Kickin' a Chicken

Posted on 17 Nov 2025 @ 2:12am by Captain Bane Plase

1,281 words; about a 6 minute read

Mission: Shakedown

ON:

The turbolift doors parted with a soft hydraulic whisper, and Captain Bane Plase stepped onto the bridge of the USS Cygnus. The lights were brighter than he remembered. Cleaner, their color temperature subtly warmer, and the recycled scent of new polymers, fresh circuitry, and polished duranium still hung in the air. The Command Module had been gutted and rebuilt from its structural supports upward; it felt like a familiar room wearing a stranger’s skin.

Several heads turned as he entered.

“Captain on the bridge,” called Lieutenant junior grade Fera zh’Ranni, the new Andorian Flight Control Officer, antennas angled attentively forward over her pale-blue brow.

Bane gave a small wave of acknowledgment. “As you were.”

He stepped forward, boots whispering across the new micro-textured tritanium decking. Every station gleamed. Every console was waiting. He looked around at the officers at their various stations. He didn't know a single one yet. All replacements. "Status Report," he ordered.

Lieutenant junior grade Dalen Vorrik, Tactical and Strategic Operations, straightened at his console. “Captain, phaser array coherence is stable at ninety-nine point nine percent, though we’re seeing a slight micro-lens oscillation in emitter strip four. Nothing dangerous, but it’ll cause a 0.03-second firing delay unless recalibrated. The new torpedo autoloaders are functioning, but the diagnostic keeps mislabeling tubes three and five as ‘occupied’ when they’re not.”

Bane nodded. “Noted. Put it on the punch list.” Bane knew his Chief and Assistant Chief Engineers were very hard at work correcting these things. He also knew that both Lieutenant Commander Bast and Lieutenant Commander Stovek were leaning hard on the crew to get these minor deficiencies corrected. It was part of the shakedown cruise, he thought.

From the port side, the ship’s newest Science Officer, Ensign Marja T’Laren, looked up from her display. “Environmental sensors report nominal readings. However, the long-range sensor grid is showing a persistent 0.2% variance in its subspace harmonics. I have traced it to the integration interface near the repaired warp nacelle. This will not impede operations, but I recommend recalibration after our first warp cycle.”

“Keep at it, Ensign,” Bane said. “Iron out what you can. Please let Lieutenant Lagnas know," he said, then added, "And let Lieutenant Commander Spangler know as well. He can probably help."

Lieutenant Huxley Bren, the grizzled Human Operations Officer, swiveled in his seat. “Captain, shipwide power grids are stable. EPS relays are glowing green across the board, except deck seven section five, where one relay keeps reporting ‘warm’ even though thermal scans show normal temperature. Probably a misaligned sensor. Transporter Rooms One and Three passed diagnostics. Two is functional, but its pattern buffer displays are flickering like an old slot machine.”

Bane raised an eyebrow. “Anything else complaining?”

“Just the new internal comm panels. Half of them insist on playing Starbase 375’s docking notices at random intervals.” Huxley sighed. “We’ll catch it.”

A soft ripple of amusement crossed the bridge. Even with fresh alloy and brand-new systems, the Cygnus still had personality.

Only then did Captain Bane turn, slowly, deliberately, toward the center of the bridge.

His chair waited.

The old command seat had been comfortable enough, but this… this was something else entirely. Starfleet’s Corps of Engineers had taken the opportunity during the repairs to install one of their latest experimental command modules, a hybrid between the Sovereign-class ergonomics and the newest Inquiry-class adaptive systems.

The chair was larger, contoured to support both lower lumbar and thoracic vertebrae, with micro-adjusting pressure nodes that shifted automatically depending on his posture. The armrests were sleek black duranium with matte-finish polymer grips, each housed inset holographic touchpads capable of everything from shipwide announcements to immediate transfer of helm or tactical control.

A recessed holopane projector sat beneath an almost invisible lattice of emitters on his right. With a tap, it could generate a floating three-dimensional tactical display up to a meter tall, though the engineers had warned him that the holo-field sometimes “hiccuped” and displayed objects upside-down until fully warmed. Bane would have to let Lieutenant Ahmad know if this happened, and to get it corrected. It would serve the opposite of useful if he were interpreting information incorrectly because the display was upside down.

On his left, a narrow fold-out panel concealed a secure command authorization port, though an ops report had mentioned that the panel occasionally stuck halfway and required a firm nudge.

Integrated into the base was a new inertial dampening feedback mesh. In case of sudden turbulence, shockwaves, or combat, the chair would counter-vibrate to reduce bodily strain, though the chief engineer from 375 had casually mentioned that, during testing, the lower right dampener had buzzed slightly until reseated.

And just behind the headrest: a small, dark plate with the raised emblem of the USS Cygnus. A phoenix-like bird of myth rising from a nebula, wings spread in defiant ascent.

Fitting, Bane thought. Very fitting.

With a slow breath, he lowered himself into the seat. The chair adjusted instantly, fine-tuning its contour to match the exact pressure distribution of his frame. The hum of the ship vibrated up through the bones of the chair, a soft and steady reassurance, though he noted a faint, nearly inaudible creak from the left armrest. He smiled. New or not, a starship always took a few flights to settle.

This was home.

“Helm,” Bane said, resting one hand on the right control pad. “Release docking umbilicals. Bring impulse engines to standby.”

“Aye, Captain,” Fera zh’Ranni replied. “Um, the port umbilical is taking an extra moment to disengage. The magnetic clamps are hesitating....ah. There it goes.”

“Tactical, secure all external locks.”

“Secured,” Vorrik confirmed. “Cargo bay seven’s door sensor insists it’s ajar, but the physical lock shows fully sealed. I’ve overridden it.”

“Operations, confirm we are clear from station control.”

Huxley nodded. “Starbase 375 gives us departure clearance on vector zero-zero-four-mark-eight. Traffic lanes are clear. And they apologize for the earlier comm bleed-through.”

Bane settled deeper into the chair, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well then,” he said, voice warm and sure. “Let’s kick a chicken.”

The massive doors of Spacedock 3 began their slow mechanical parting, the glowing red warning lights flickering to soft amber as the station’s atmospheric containment field shimmered across the widening gap. The USS Cygnus, newly reborn, drifted forward under the gentle push of her maneuvering thrusters. Her fresh hull plating gleamed silver-white under the spacedock floodlights, every contour sharp, every seam renewed. The right warp nacelle, once torn away in catastrophic violence, now pulsed blue with restored power, though a faint, harmless ionization flicker shimmered briefly along its trailing edge.

As she cleared the threshold, the impulse engines came alive in a soft bloom of orange. The ship accelerated gracefully, moving past the skeletal framework of service gantries and into the open expanse of space beyond the station.

At the edge of the station’s controlled space, the Cygnus aligned with her departure vector. The warp nacelles brightened noticeably with a resonant hum, their plasma coils igniting in a cascade of blue illumination along the pylons. Space rippled faintly around the ship as the warp field enveloped her. A brief flicker of uneven distortion shimmered across the starboard nacelle, likely the same harmonic variance Science had reported, but the field stabilized cleanly.

Then, with a bright flare of nacelle light and a long, elegant stretch of motion, the USS Cygnus leapt forward, streaking into warp, leaving only a glimmering afterimage in the darkness behind her.

A phoenix rising once more.



OFF

Bane Plase, Captain
USS Cygnus, Commanding

 

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