In a
dusty corner of a grimy spaceport bar on Din-G station there sat a middle-aged
man. This man was most unremarkable, save for his presence in that kind of
establishment – he looked like he would be much better suited in a space-station
garden centre than a bar. Sitting alone at his sticky circular table, lined
with neon tubes so that everyone knew this was a space-bar and not some
low-class planet-side public house, the man nursed his drink and flicked
through a small notebook, occasionally glancing up to take an innocent interest
in proceedings around him. His satchel was casually leaned against him on the
bench seat, the flap half-open, displaying the small collection of items he’d
deemed necessary for his journey through the universe, as well as a sewn-in
name tag which read “George Croft”.
Across from George, at the bar, was a group of ladies and gentlemen having a rather good time of it. At least, that was George’s take on the situation. Unfortunately, George’s judgement in these matters was a little off the mark. Firstly, the ladies were not terribly ‘lady-like’, given that they were angrily shouting at one of the gentlemen. They’d even gone so far as to hold the edge of a broken bottle to his throat. Secondly, the men were not especially ‘gentle’, which had contributed significantly to the anger of the ladies. Last of all, no-one in the group was having time which was even remotely good. All in all, it was a standard evening on Din-G.
George watched from his quiet table as the bar-drama unfolded in front of him. He sipped gently at his drink as the insults flew harder and louder. He idly twiddled his coaster as the broken bottle was finally used in anger. He flipped through his notebook as the whole group was thrown out of the bar and onto the concourse, by the burly, four-armed doorman. 'This bar certainly is a colourful place', George thought. He smiled, shrugged, and sipped his drink again.
As the post-work ‘evening’ settled in, the rest of the bar started to fill. Crew-members from the various docked vessels filtered in after the end of their shifts and duties, the few permanent citizens of Din-G listened for stories from off-station, and those with little else to do staggered in from elsewhere.
The passage of days was a strange concept on Din-G. Nearly every habitable planet in the universe was in an orbit around a star of some description – mainly because it was the presence of a star’s heat and light which made them habitable in the first place. Notable exceptions include Dirst, the planet of eternal twilight, which floats at the end of the spiral arm of a particularly dim galaxy in one of the trendier clusters. The people of Dirst evolved without access to sunlight, moonlight or even candle-light, leading to a strong affinity with the blind, subterranean creatures of any other world they visited. Their save-the-moles foundation continues to gain traction on the majority of worlds, despite no-one having any idea at all of what the moles need saving from.
Din-G station orbited no star in particular; at least, not intentionally. It was a half-way house, a stopping point between the two galaxies of Yttir and Operames, and nothing in the station’s ‘sky’ shone bright enough to create a daytime. Even if it had, no-one wanted to go to the effort of setting the whole thing spinning to establish a day/night cycle anyway. Instead, Din-G seemed to exist in a permanent stage of dusk, which was merciful since anyone who saw Din-G station clearly by daylight would have felt very uncomfortable with remaining there any longer.
Among the influx of uniformed patrons from the hangar bays was a tall, thin man with three wide strips of black hair running from his forehead to the back of his neck, who sat himself on the table next to George’s. A dark blue jacket covered the top of his grey overalls, and heavy black boots rested on the base of the table’s central leg. He leaned forward over his drink, tired from a day’s work, and not looking very excited about what the ‘morning’ may hold for him. George supposed that the man must simply have been exhausted, because with a job as exciting as being a crewman on a space ship there was no way the man could be genuinely sad.
Taking a closer look, George was thrilled to see that the other man was wearing epaulets – that meant he was an officer on a space vessel, and exactly what George had been looking for. Happily, he picked up his satchel, plopped his notebook back inside, and shimmied over to sit next to the officer. The officer didn’t seem to notice, engrossed as he was in his drinking and wallowing. George waited patiently for a few minutes, casually looking around the bar and watching its denizens going about their business with a quaint interest and patience.
Eventually the officer took notice of George and gave him one hell of sidelong glance, before returning to his glass. George took this as an invitation to start a conversation.
“Hello there.” He said cheerily.
The officer turned his head slowly to look at him. “Hello.”
“How are you?” came the bright follow-up, beaming smile in full support.
“Tired, and trying to have a drink on my own.” The officer replied tersely.
“I’ve been drinking on my own too, but I feel quite well rested.” George told the man, as evidence that solo-drinking was possible. That kind of hope might just help him pull through his sorrows.
“That’s wonderful” his voice said. His tone didn’t. “Now unless you need something, I’d really like to have a good go at this drinking alone lark.”
“Well, there was, since you ask. I’m actually on my travels, and I was hoping that since you’re an officer, your ship might have space for me. Ship space on a space ship!” George said, chuckling deeply at his own devastating wit.
The officer looked George up and down with an incredulous expression. “You don’t look like the usual space travellers I get begging for passage. You look more like a carpet salesman.”
George chuckled again. “I actually sell vegetables, so you’re not far off.”
“You’re a greengrocer? What in the name of the abyss are you travelling space for? Selling cabbages in the next nebula over?” The officer asked, knowing full well that fresh vegetables would spoil in the journey between nebulae.
