There shouldn’t be a planet here. Not that Poe knows where “here” even is. Clearly, he thinks as he stares through plastisteel at a black sky strewn thickly with close-set stars, he miscalculated something in that last jump. Good job, Dameron.
Below him stars swarm like jungle insects, their radiance hiding any sign of the Galaxy from his eyes and his ship’s instruments. Above him hangs the dark curve of an unlikely planet, no star close enough to claim it. In front of him his fuel gage reads 17% and his nav computer is unhelpfully rebooting. So is P6-A4, who doesn’t like him anyway. All in all, New Republic Cadet Poe Dameron finds himself suspended within what’s probably a dense star cluster, and also completely lost.
Light flickers on the planet, warm and yellow rather than starlight white. Poe cranes his neck, looking up and over, and after a couple dozen heartbeats it flickers again. It is atmospheric? Surface? Natural? Intelligent? “Hey, P6-A4,” Poe calls, pounding his fist on the pilot compartment’s ceiling, which is completely useless but makes him feel better. “Hey, do me a favor?”
“What do you want?” his Astromech bleeps in annoyed cadences. “Where are we? What did you do this time?”
“I didn’t ask for an interrogation.” Poe misses his friend and companion, his BB-8, but he’s supposed to learn to work with anyone, even the only Astromech who doesn’t like him. “Scan that atmosphere for me, see if it’s breathable.”
“Jump out and check, learn something for once,” P6-A4 hisses and whirrs, but starts the scan anyway. Poe rolls his eyes, calls up some readouts on planetary gravitation and mass, and makes himself think. If he lands it’ll take 67% of his remaining fuel to get his ship off planet again, but right now he’s burning oxygen and drifting uselessly. Planetside at least has many more possibilities to find his bearings, some resources and maybe even help.
“73% N2, 23%O2, 4% other,”, P6-A4 announces. “Even you should be able to survive that.”
“Thank you so very much,” Poe mutters, turning the ship. “Down we go.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” P6-A4 grouses, and Poe blows a Mos Eisley cheer at the sour old can. The warm light flickers again, maybe beckoning, as he heads for the surface to see what might be seen.
no subject
Below him stars swarm like jungle insects, their radiance hiding any sign of the Galaxy from his eyes and his ship’s instruments. Above him hangs the dark curve of an unlikely planet, no star close enough to claim it. In front of him his fuel gage reads 17% and his nav computer is unhelpfully rebooting. So is P6-A4, who doesn’t like him anyway. All in all, New Republic Cadet Poe Dameron finds himself suspended within what’s probably a dense star cluster, and also completely lost.
Light flickers on the planet, warm and yellow rather than starlight white. Poe cranes his neck, looking up and over, and after a couple dozen heartbeats it flickers again. It is atmospheric? Surface? Natural? Intelligent? “Hey, P6-A4,” Poe calls, pounding his fist on the pilot compartment’s ceiling, which is completely useless but makes him feel better. “Hey, do me a favor?”
“What do you want?” his Astromech bleeps in annoyed cadences. “Where are we? What did you do this time?”
“I didn’t ask for an interrogation.” Poe misses his friend and companion, his BB-8, but he’s supposed to learn to work with anyone, even the only Astromech who doesn’t like him. “Scan that atmosphere for me, see if it’s breathable.”
“Jump out and check, learn something for once,” P6-A4 hisses and whirrs, but starts the scan anyway. Poe rolls his eyes, calls up some readouts on planetary gravitation and mass, and makes himself think. If he lands it’ll take 67% of his remaining fuel to get his ship off planet again, but right now he’s burning oxygen and drifting uselessly. Planetside at least has many more possibilities to find his bearings, some resources and maybe even help.
“73% N2, 23%O2, 4% other,”, P6-A4 announces. “Even you should be able to survive that.”
“Thank you so very much,” Poe mutters, turning the ship. “Down we go.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” P6-A4 grouses, and Poe blows a Mos Eisley cheer at the sour old can. The warm light flickers again, maybe beckoning, as he heads for the surface to see what might be seen.