The Emperor's Screw-Up

"One," Sergeant Rykov repeated, staring at the comms terminal. "Just…one?"

Across the hangar, Corporal Ellis shifted uncomfortably, her voice strained over the crackling vox-link. "Sir, with respect, the manifest is very clear. We need every single…"

"I know what the manifest says!" Rykov slammed a fist on the flimsy requisition desk. The flimsy desk, true to its name, rattled with a noise like a skeleton having a sneezing fit. "I'm staring at the Emperor's own damn seal on it. But are you telling me the entire Orbital Defense Platform – the Emperor's salvation – hinges on a single missing screw?"

"It's not just a screw, Sergeant," Ellis protested, her voice gaining a hint of desperation. "It's a titanium-xeronium alloy, stress-rated for the recoil matrix assembly. Without it, the main cannon won't link, and the Emperor specified…"

Rykov cut her off with a gesture, feeling a headache pressing in behind his eyes. They should be prepping for launch, not chasing down rogue fasteners. Two days. The Emperor, in his infinite paranoia, had given them just two days to get the ODP off the ground, ahead of that blasted rebel fleet. Two days for a task usually allocated weeks, and now this.

"Find it, " he told Ellis, his voice low and dangerous. "Turn that warehouse inside out. I don't care if you have to sift through every crate with a bleeding sieve. If you can't find it... well, let's just say the rebels won't be our only problem."

The transmission cut off. Rykov slumped back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was how empires fell, he knew. Not in glorious last stands, but in the maddening minutiae of logistics and mislaid bolts. He glanced across the cavernous hangar, where the ODP loomed, a vast skeletal sphere. Built on the scavenged chassis of a dead starcruiser, it was a testament to Imperial desperation as much as engineering genius.

Movement flickered at the far end of the hangar, a lone figure near the auxiliary cargo bays. Corporal Nevsky – the unit screw-up, the one they joked would lose his own head if it wasn't attached. Rykov surged to his feet with a newfound surge of irritation. It was time to have a motivational chat.

Nevsky hunched over a crate, his oversized coveralls making him look more like a child playing soldier than a technician.

"Report," Rykov barked.

Nevsky jumped, scattering tools with a clatter. "S-sorry, Sergeant. Was just…checking the, er, the thing inventory."

"And? Did you find our missing screw?"

"Well, funny thing…" Nevsky scratched at his cheek, glancing around nervously. "I kinda…might've used it."

Rykov gripped the edge of the crate, feeling a primal urge to throttle the lanky corporal. His voice was a forced whisper. "You…what?"

"See, the door panel on Bay 3, it was rattling, and this screw, it was the perfect fit, so I just…"

"Emperor's bowels, man!" Rykov roared, the hangar echoing in protest. "Do you comprehend the magnitude of…of…"

"Actually, sir," Nevsky held up a hand, "I kinda do." He pointed to the towering skeleton of the ODP. "See, I used to work construction. Simple stuff, but I got a knack for how things hold together. And that manifest? That design? Even without that one screw, I reckon this thing would hold together. But…"

"But?" Rykov said dangerously.

"But, well, that cannon…" Nevsky waved an oil-stained hand. "Too heavy. Too much kick. No matter how many screws they spec'd, stress tests say it'd tear this whole frame apart on the first shot. Maybe that's why the manifest is so fussy. Bad design, trying to brute force it with fancy metal."

Rykov stared, suspicion warring with a flicker of hope. "You're sure?"

Nevsky shrugged. "Sure as I've ever been. Thing is, fixing it, that'd be a whole different kettle of worms. And time, well…"

Rykov didn't need the sentence finished. They didn't have time. But the seed of an insane idea was taking root. The Emperor, thankfully, was more interested in grand gestures than the nitty-gritty of engineering. If the platform went up, if the main cannon even looked like it would fire…

He slapped Nevsky on the shoulder, the corporal flinching in surprise.

"Think you can fix it, Nevsky?" Rykov asked, the edge gone from his voice.