“No, no. It’s not for business. I’ve been travelling space ever since I lost my wife.”
The officer’s obvious disinterest disappeared. So great was the gap it left, that it took both sympathy and guilt to fill its place. “Oh, I- I’m sorry. What happened?”
“No idea. I just lost her one day. I’ve already looked on my planet and I couldn’t find her there, so it made sense to look on the others next.” It hadn’t take George long to rule out his own planet when hunting down his wife – it wasn’t terribly large, and he knew that his wife disliked bakeries so that removed a few potential hiding places from the get-go. He gave the planet a once-over and concluded that she couldn’t possibly still be there, so the only other option was that she had travelled off-world. Clearly, he would have to do the same.
The officer’s disinterest sent an envoy back to hold its place; its friend frustration. "The others? As in, all the other planets? In the vastness of the universe?”
“Well hopefully it won’t take all of them, but I’ll visit every one if I have to. She’ll turn up – I’m sure.” There was a silence. The officer was trying to avoid engaging the talkative lunatic any more than necessary, and George had finished his sentence. Eventually, he spoke again. “I’m sorry, I’ve been terribly rude and not introduced myself. My name is George Croft – what’s yours?”
“Tasa Arton.” The officer replied.
“And you are an officer, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m an astro-navigator for a cargo ship currently docking here.”
“So, do you think you could find space for me? A small room is fine, I’m not proud or fussy.”
Tasa looked at the slightly tubby man with his neatly combed hair and small satchel, and couldn’t help but feel terrible whenever he tried to say ‘no’ – and he did try several times. However, he also felt terrible whenever he considered having to listen to him talking borderline nonsense for the whole journey to Polaris VI. Tasa just felt terrible in general, which was largely why he’d come to the bar to drink by himself, before George had made him feel even worse. The astro-navigator let out a groaning sigh.
"Where are you trying to get to then, George? We might not be heading in the right direction for you."
"Anywhere I haven't crossed off the list yet, really. They're the places I haven't looked yet." George opened up his satchel and produced his notebook for Tasa to see. There was a short list of planets with crosses next to them, and in some cases short notes alongside the cross.
Tasa narrowed his eyes. He knew the names of all the planets on the list, but they were scattered all around the local star systems, and no system was completely represented – there were several missing worlds. The travelling grocer had taken an extremely strange path to get to Din-G station.
"Aren't you following an order of some kind? Taking each planet in a star system and then moving on maybe, anything vaguely logical?"
"No, no. That sounds very complicated and unnecessary. Plus, I doubt my wife would be doing that anyway; she'd just have headed to somewhere completely at random, so that's what I should do too."
The astro-navigator looked at the grocer flatly, hardly knowing where to start in his explanation of why George was wrong on all fronts, as well as several backs. He had to question whether allowing him to come aboard would be tantamount to enabling his derangement.
“I’m willing to pay, of course.” George said with slight embarrassment in reaction to Tasa’s silence.
That stripped one more excuse away before Tasa could even field it. The officer began searching for a new reason to put George off, but whenever he looked over he just couldn't bring himself to leave the poor man behind here. They abyss only knew how he had got to Din-G in the first place, but Tasa got the distinct impression he may have been promptly abandoned thereafter. Granted, George could easily have decided he wanted to search the whole station for his wife, but that would have taken mere hours. Abandonment was far more likely; doubly so since that's probably what Tasa himself would have done after a whole journey with the loon. All Tasa had to do, he told himself, was get him to the ship and hand him to the captain; then he could wash his hands of the lunatic and go back to his important wallowing. With these interruptions he'd barely approached the well of despair, let alone thrown himself into it.
“I’ll take you to the captain.” He said to the jolly grocer with resignation. “I can’t do anything more though.” He added – “can’t” and “won’t” being equally at home in that sentence.
Across from George, at the bar, was a group of ladies and gentlemen having a rather good time of it. At least, that was George’s take on the situation. Unfortunately, George’s judgement in these matters was a little off the mark. Firstly, the ladies were not terribly ‘lady-like’, given that they were angrily shouting at one of the gentlemen. They’d even gone so far as to hold the edge of a broken bottle to his throat. Secondly, the men were not especially ‘gentle’, which had contributed significantly to the anger of the ladies. Last of all, no-one in the group was having time which was even remotely good. All in all, it was a standard evening on Din-G.
George watched from his quiet table as the bar-drama unfolded in front of him. He sipped gently at his drink as the insults flew harder and louder. He idly twiddled his coaster as the broken bottle was finally used in anger. He flipped through his notebook as the whole group was thrown out of the bar and onto the concourse, by the burly, four-armed doorman. 'This bar certainly is a colourful place', George thought. He smiled, shrugged, and sipped his drink again.
As the post-work ‘evening’ settled in, the rest of the bar started to fill. Crew-members from the various docked vessels filtered in after the end of their shifts and duties, the few permanent citizens of Din-G listened for stories from off-station, and those with little else to do staggered in from elsewhere.
