Djak Mikos
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Nov 19, 2010
- Messages
- 262
- Reaction score
- 0
Djak turned through space on his new ship, the Eclipse. Beside him, his navigator, gunner, partner, and infatuation sat in the copilot’s seat, her hands following his movements on the twin yokes.
Her name was Kette’ayala, once a dancer, once his reluctant ally, now his friend. She was getting a good feel for the ship’s controls, although she’d still need formal training to get her pilot’s license. While Djak’s control board gave him full command of the ship’s flight, shields, and forward automatic weapons, hers stressed the communications, missile targeting, and dorsal guns. They shared the navigation console. While either station could do all tasks, the two were laid out with careful consideration to the beings that operated them.
Both their seats were scooted all the way forward, since neither one came close to a Wookiee’s stature. Soft music played in the background, and Djak settled himself a little farther into the seat that had been cut to his personal specifications.
“Think we should get a caf dispenser in the cockpit as well?” he asked.
Kette’s lekku twitched through the slots that had been carved out of her own seat, again, designed with a single occupant in mind. “It’d be nice,” she said, “but any high-speed maneuvers will throw the stuff all over the nav computer.”
Djak shuddered at the thought. This ship had been purchased with both their shares of an extremely intense merc operation, and there had been little left over. They had no money for repairs if something happened.
“Is it just me, or is getting a seat conformed to my neither regions a bad sign?” he remarked, again digging into the seat. The chair was kriffing cozy, a good place to watch the galaxy pass from.
“I doubt it,” Kette replied. “As long as it’s not the other way around.”
Djak laughed softly. “All right, ready for another hyperspace jump?”
Kette nodded, her fingers poised over the nav keys. “Location?”
“Oh, I was thinking—”
They were interrupted by a chime from the communications console. Touching a key on her headset, Kette turned to the screen. “Incoming call, Djak. From Tattooine. Sig says it’s personal, for you.”
“Take it,” Djak prompted.
Kette paused for a moment, letting the character of a typical victimized, put-upon, half-bimbo half-sharpist Twi’lek female play across her features. Then she nodded, touched a key, and waited.
Almost immediately, a face came up. The speaker was also a Twi’lek, though a paunchy male who wore the expressions of your typical conniving male of the same species. The gender roles of Twi’leks had always fascinated Djak, even as it repulsed him.
“Ah, my dear,” the Twi’lek leered at Kette. “Do be so kind as to put your master on.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?” Kette asked in a slightly bored voice, playing her part well.
“A former friend of his, named Vultus Amoveo.”
Djak glanced at the screen. “Never heard of him,” he muttered.
Kette made a show of examining her datapad. “I’m sorry, he’s not in my list of approved personal contacts. If he’d like to make an appointment—”
“That’s quite all right,” the Twi’lek replied. “He said you’d say that. He also said to tell Djak that he’ll be happy to have your people contact his—”
“Pipe it through,” Djak interrupted.
Kette frowned, muting the mic. “What?”
“Put it up on my display, please,” Djak asked. “It’s all right. He just gave the sign, that’s all.”
Kette nodded, turning the mic back on. “Well, you may tell Mr. Vultus that today is his lucky day. My master has nothing better to do right now, and he feels that taking one unsolicited call a day makes for good stories later on. I’ll patch you through.”
“Thank you,” the Twi’lek said, with a final leer.
Djak switched his own display to the comm system, and gave the Twi’lek a bored expression. “Better make this a good one. Where is he?”
“Unfortunately, he is unable to make the call live,” the Twi’lek replied. “However, I have a recording of him here for you. Oh, this call is costing three hundred credits.”
Djak blinked. “What?”
“He said that you would gladly wire the moneys over once you’ve seen the message.”
“So let’s see it.”
The screen darkened for a moment, then the image of a man appeared. He was smeared with dirt, his visage dark and haggard. The picture flickered with the signs of being recorded with a low-quality holocam.
“Listen, I’ve only got minutes,” the man said rapidly. “Sufficient to say I’m in deep osik with the Hutts, Shegor in particular. I’m going to be a sarlaac’s sandwich in three weeks, that’s the length of the party he’s thrown. We’re on Tatooine, the palace is easy to spot. Get me outta here, buddy.”
The recording ended, and Djak sat back in his seat, breathing hard through his nose.
“Who was that?” Kette asked.
“Long story. Wire the creds and we’ll proceed from there,” Djak told her. “I’ll set our course to Tatooine.”
“Right away,” Kette replied, busying herself at the computer.
Djak keyed for a nav course to the desert planet, jumping as soon as Kette confirmed the transfer. Then he sighed, swiveled his chair around to face her, and tilted it back.
“Our history goes back to the early days of Corellia Flight Academy,” Djak told her. “We met in a swoop race—we were the two finalists. And to this day, we still don’t know who won.”
