Chapter 2 part 6

Professional's Handbook to Blowing Your Space Evaluation

How to Tank Your Spacer Evaluation with Style

Somehow, I found myself agreeing to a joint mission with Diana.

The terms were clear enough: prove I could hold my own in hostile territory if I planned on dragging Aioi into deeper zones again. Fair, really. It’s not overprotectiveness—it’s basic crew safety. Nobody wants to send a younger crewmate off with someone who looks like he’s been patched together with duct tape and stubbornness.

And look, I get it. I know what I look like—some half-sane drifter who’s spent too many years sucking vacuum. It was only a matter of time before someone insisted on a formal test. Not my first time jumping through bureaucratic hoops to justify my survival.

The trial mission? Two cycles patrolling a junk cluster.

It was the kind of work everyone hates but someone has to do: scouting for rookie pilots who'd gone missing after flying too deep, pulling down unauthorized signal towers set up by scrappers with more greed than brains, and cleaning up messes left by freelancers with poor luck and worse judgment.

Usually, when someone vanishes out here, they’re gone for good. They’re either dead, pirating under a new alias, or sipping synthbrew back on Earth with a fake ID. Either way, they become someone else’s problem.

But we weren’t just wandering. Our destination was a small repair outpost tucked in the belt’s inner ring, with a strict clock on our return—an incoming radiation storm meant we had to get in and out before space turned lethal.

If the outpost was still operational, we could use it to refuel or regroup. The course we’d charted was known and relatively tame—but "safe" in deep space is just another word for "not yet deadly."

You never know what’s drifting out there. Space beasts, magnetic anomalies, maybe worse.

In my experience? “Routine” missions never are.

This wasn’t just some garbage collection run. It was a field test. My chance to prove I was still someone worth flying with.

"Kept you waiting, huh?"

By the time I got to the eastern launch port, most of the Diana crew had already formed up.

"Not rolling with the full squad today?"

"Hardly," said Lunar. "This isn’t a flagship deployment. Most of the team’s tied up with contracts. We delegate, remember?"

"Right, right. Just making sure I didn’t wander into the wrong launch window. Don’t think I’ve met everyone here—let’s fix that. I’m Narwhal, gunner-class. Bronze-3."

There were five Diana operatives assembled:

Commander Lunar, junior crew Aioi, Goressa—who I’d once mortifyingly misgendered—and two others I’d only seen in the mess halls.

"Yo! I’m Yunikon," said the redhead with a bright grin. "Plasma sharpshooter, Silver-2. I’ve seen you hovering around the supply docks, but we haven’t chatted, have we?"

She gave off major older-sister energy—bubbly, approachable, and already more personable than Aioi on her best day.

"Moona," the other said with minimal warmth. "Ion tech-user. Rank: Gold-1. I'm here to observe, not socialize."

Oh. One of those.

Long blue hair, eyes like a targeting laser, and an attitude sharp enough to slice hull. She had that "don't screw up or else" kind of presence. Definitely the type to grade you silently, then hand over a report that ruins your quarter.

She was always near Lunar during station shifts, but this was my first time hearing her speak. Her voice was colder than the freezing outer hull.

"..."

This one... more than the ethereal grace of Diana, she carries the rugged aura of a Hercules Mercenary.. A juggernaut in human skin. Actually... a fortress? No, Goressa. That’s the one. Like a living blockade. Towering, carved from armor plating and raw strength. Undeniably... a woman. Thank you very much.

"Goressa, surely you can offer a greeting. It’s his first mission with us, after all."

"R-right. Mr. Narwhal appears sufficiently apologetic for past errors, so I’ll extend a formal welcome."

With Lunar’s and Aioi’s nudging, Goressa finally stepped forward. The weapon latched to her back—a cannon-bayonet hybrid that looked capable of gutting cruisers—caught the ambient light with a flash.

"Um… I’m Goressa… Heavy Armament, Silver-2. Happy to cooperate today."

"Likewise. Let’s keep things... efficient."

Her voice, surprisingly, came out low and a little shy. Didn't match the walking tank exterior at all. Not what I expected from someone who looked like she trained by lifting engine blocks.

Maybe that mess of a first meeting rattled her more than I thought. Still, with that deep voice and the sheer scale of her, I don’t feel too guilty about the earlier misgendering. Anyone would’ve made that mistake.

Anyway, no need to dwell. She doesn’t seem eager to hold a grudge. That’s good—I really don’t want a grudge match with someone who could bench-press my entire ship.

"We’re not doing a full tactical overview, are we?"

"No need, Mission priority is straightforward—get to the maintenance post and back before the radiation storm wave fries our comms. Let’s move out."

"Hey, who's taking point? Since this crew's mostly Diana regulars, wouldn’t it make sense to let us lead?"

"You’re not wrong. But this whole run’s about proving I’ve got chops, right? Taking command—if only for a leg of the journey—might help with that."

"Hmm, you make a decent case. Besides, I wouldn’t mind shaking up our usual protocol. Diana ops are starting to feel a bit stiff," Yunikon said.

"I appreciate the support. You’ve got my back?"

"Absolutely!"

Lunar paused, considering. Her expression didn’t scream confidence, but she didn’t object. Probably figured letting me crash and burn on my own would be more conclusive than arguing.

So for now, I held temporary command. The reins were in my hands, at least until I steered us wrong. My trial by orbit had begun.