The passage of days was a strange concept on Din-G. Nearly every habitable planet in the universe was in an orbit around a star of some description – mainly because it was the presence of a star’s heat and light which made them habitable in the first place. Notable exceptions include Dirst, the planet of eternal twilight, which floats at the end of the spiral arm of a particularly dim galaxy in one of the trendier clusters. The people of Dirst evolved without access to sunlight, moonlight or even candle-light, leading to a strong affinity with the blind, subterranean creatures of any other world they visited. Their save-the-moles foundation continues to gain traction on the majority of worlds, despite no-one having any idea at all of what the moles need saving from.
Din-G station orbited no star in particular; at least, not intentionally. It was a half-way house, a stopping point between the two galaxies of Yttir and Operames, and nothing in the station’s ‘sky’ shone bright enough to create a daytime. Even if it had, no-one wanted to go to the effort of setting the whole thing spinning to establish a day/night cycle anyway. Instead, Din-G seemed to exist in a permanent stage of dusk, which was merciful since anyone who saw Din-G station clearly by daylight would have felt very uncomfortable with remaining there any longer.
Among the influx of uniformed patrons from the hangar bays was a tall, thin man with three wide strips of black hair running from his forehead to the back of his neck, who sat himself on the table next to George’s. A dark blue jacket covered the top of his grey overalls, and heavy black boots rested on the base of the table’s central leg. He leaned forward over his drink, tired from a day’s work, and not looking very excited about what the ‘morning’ may hold for him. George supposed that the man must simply have been exhausted, because with a job as exciting as being a crewman on a space ship there was no way the man could be genuinely sad.
Taking a closer look, George was thrilled to see that the other man was wearing epaulets – that meant he was an officer on a space vessel, and exactly what George had been looking for. Happily, he picked up his satchel, plopped his notebook back inside, and shimmied over to sit next to the officer. The officer didn’t seem to notice, engrossed as he was in his drinking and wallowing. George waited patiently for a few minutes, casually looking around the bar and watching its denizens going about their business with a quaint interest and patience.
Eventually the officer took notice of George and gave him one hell of sidelong glance, before returning to his glass. George took this as an invitation to start a conversation.
“Hello there.” He said cheerily.
The officer turned his head slowly to look at him. “Hello.”
“How are you?” came the bright follow-up, beaming smile in full support.
“Tired, and trying to have a drink on my own.” The officer replied tersely.
“I’ve been drinking on my own too, but I feel quite well rested.” George told the man, as evidence that solo-drinking was possible. That kind of hope might just help him pull through his sorrows.
“That’s wonderful” his voice said. His tone didn’t. “Now unless you need something, I’d really like to have a good go at this drinking alone lark.”
“Well, there was, since you ask. I’m actually on my travels, and I was hoping that since you’re an officer, your ship might have space for me. Ship space on a space ship!” George said, chuckling deeply at his own devastating wit.
The officer looked George up and down with an incredulous expression. “You don’t look like the usual space travellers I get begging for passage. You look more like a carpet salesman.”
George chuckled again. “I actually sell vegetables, so you’re not far off.”
“You’re a greengrocer? What in the name of the abyss are you travelling space for? Selling cabbages in the next nebula over?” The officer asked, knowing full well that fresh vegetables would spoil in the journey between nebulae.
“No, no. It’s not for business. I’ve been travelling space ever since I lost my wife.”
The officer’s obvious disinterest disappeared. So great was the gap it left, that it took both sympathy and guilt to fill its place. “Oh, I- I’m sorry. What happened?”
“No idea. I just lost her one day. I’ve already looked on my planet and I couldn’t find her there, so it made sense to look on the others next.” It hadn’t take George long to rule out his own planet when hunting down his wife – it wasn’t terribly large, and he knew that his wife disliked bakeries so that removed a few potential hiding places from the get-go. He gave the planet a once-over and concluded that she couldn’t possibly still be there, so the only other option was that she had travelled off-world. Clearly, he would have to do the same.
The officer’s disinterest sent an envoy back to hold its place; its friend frustration. "The others? As in, all the other planets? In the vastness of the universe?”
“Well hopefully it won’t take all of them, but I’ll visit every one if I have to. She’ll turn up – I’m sure.” There was a silence. The officer was trying to avoid engaging the talkative lunatic any more than necessary, and George had finished his sentence. Eventually, he spoke again. “I’m sorry, I’ve been terribly rude and not introduced myself. My name is George Croft – what’s yours?”
“Tasa Arton.” The officer replied.
“And you are an officer, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m an astro-navigator for a cargo ship currently docking here.”
“So, do you think you could find space for me? A small room is fine, I’m not proud or fussy.”
Tasa looked at the slightly tubby man with his neatly combed hair and small satchel, and couldn’t help but feel terrible whenever he tried to say ‘no’ – and he did try several times. However, he also felt terrible whenever he considered having to listen to him talking borderline nonsense for the whole journey to Polaris VI. Tasa just felt terrible in general, which was largely why he’d come to the bar to drink by himself, before George had made him feel even worse. The astro-navigator let out a groaning sigh.
"Where are you trying to get to then, George? We might not be heading in the right direction for you."
"Anywhere I haven't crossed off the list yet, really. They're the places I haven't looked yet." George opened up his satchel and produced his notebook for Tasa to see. There was a short list of planets with crosses next to them, and in some cases short notes alongside the cross.
