE - A BLOCK. This is probably where he would find this Guard Captain Hestian.

Gul straightened, forcing his shoulders back. He adjusted his uniform, wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and stepped away from the map.

The station’s overhead vox crackled to life.

“ALL NEWLY ARRIVED PERSONNEL, REPORT TO YOUR ASSIGNED PRECINCTS. REPEAT: ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO YOUR ASSIGNED PRECINCTS.”

Gul joined the flow of bodies moving through the station. The corridors here were narrower than he expected. They were utilitarian, cramped, and humming with the constant vibration of the rig’s machinery. Pipes ran along the ceiling like exposed veins. The air smelled faintly of oil, ozone, and recycled coolant.

As he walked, he caught glimpses of the rig’s workers: Tired faces. Grease‑stained hands.
Eyes that flicked toward him with a mixture of curiosity and resignation.

This was not the Palace of Glass. This was not the life he had been raised for. He pushed those thoughts aside. After several turns and a short climb up a grated stairwell, he reached a reinforced bulkhead door marked with stenciled lettering:

A‑BLOCK PRECINCT HOUSE – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

Two guards in flak armor stood on either side, lasguns held at rest. They straightened as Gul approached.

“HALT! Who are you?” barked one of the guardsmen.

“I am Gullen Dumir, I’m here to Captain Hestian”

The other guardsmen pinged his vox-comm “Hestian is expecting you. Inside, follow the red line on the floor to the command office.”

The guard keyed the door panel. The bulkhead slid open with a heavy hiss.

Gul stepped through.

The precinct house interior was stark and functional with metal walls, harsh lighting, and the faint smell of disinfectant failing to mask the underlying scent of sweat and machinery. A row of cogitator stations lined one wall, manned by clerks tapping away at data‑slates. A pair of servitors clanked past, carrying crates of ammunition.

Four lines traced the floor, A blue line marked ARCHIVES/STORAGE that trailed to the right towards a large wooden door. A green line marked ARMOURY followed forward before turning right down a hidden corridor. A yellow line marked CELLS sliced ahead disappeared down a set of stairs. The last line was red and veered to the left was labeled BARRACKS/COMMAND.

Gul followed the red line passing through an archway. Lockers lined the walls, interrupted by a poster concerning water discipline. Benches and lasgun racks flanked the narrow walkways. At the end of the room, Gul could see a door marked COMMAND OFFICE, that was slightly ajar. 

Gul approached, his grip tightening on the Sea Snake’s pommel.

He knocked once.

“Come in, come in” a haggard voice boomed from the room. As Gul stepped inside the office.

Before Gul stood who he assumed was Captain Hestian. He once looked like a powerful-looking man, but time and a dilatory life have betrayed him. His short hair was grey turning to white. He had a flat nose and a drooping mouth, which gave him a cruel look. The left side of Hestian’s face was replaced by bionic implants. The gun metal steel consumed his left eyebrow, all the way down to his jaw. His teeth, at least the ones that weren’t metal, were brown and rotten.

He stood behind a large wooden desk, as a ceiling fan lazily turned overhead. “Take a seat” the captain urged.

Gul took his seat before the desk, as Hestian turned the cogitator on his desk on. “So what’s this about? Are we here to bail someone out?” 

“No, sir. My name is Gullen Dumir. I am here for the command posting. I just arrived from the homeworld. Gul replied.

“Command posting? I wasn’t told about anyone coming from the homeworld. What did you say your name was?” 

“Gullen Dumir” Gul responded “ I usually go by Gul”

“Pass me your ID chip, Gul” the captain requested. Gul did what was asked and passed his ID chip to the captain. The captain inserted the chip into the cogitator. Gul could see the green text of the viewscreen wurl on the steel of Hestian’s face. Gul then saw the expression of the captain turned from mild amusement and curiosity to a sour grimace.

“Well now, ain’t this :cuss:IN GREAT” Hestain bellowed “YOU’RE HERE to :cuss:in replace me in COMMAND”

Gul’s eyes widened with surprise. He was a trained officer, yes,  so he was expecting to command a squad, maybe a shift of guards. But command?

Gul’s mouth went dry.

“Replace… you?” Gul managed.

Hestian slammed the ID chip down on the desk so hard the cogitator rattled. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know how this works. Some noble brat screws up planetside, daddy pulls strings, and suddenly I’m being shuffled off to some retirement post while you get to sit in my chair.”

Gul felt his stomach twist. “Sir, I didn’t know—”

“Of course you didn’t know!” Hestian barked, leaning forward. The ceiling fan above him creaked with each rotation, stirring the stale air. “They never tell the replacement. They just ship him in with a shiny sword and a fancy name and expect the rest of us to smile and salute.”

Gul swallowed hard. “Captain, I assure you—”

“Captain?” Hestian spat the word like poison. “Not for long, apparently.”

He jabbed a finger at the cogitator screen. Gul could see his own personnel file reflected in the captain’s metal cheek. The Dumir crest, his training scores, his assignment orders, and a line stamped in red:

COMMAND INTEGRATION: PRIORITY.

Hestian’s voice dropped to a low, venomous growl.

“You think I don’t know what that means? You think I haven’t seen this before? I’ve served on this rust‑bucket for thirty three years. I’ve fought off raiders, smugglers, cultists, and worse. And now they want to replace me with an eighteen‑year‑old who’s never even gotten his dick wet let alone COMMAND” 

Gul felt heat rising in his chest. A mixture of  shame, anger, fear, all tangled together.

“Sir, I didn’t ask for this posting.” Gul timidly replied. 

“No one asks for a rig posting, boy! Rig is where they send problems. And you, little princeling are a :cuss:ing problem”

Gul’s grip tightened on the Sea Snake’s pommel. “I am a trained officer.”

“Trained?” Hestian sneered. “By whom? Tutors in marble halls? Parade drillmasters? You ever commanded men who haven’t slept in thirty hours? Have you ever ordered someone to weld a pipe shut while it’s venting? Have you ever had to shoot a worker because he tried to sabotage a tank out of spite?”

Gul didn’t answer.

Hestian leaned back, metal jaw clicking. “That’s what I thought.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the lazy whir of the ceiling fan.

Then Hestian sighed. Weary and defeated.

“Sit down, Lieutenant.” Hestian commanded 

Gul realized he was still half‑standing, muscles tense. He lowered himself back into the chair.

Hestian rubbed his temples. “Look. I don’t like this. I don’t like you. But I’m not stupid. If the homeworld wants you here, then you’re here. And if they want me gone…” He gestured vaguely. “Then I’ll be gone.”

Gul opened his mouth, but Hestian cut him off.

“Save it. I don’t need apologies. I need is for you to listen”

“Ok, what do you need from me?” Gul acquiesced.

“Today, is training day”