We glided into the field—an endless sprawl of shattered debris, drifting alloys, and husks of forgotten ships.

The outer ring was mostly familiar territory. Predators rarely came this close to regulated space.

Still, none of us let our guards down.

We flew in a five-point formation, alert and spaced out for maximum sensor coverage.

Each of us piloted solo vessels, small but specialized. In tight, obstacle-laden terrain like this, big ships were a death sentence. Agility and reaction time were everything.

My ship was a solo unit built for versatility: nimble, weaponized, and rigged for high-responsiveness. Aioi’s looked like a racing drone—sleek, fast, meant for scouting. Goressa’s was a beast of armor, built to absorb and return punishment with her oversized artillery.

Yunikon flew a precision-based craft, optimized for sniping targets before they even registered a threat. Moona’s was all business—dark, heavy, and bristling with ion arrays that could disable a cruiser if she really felt like it.

Together, our squad was well-rounded, with every angle of combat covered. Even with a reliable route plotted, terrain like this was chaos incarnate. One drifting plate or loose magnetic anomaly could turn a patrol into a rescue.

But we moved like we’d done this a hundred times.

"Ahhh, so that’s why Narwhal rolls solo most missions."

Yunikon’s voice broke in over the channel, bright and casual.

"You’re the kind who takes group jobs by yourself, aren’t you? Triple pay if you survive, right?"

I sighed. Entertaining, sure, but I’d prefer she keep eyes on her scan feed.

"Didn’t peg you as loaded, though. You’ve got… interesting taste in gear."

"Hey. Everything I buy has a purpose."

"Right. Purely functional... with a side of weird."

She giggled.

"So, now that you're part of a Diana-run sortie, I hope you brought one of those infamous gadgets you’re always rumored to carry."

"Wait—Mr. Narwhal, do you actually use plasma-based gear?"

"Is that real? What is that thing on your wing? Looks like it was made in a back-alley forge!"

"Oh, this? You’re in for a treat. Picked it up cheap off a shady vendor out near Vortex Dock."

We came to a momentary drift—apparently, my gear had sparked a sudden interest in show-and-tell.

Lunar and Moona exchanged tired glances, but I wasn’t about to hide my toys.

"Feast your eyes—on the Plasma Lance!"

I powered it on. The device whirred, then hummed with energy. The long, modified casing crackled as plasma conduits lit up, and a contained bolt of ionized lightning surged from its emitter core.

This wasn’t just a ranged weapon. It was dual-purpose. At distance, it hurled bolts of raw plasma. Up close, the energy projection narrowed into a heated spike—like a spear made of thunder.

"Amazing… You really bought this?"

"...Wow."

Their lack of awe was disappointing. They clearly didn’t get it. This wasn’t some flashy gimmick—it was a marvel of modular engineering.

Yes, it was bulky. Yes, it ate through energy cells like candy. But its stopping power was absurd.

"Be honest—can you actually aim that thing?"

"Course I can. I even brought a plasma cell to demo."

"Wait—you only have one?"

"Hey, they’re expensive. And I’m not made of credits. Watch—I’ll tag that asteroid cluster dead ahead."

"That’s not a shot—that’s a siege barrage."

"It’s fine. If I miss, I’ll just eject myself and use the lance for close combat. That’s where I shine anyway."

"More importantly, why are you attaching a lance to a spaceship?"

Their disbelief flooded the comms. I adjusted my visor and sighed.

Just because I weaponize my ship like an action figure doesn’t mean I’m wrong.

I mean, sure—I’m not expecting pinpoint accuracy. But with more practice and a few bulk plasma orders, I could master this thing.

"Debris density's increasing. Eyes sharp."

"R-right."

"...Aioi, is this really standard behavior?"

"Oh, totally. This is just his thing."

"You know I’m still on the channel, right?"

If you’re going to roast me, at least use encrypted lines. 

Author's Note:

Ah, welcome back, dear reader! I see you've survived another round of cosmic chaos and bureaucratic hoops. Let's dive right into the latest escapades of our beloved Galaxia Narwhal—aka the man who can turn a simple evaluation mission into a full-blown spectacle of spacer style.

First off, let me just say, if you thought facing off against a Void Titan was easy, try proving your worth to a crew of elite spacers. It's a test of skill, patience, and the ability to endure the increasingly sharp tongues of your crewmates. But hey, all's well that ends with a successful mission and a few laughs, right?

And let's talk about our starry-eyed recruits—fresh from the Guild’s Training Camps, ready to take on the void with nothing but excessive confidence and substandard equipment. They're like space foam, folks. Barely formed, still drifting, and entirely unprepared for the harshness that lies beyond regulated space. But amidst all the chaos and competition, there's a sobering truth. Life out here in the void isn't easy. It's a constant battle against chaos, noise, and the cold, unfeeling expanse of space. Yet, these folks keep going, day after day, with a resilience that would put a black hole to shame.

So here's to the evaluation missions, the plasma lances, the kebabs, the ale, and the kebabs. May your missions be ever successful, your victories ever in your favor, and your optimism ever unfiltered.

And remember, if you ever find yourself in need of a good laugh or a heartwarming tale of triumph against the odds, just tune in to the next chapter of "How to Tank Your Spacer Evaluation with Style." Trust me, it's going to be out of this world.