Tasa narrowed his eyes. He knew the names of all the planets on the list, but they were scattered all around the local star systems, and no system was completely represented – there were several missing worlds. The travelling grocer had taken an extremely strange path to get to Din-G station.
"Aren't you following an order of some kind? Taking each planet in a star system and then moving on maybe, anything vaguely logical?"
"No, no. That sounds very complicated and unnecessary. Plus, I doubt my wife would be doing that anyway; she'd just have headed to somewhere completely at random, so that's what I should do too."
The astro-navigator looked at the grocer flatly, hardly knowing where to start in his explanation of why George was wrong on all fronts, as well as several backs. He had to question whether allowing him to come aboard would be tantamount to enabling his derangement.
“I’m willing to pay, of course.” George said with slight embarrassment in reaction to Tasa’s silence.
That stripped one more excuse away before Tasa could even field it. The officer began searching for a new reason to put George off, but whenever he looked over he just couldn't bring himself to leave the poor man behind here. They abyss only knew how he had got to Din-G in the first place, but Tasa got the distinct impression he may have been promptly abandoned thereafter. Granted, George could easily have decided he wanted to search the whole station for his wife, but that would have taken mere hours. Abandonment was far more likely; doubly so since that's probably what Tasa himself would have done after a whole journey with the loon. All Tasa had to do, he told himself, was get him to the ship and hand him to the captain; then he could wash his hands of the lunatic and go back to his important wallowing. With these interruptions he'd barely approached the well of despair, let alone thrown himself into it.
“I’ll take you to the captain.” He said to the jolly grocer with resignation. “I can’t do anything more though.” He added – “can’t” and “won’t” being equally at home in that sentence.
Captain
Rainham was, as ever, in the officers' lounge at the docking bay. It was the
only place she'd ever drink and relax, what with the general space station
populace being so ghastly and non-commissioned. You could always tell who was
who in an officers' lounge, they wore their status and expertise clearly on
their shoulders. Out there, among the peasantry, no-one showed any sign of
their station. One might accidentally greet a cleaner or look at a waiter
without sneering. Unthinkable. Captain Rainham had always had trouble working
people out, and her dependency on epaulets and military designations had eroded
what little ability she had. That was why, when she discovered something about
Tasa Arton which his epaulets didn't declare, she had to create a clear
reminder for herself.
Tasa
approached his captain with the warmth and enthusiasm of a puppy approaching a
vet. He’d always suspected that Captain Rainham didn’t like him from the slight
edge to her tone when she spoke to him and the way she seemed to look down at
him. Now that she’d renamed the ship, of course, he knew she didn’t like him.
“Captain?” Tasa opened as they reached her table. She was sitting with a collection of officers from other vessels, and had been making the tedious, haughty conversation that Tasa had gone to the grimy bar to avoid.
Captain Rainham looked up, but still down her nose, at the source of the noise.
“Mr Arton. To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought you’d slunk off to talk to the peasants.”
George turned from the captain to Tasa, awaiting his response. The astro-navigator was visibly biting the inside of his lip and taking deep breaths through his nose.
“This is George. He would like to commission passage on our ship to our next location, captain.” He said through teeth more thoroughly gritted than a winter road.
“And…” the captain responded, giving Tasa a patronising look. Tasa already had plenty of patronising looks to his name, but accepted it none-the-less.
“And he is a greengrocer, captain.”
“A greengrocer? I assume that’s him with you now; it’s a good thing I didn’t waste a glance on him. Well we don’t do free trips Tasa, you should know that.”
“It’s just ‘grocer’, if that’s OK with you? All of my planets vegetables are bright blue so I’d hesitate to mention green!” George corrected them with a grin and a hearty chuckle. Tasa and Captain Rainham ignored him.
“He’s not asking for a free trip, he’s willing to pay for the space he takes up. I thought you might want to earn some money, rather than wasting all of our time again on another dead-end run.” Said Tasa, doing a truly awful job at hiding his anger.
“You see, this attitude is exactly I had to change the ship’s name Mr Arton. You, grocer, my name is Captain Carla Rainham, and I am the commanding officer of the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick.” The astro-navigator flinched and his nostrils flared, while the other officers at the table erupted with laughter. “You’ll have a room in my ship and you’ll pay for the equivalent cargo space, plus meals and power. We leave at 0900 hours station time tomorrow morning – if you’re not on board you stay here. Goodbye.”
“Thank you very much.” George told her sincerely, blissfully ignoring her tone of voice. He turned to follow Tasa who had already started to leave the officer’s lounge.
“Oh, and Mr Arton?” Captain Rainham called after them. Tasa stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “The grocer shall be your concern; do look after him.”
As Tasa Arton left the lounge, Captain Rainham witnessed a new definition of anger; the astro-navigator managed to slam the automatic doors.
“Captain?” Tasa opened as they reached her table. She was sitting with a collection of officers from other vessels, and had been making the tedious, haughty conversation that Tasa had gone to the grimy bar to avoid.
Captain Rainham looked up, but still down her nose, at the source of the noise.
“Mr Arton. To what do I owe the pleasure? I thought you’d slunk off to talk to the peasants.”