Eclipse tore through hyperspace as he continued to speak.
Her name was Kette’ayala, once a dancer, once his reluctant ally, now his friend. She was getting a good feel for the ship’s controls, although she’d still need formal training to get her pilot’s license. While Djak’s control board gave him full command of the ship’s flight, shields, and forward automatic weapons, hers stressed the communications, missile targeting, and dorsal guns. They shared the navigation console. While either station could do all tasks, the two were laid out with careful consideration to the beings that operated them.
Both their seats were scooted all the way forward, since neither one came close to a Wookiee’s stature. Soft music played in the background, and Djak settled himself a little farther into the seat that had been cut to his personal specifications.
“Think we should get a caf dispenser in the cockpit as well?” he asked.
Kette’s lekku twitched through the slots that had been carved out of her own seat, again, designed with a single occupant in mind. “It’d be nice,” she said, “but any high-speed maneuvers will throw the stuff all over the nav computer.”
Djak shuddered at the thought. This ship had been purchased with both their shares of an extremely intense merc operation, and there had been little left over. They had no money for repairs if something happened.
“Is it just me, or is getting a seat conformed to my neither regions a bad sign?” he remarked, again digging into the seat. The chair was kriffing cozy, a good place to watch the galaxy pass from.
“I doubt it,” Kette replied. “As long as it’s not the other way around.”
Djak laughed softly. “All right, ready for another hyperspace jump?”
Kette nodded, her fingers poised over the nav keys. “Location?”
“Oh, I was thinking—”
They were interrupted by a chime from the communications console. Touching a key on her headset, Kette turned to the screen. “Incoming call, Djak. From Tattooine. Sig says it’s personal, for you.”
“Take it,” Djak prompted.
Kette paused for a moment, letting the character of a typical victimized, put-upon, half-bimbo half-sharpist Twi’lek female play across her features. Then she nodded, touched a key, and waited.
Almost immediately, a face came up. The speaker was also a Twi’lek, though a paunchy male who wore the expressions of your typical conniving male of the same species. The gender roles of Twi’leks had always fascinated Djak, even as it repulsed him.
“Ah, my dear,” the Twi’lek leered at Kette. “Do be so kind as to put your master on.”
“Whom shall I say is calling?” Kette asked in a slightly bored voice, playing her part well.
“A former friend of his, named Vultus Amoveo.”
Djak glanced at the screen. “Never heard of him,” he muttered.
Kette made a show of examining her datapad. “I’m sorry, he’s not in my list of approved personal contacts. If he’d like to make an appointment—”
“That’s quite all right,” the Twi’lek replied. “He said you’d say that. He also said to tell Djak that he’ll be happy to have your people contact his—”
“Pipe it through,” Djak interrupted.
Kette frowned, muting the mic. “What?”
“Put it up on my display, please,” Djak asked. “It’s all right. He just gave the sign, that’s all.”
Kette nodded, turning the mic back on. “Well, you may tell Mr. Vultus that today is his lucky day. My master has nothing better to do right now, and he feels that taking one unsolicited call a day makes for good stories later on. I’ll patch you through.”
“Thank you,” the Twi’lek said, with a final leer.
Djak switched his own display to the comm system, and gave the Twi’lek a bored expression. “Better make this a good one. Where is he?”
“Unfortunately, he is unable to make the call live,” the Twi’lek replied. “However, I have a recording of him here for you. Oh, this call is costing three hundred credits.”
Djak blinked. “What?”
“He said that you would gladly wire the moneys over once you’ve seen the message.”
“So let’s see it.”
The screen darkened for a moment, then the image of a man appeared. He was smeared with dirt, his visage dark and haggard. The picture flickered with the signs of being recorded with a low-quality holocam.
“Listen, I’ve only got minutes,” the man said rapidly. “Sufficient to say I’m in deep osik with the Hutts, Shegor in particular. I’m going to be a sarlaac’s sandwich in three weeks, that’s the length of the party he’s thrown. We’re on Tatooine, the palace is easy to spot. Get me outta here, buddy.”
The recording ended, and Djak sat back in his seat, breathing hard through his nose.
“Who was that?” Kette asked.
“Long story. Wire the creds and we’ll proceed from there,” Djak told her. “I’ll set our course to Tatooine.”
“Right away,” Kette replied, busying herself at the computer.
Djak keyed for a nav course to the desert planet, jumping as soon as Kette confirmed the transfer. Then he sighed, swiveled his chair around to face her, and tilted it back.
“Our history goes back to the early days of Corellia Flight Academy,” Djak told her. “We met in a swoop race—we were the two finalists. And to this day, we still don’t know who won.”
Eclipse tore through hyperspace as he continued to speak.