Nevsky blinked. "Sir? Fix it, with what? We don't got spare struts, or…"

"Improvise. That's what us grunts do best, ain't it?" Rykov stalked across the hangar, his mind racing with a reckless sort of brilliance. "The rebels aren't expecting clever. They're expecting an Imperial screw-up."

Over the next hour, Rykov forgot he was a sergeant and Nevsky a lowly corporal. They were partners in a deception of galactic proportions. Guided by Nevsky's innate understanding of structural flaws and Rykov's desperate pragmatism, they stripped components from non-essential systems. Comms relays, auxiliary stabilizers, even the backup coffee maker from the officers' mess – all cannibalized and repurposed.

"It's not pretty," Nevsky muttered, grease smeared across his face as he welded a jury-rigged brace across a critical joint. "But it just might hold together. Long enough for one shot."

"That's all we need," Rykov said, threading sensor cables with frantic hands. They had to make this monstrous contraption look authentic. If the Emperor did a pre-launch inspection and caught a whiff of their fakery… well, the rebels would be the least of their worries.

By the time Ellis reappeared, harried and disheveled, the hangar was a scene of controlled chaos. Gone was the pristine ODP from the manifest, replaced by a monstrosity of exposed wiring and mismatched armor plating.

"Sergeant, what in the name of…?" Ellis trailed off, eyes wide in horrified fascination.

Rykov grinned savagely. "Problem solved. Cannon's functional, Emperor's happy, rebels defeated, we all get medals. That screw? Never existed."

Four hours later, Rykov stood at attention as the Imperial shuttle touched down on the hastily cleared landing pad. His battered crew scrambled to simulate busy-work, hiding their exhaustion with practiced ease. The Emperor swept out of the shuttle, flanked by grim-faced guards and sycophantic ministers, pausing to eye the ODP with a displeased frown.

"Sergeant Rykov," the Emperor's voice was dry and brittle with age, "We trust everything is in order?"

Rykov saluted, sweat prickling at his collar despite the chill wind whistling through the hangar's open roof. "Of course, Your Imperial Majesty. Defense platform fully operational and awaiting your command."

Lies, but lies laced with grim determination. The Emperor swept past, a glittering retinue trailing behind. As they reached the precarious gantry leading into the ODP's heart, Rykov saw Nevsky manning the cannon control station, pale but resolute.

The Emperor peered into the heart of the cannon, the gleaming barrel that would never fire the way it was intended. "Impressive," he remarked finally. "We had concerns about certain…logistical delays. You have allayed them."

"We serve the Empire, Your Majesty," Rykov managed, cursing how his voice trembled ever so slightly.

The Emperor turned to leave. Just before stepping onto the shuttle, he paused and cast a glance back at the hulking ODP, his expression unreadable. "May it serve us well," he intoned, and then he was gone.

The relief that flooded Rykov was almost overwhelming. As mechanics swarmed out, pretending to conduct final checks, he slipped away. Nevsky was slumped in the gunnery station, staring out at the distant specks of the oncoming rebel fleet.

"Well," Rykov ventured, leaning against the control console, "Think they bought it?"

Nevsky snorted. "They bought it. Whole galaxy's gonna buy it when this thing lights up the sky… once." He shot Rykov a sideways look. "So, what happens next? Big promotion? Cushy staff job?"

Rykov leaned back, watching the specks of the rebel fleet grow larger with each passing minute. "Nah," he said. "Can't have heroes knowing the truth, can we? More likely, we'll 'die bravely' when this thing fires. Some remote outpost, forgotten accident."

Nevsky didn't seem surprised. "Figured. Still, worth it? Defying the Emperor, saving lives?"

Rykov shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe it's just in a grunt's blood. You stick your neck out, fix what you can, and hope the blast takes you quick."

He stood, heading for the hangar exit. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I think a man deserves a final drink before the galaxy's most spectacular fireworks show."
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The prompt:
"It says here we're meant to have 3,289,415 screws for this thing. But you've shipped it to us with one less. Can you send a replacement? The Emperor really wants this in orbit before the rebels get here."