George turned from the captain to Tasa, awaiting his response. The astro-navigator was visibly biting the inside of his lip and taking deep breaths through his nose.
“This is George. He would like to commission passage on our ship to our next location, captain.” He said through teeth more thoroughly gritted than a winter road.
“And…” the captain responded, giving Tasa a patronising look. Tasa already had plenty of patronising looks to his name, but accepted it none-the-less.
“And he is a greengrocer, captain.”
“A greengrocer? I assume that’s him with you now; it’s a good thing I didn’t waste a glance on him. Well we don’t do free trips Tasa, you should know that.”
“It’s just ‘grocer’, if that’s OK with you? All of my planets vegetables are bright blue so I’d hesitate to mention green!” George corrected them with a grin and a hearty chuckle. Tasa and Captain Rainham ignored him.
“He’s not asking for a free trip, he’s willing to pay for the space he takes up. I thought you might want to earn some money, rather than wasting all of our time again on another dead-end run.” Said Tasa, doing a truly awful job at hiding his anger.
“You see, this attitude is exactly I had to change the ship’s name Mr Arton. You, grocer, my name is Captain Carla Rainham, and I am the commanding officer of the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick.” The astro-navigator flinched and his nostrils flared, while the other officers at the table erupted with laughter. “You’ll have a room in my ship and you’ll pay for the equivalent cargo space, plus meals and power. We leave at 0900 hours station time tomorrow morning – if you’re not on board you stay here. Goodbye.”
“Thank you very much.” George told her sincerely, blissfully ignoring her tone of voice. He turned to follow Tasa who had already started to leave the officer’s lounge.
“Oh, and Mr Arton?” Captain Rainham called after them. Tasa stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “The grocer shall be your concern; do look after him.”
As Tasa Arton left the lounge, Captain Rainham witnessed a new definition of anger; the astro-navigator managed to slam the automatic doors.
George
set off at a jog to catch up with Tasa as he stormed back towards the grimy bar
they’d come from.
“Mr Arton!” George called after him, jollily. “Wait for me!”
“Mr Arton!” George called after him, jollily. “Wait for me!”
George
entered the docking bay an hour early, just to be sure that he wouldn’t be left
behind. Stretching away in front of him was a vast fleet of variously
proportioned and poorly maintained space vessels, each one occupying its own
set of access railings, bay doors and ice cream stands.
The selection of ships which was now in the hangar was completely different to those George had seen upon his arrival, and it blew him away just as much now as it did then. There were tiny personal runners, crewed by only a few people, in bays neighbouring freight haulers and ex - military battleships. Even the smallest ships loomed over him like painted steel monoliths, skyscrapers without a sky to scrape. Great square-edged freighters towered there like a town ripped from the earth and banished to space. The Hatred-class battleship IGS Prejudice judged George with an incomprehensible gun-metal grey stare, its sleek curves and streamlined nose threatening and goading the grocer into an act of war, so that it might display the tolerance for which it was named. Floating maintenance platforms with blinking orange lights swarmed around the exterior, checking, double-checking and triple-checking each external subsystem from cannon to firing port to hangar doors. They never quad-checked, obviously; that would just be fussy. In the shadow of these gods of the abyss, George couldn't help but feel humbled. It was the same the last time he'd been here, when he arrived at Din-G station with the crew of the IGS Dirge.
Lost in his overwhelmed wonder, George wandered slowly through the bay, searching for the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick.
The selection of ships which was now in the hangar was completely different to those George had seen upon his arrival, and it blew him away just as much now as it did then. There were tiny personal runners, crewed by only a few people, in bays neighbouring freight haulers and ex - military battleships. Even the smallest ships loomed over him like painted steel monoliths, skyscrapers without a sky to scrape. Great square-edged freighters towered there like a town ripped from the earth and banished to space. The Hatred-class battleship IGS Prejudice judged George with an incomprehensible gun-metal grey stare, its sleek curves and streamlined nose threatening and goading the grocer into an act of war, so that it might display the tolerance for which it was named. Floating maintenance platforms with blinking orange lights swarmed around the exterior, checking, double-checking and triple-checking each external subsystem from cannon to firing port to hangar doors. They never quad-checked, obviously; that would just be fussy. In the shadow of these gods of the abyss, George couldn't help but feel humbled. It was the same the last time he'd been here, when he arrived at Din-G station with the crew of the IGS Dirge.
Lost in his overwhelmed wonder, George wandered slowly through the bay, searching for the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick.
Nearly an hour later, Tasa
clomped into the hangar and strode on a direct vector to his ship, hoping in
the back of his mind that they’d left him behind. As he meandered through the
bay he passed his eyes over the other vessels docked alongside his own. It was
the usual scene; the same boring pile of old junkers still running the
intergalactic routes and somehow not falling to bits, the ex-military
mercenaries offering protection services or trading with high-risk systems, and
the intergalactic rich-kids who had nothing better to do than travel the
universe and burn their cash. The ships here were all tiny irrelevant things.
Tasa had seen the Behemoth and Titan class warships of the Phylosean fleet
doing battle with the Very Big and This-Is-Just-Getting-Silly-Now classes of
the Synonean Empire, during the short but bloody war for the Ges system.
Everything here was a grain of sand next those enormous floating citadels.
Loading crews obliquely crossed his path with boxes of the-abyss-only-knew
what, getting in his way as he rushed to yet another worthless journey with
Captain Rainham.
Tasa
weaved his way to the IGS Tasa Arton's a
Dick and made a bee-line for the aft crew's hatch, attempting to sneak in
away from the other bridge officers. He could have his isolation from the
abominable Captain Rainham for a little longer that way. Unfortunately for
Tasa, loneliness was doomed to be a pipe-dream for him; one of the bridge
runners was stationed at the bottom of the stairwell waiting for him.
"Astro-navigator
Arton, sir. We have orders to present your guest to you at the bridge
entrance." He said respectfully.
Tasa
hadn't looked happy when he arrived. His expression was something which most
people would have designated as 'thunderous', 'grumpy', 'stern' or other such
terms of displeasure. Still, even in the face of so many synonyms, his
expression upon hearing that news made his pervious countenance seem a lighter
than a helium-filled meringue.
Tasa
slowly trudged his way towards the nose of the rectangular ship, in so far as
it had a nose, and paused at the corner. Around that bend, George the insane
grocer was waiting for him and by the sounds of what the runner had told him,
the rest of the bridge officers would be too. Tasa drew a deep breath, allowed
himself a grimace, and stepped to the front of the ship. Sure enough, George
was waiting with his satchel over his shoulder amid a gaggle of ranking
officers. They were all following the captain's example and ignoring him, of
course, but the grocer still wore his inane smile as if nothing could be
better. It made Tasa even angrier. Hurriedly,
he walked over to George hoping not to be noticed.
“Hello Tasa!” George exclaimed as he saw the astro-navigator approaching. When he saw the sour expression on Tasa’s face, he wondered if the poor officer had been completely unable to shift that niggling sadness from the previous night. ‘I’m sure some company will do him the world of good.’ George thought cheerily, and also wrongly.
The officers surrounding the grocer span around when they heard Tasa’s name, wicked grins on all of them. They watched him stamp up to George and grab his arm, sneers and smirks on all sides, but no-one said a word. George merrily gripped his satchel and allowed himself to be led by the astro-navigator, who held his head high and made eye-contact with no-one, and nothing was uttered by anyone. Tasa reached the bottom of the entry staircase, gritting his teeth, fighting to keep the rage hidden behind a neutral expression, and found his path blocked by Captain Rainham.
“Mr Arton! So nice of you to join us at last, I was worried that you’d failed to navigate your way back here without the stars to guide you.” Her one-sided grin twisted her mouth into a spiteful crescent, overshadowed by the piercing menace of her cold, merciless eyes as the other officers laughed around her. All in all, it wasn’t a friendly manner in which to greet a colleague. George had to wonder if the captain realised that her words could be interpreted as negative; Tasa wondered if she could use words for anything else.
“Reporting for duty, captain.” he spat her title at her “Permission to come aboard?”
“In a moment, Mr Arton. We must first cover how to handle your cargo, the vegetable man.” She indicated towards George with an open hand, faux grandeur, and a clear disregard for him as a person. “We don’t have rooms for visitors; as you know, this is a cargo ship. Since he is your esteemed guest it seemed only right to allow him to quarter with you. You have a bunkmate for this journey and you are to see to all of his wants and whims.”
Tasa shook with rage and George smiled all the wider, at the promise of a pleasant journey with his new friend.
“My quarters don’t have bunkbeds, captain. We can’t share.” Tasa said it as a statement, but it would be more accurately characterised as a hope.
“Oh don’t worry about that, we’ve converted the room for you. Only the best for the glorious golden cargo, bringing in the only revenue for this “dead-end run”, isn’t that right?” The malice dripped from her words as they oozed out of her mouth, soaking the hangar bay with a tangible bitterness. It was a terrible slip-hazard.
“Permission. To. Come. Aboard. Captain?” Tasa over-articulated, shaking.
“To come aboard what, Mr Arton?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“To come aboard…”
“The IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick.”
The officers roared with laughter again.
“Granted.” Captain Rainham finally said with a sickly sweetness, stepping aside with a victorious smirk.
“This way.” He mumbled to George, before ascending the stairway into the ship amid wolf-whistles and cheers from the officers.
“Hello Tasa!” George exclaimed as he saw the astro-navigator approaching. When he saw the sour expression on Tasa’s face, he wondered if the poor officer had been completely unable to shift that niggling sadness from the previous night. ‘I’m sure some company will do him the world of good.’ George thought cheerily, and also wrongly.
The officers surrounding the grocer span around when they heard Tasa’s name, wicked grins on all of them. They watched him stamp up to George and grab his arm, sneers and smirks on all sides, but no-one said a word. George merrily gripped his satchel and allowed himself to be led by the astro-navigator, who held his head high and made eye-contact with no-one, and nothing was uttered by anyone. Tasa reached the bottom of the entry staircase, gritting his teeth, fighting to keep the rage hidden behind a neutral expression, and found his path blocked by Captain Rainham.
“Mr Arton! So nice of you to join us at last, I was worried that you’d failed to navigate your way back here without the stars to guide you.” Her one-sided grin twisted her mouth into a spiteful crescent, overshadowed by the piercing menace of her cold, merciless eyes as the other officers laughed around her. All in all, it wasn’t a friendly manner in which to greet a colleague. George had to wonder if the captain realised that her words could be interpreted as negative; Tasa wondered if she could use words for anything else.
“Reporting for duty, captain.” he spat her title at her “Permission to come aboard?”
“In a moment, Mr Arton. We must first cover how to handle your cargo, the vegetable man.” She indicated towards George with an open hand, faux grandeur, and a clear disregard for him as a person. “We don’t have rooms for visitors; as you know, this is a cargo ship. Since he is your esteemed guest it seemed only right to allow him to quarter with you. You have a bunkmate for this journey and you are to see to all of his wants and whims.”
Tasa shook with rage and George smiled all the wider, at the promise of a pleasant journey with his new friend.
“My quarters don’t have bunkbeds, captain. We can’t share.” Tasa said it as a statement, but it would be more accurately characterised as a hope.
“Oh don’t worry about that, we’ve converted the room for you. Only the best for the glorious golden cargo, bringing in the only revenue for this “dead-end run”, isn’t that right?” The malice dripped from her words as they oozed out of her mouth, soaking the hangar bay with a tangible bitterness. It was a terrible slip-hazard.
“Permission. To. Come. Aboard. Captain?” Tasa over-articulated, shaking.
“To come aboard what, Mr Arton?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“To come aboard…”
“The IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick.”
The officers roared with laughter again.
“Granted.” Captain Rainham finally said with a sickly sweetness, stepping aside with a victorious smirk.
“This way.” He mumbled to George, before ascending the stairway into the ship amid wolf-whistles and cheers from the officers.
Tasa
stomped towards his quarters in silence, seething internally at the humiliation
he’d been forced to endure. George made enough conversation for the both of
them, however, which did nothing to quell Tasa’s rage but at least broke up the
silence. When they finally reached Tasa’s living quarters he was coaxed into
speech again, although most of what he had to say would have made a hardened
sailor blush.
Three huge crates of vegetables were stacked in the middle of the floor space, which was cramped even without a modest farm’s worth of produce in it. Atop the crates was a mattress and a folded piece of paper reading ‘Our esteemed guest – we hope this makes you feel at home. The hospitality team’.
“The abyss take the lot of them. I ought to steer them straight into a star and take one of the escape pods.”
George chuckled and slapped Tasa on the back. “I bet they’d have red faces if you did that!” He wasn’t technically wrong. “It looks like this is my bunk then, jolly good.” He stepped over to the bed and dropped his satchel on the top, then made a show of looking around. “It’s nice. A little cosy for the two of us but I’m sure we’ll manage, eh roomie?” He chuckled again.
Tasa slowly shook his head and left, back towards the bridge.
George shrugged. ‘Tasa must be off to tell Captain Rainham that the guest had been shown to his room and settled in well’ he told himself, before taking a seat on his crate bed. The mattress was surprisingly springy, which was yet another pleasant surprise on a thus-far successful journey. He made a mental note to tell his wife all about the nice officer named Tasa who had helped him leave Din-G station, making doubly sure to tell her that he was important enough to have a whole freighter named after him.
George reached into his satchel and pulled out the notebook of places he’d explored so far. The list hadn’t changed much since last night – the only extra place he’d managed to add was “Din-G station, Officer’s lounge”. A thought then struck him – he’d not checked this ship at all yet! Maybe Gloria was tucked away somewhere aboard the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick! Taking the small pen he’d clipped to the front page of the notebook, George carefully wrote the ship’s name on the next free line, pushed it back into his satchel and then pulled his satchel over his shoulder. It was exploration time again.
Three huge crates of vegetables were stacked in the middle of the floor space, which was cramped even without a modest farm’s worth of produce in it. Atop the crates was a mattress and a folded piece of paper reading ‘Our esteemed guest – we hope this makes you feel at home. The hospitality team’.
“The abyss take the lot of them. I ought to steer them straight into a star and take one of the escape pods.”
George chuckled and slapped Tasa on the back. “I bet they’d have red faces if you did that!” He wasn’t technically wrong. “It looks like this is my bunk then, jolly good.” He stepped over to the bed and dropped his satchel on the top, then made a show of looking around. “It’s nice. A little cosy for the two of us but I’m sure we’ll manage, eh roomie?” He chuckled again.
Tasa slowly shook his head and left, back towards the bridge.
George shrugged. ‘Tasa must be off to tell Captain Rainham that the guest had been shown to his room and settled in well’ he told himself, before taking a seat on his crate bed. The mattress was surprisingly springy, which was yet another pleasant surprise on a thus-far successful journey. He made a mental note to tell his wife all about the nice officer named Tasa who had helped him leave Din-G station, making doubly sure to tell her that he was important enough to have a whole freighter named after him.
George reached into his satchel and pulled out the notebook of places he’d explored so far. The list hadn’t changed much since last night – the only extra place he’d managed to add was “Din-G station, Officer’s lounge”. A thought then struck him – he’d not checked this ship at all yet! Maybe Gloria was tucked away somewhere aboard the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick! Taking the small pen he’d clipped to the front page of the notebook, George carefully wrote the ship’s name on the next free line, pushed it back into his satchel and then pulled his satchel over his shoulder. It was exploration time again.
Tasa
entered the bridge of the ship through the double sliding-doors at the back of
the room and moved swiftly over to his station on the left hand side of the
room. He was one of the luckier bridge officers, in that he had a seat for his
control station. Many of the others were forced to stand so that more crew
could fit into the space and communicate in real time. He suspected that this
was yet another nail in his coffin when it came to the resentment the other
crew expressed towards him. Or maybe it was just that they were all sucking up
to that bitch, Captain Rainham. The same thoughts crossed his mind every time
he thought about the insufferable cretins with whom he was forced to work.
“Hope you like your new sleeping arrangements.” Came a mocking voice from his right. Tasa didn’t have to turn around to know who it was – Engineer, Second-Class, Reynolds occupied the station next to Tasa and, in the astro-navigator’s considered and balanced opinion, took every opportunity to be a prick. “Maybe your little stray can keep you warm at night.”
Tasa didn’t acknowledge the Garian. He could picture the engineer’s disgusting double mouth contorting and flexing with every word, and didn’t need to put himself through the distress of looking at it. The astro-navigator simply stared harder at his control panel and the holographic route-display, but his mind was far from the task. He was thinking back to his school days, when he’d studied the differences between human and Garian physiology. Aside from the obvious structural differences whereby the Garians had two mouths, an exoskeleton, and triple jointed limbs, there were some subtle divergences beneath the surface.
Garis, the Garian home planet, orbited a star which sat inside a cloud of fine stellar dust. This stellar dust didn’t interfere too much with solar proceedings, except for its strong optical filtering – Garis never once felt the touch of blue light on its surface. As a strange evolutionary consequence, the Garian body was extremely sensitive to bright blues – sensitive to the point that it would burn the skin and cause extreme discomfort, even temporary blindness in some cases. Tasa began to re-plot the ship’s trajectory for a grand tour of the bluest stars between Din-G and their destination – Polaris VI.
“Captain on the bridge!” shouted Adjutant Fergus. The whole bridge stood to attention for Captain Rainham, even Tasa. His expression of a man sucking on a drainpipe still made him an exception.
“As you were.” The captain commanded. Tasa watched her stride to her grandiose captain’s chair in the centre of the bridge. Perched above the rest of the bridge crew, Tasa thought she looked like a judgemental pharaoh with bad hair.
“Careful you don’t steer us all back to your pet back in the dorms.” Reynolds sniped again as they all returned to their duties, desperately fishing for a reaction. “I’m surprised you’d even notice someone sharing your room. After all, the schedule of a navigator is so busy.”
Tasa was having none of it, putting his headset on to drown out the bleating of his crewmate. He was used to the engineer, alongside much of the rest of the bridge crew, making light of his job. In their age of star maps and pre-planned trajectories, the purpose of the astro-navigator was murky to many; clicking on a star system and allowing a nav-computer to calculate a trajectory was scarcely brain-surgery, except for the people of Retanicca whose brains are eerily similar to nav-computer control panels. Convergences between hardware design and evolution aside, Tasa was living evidence that astro-navigation isn’t just a case of pointing a ship in a straight line and putting the throttle on. When making high speed jumps across space there are all sorts of factors to consider, such as whether or not a planet will orbit into the way, whether or not that planet has a good barbecue restaurant, and whether or not the captain can be convinced to stop for lunch on the way. Safeguarding the ship against collisions and locating decent barbecues share the accolade of ‘top priority’.
Tasa himself had spent much of his youth pinging satellites around the many moons of his home planet, and so had a strong grasp of how to throw things around space without breaking them. He’d been a respected navigator for the Phylosean Fleet in his younger days, manoeuvring the immeasurably vast bulk of his Behemoth class vessel around inconceivably wide theatres of battle in the emptiness of space. Now he was being mocked by a bug-faced jerk under the command of a destitute captain.
‘Buy low and sell high’ was the basic principle of trading between space ports, much the same as trading between any two markets, in space or otherwise. The premise was so obvious and so simple that even a child of unusually slow wits could grasp it. It’s understandable, then, that Tasa became annoyed with the captain's approach of buy high, sell low and complain loudly. When questioned about the approach she would usually respond with hostility. Whenever a more appropriate response was eked out of her she responded that since buying low and selling high was a sustained business, the low-selling goods and high-priced goods had to get to their original destination somehow. She was just completing the loop, and since she was the only person she knew doing this, it must be a niche in the market and therefore profitable. Her argument almost made sense, if one assumed that maths was wrong and none of mining, agriculture or manufacturing existed. Such assumptions are generally proven false when tested.
“Hope you like your new sleeping arrangements.” Came a mocking voice from his right. Tasa didn’t have to turn around to know who it was – Engineer, Second-Class, Reynolds occupied the station next to Tasa and, in the astro-navigator’s considered and balanced opinion, took every opportunity to be a prick. “Maybe your little stray can keep you warm at night.”
Tasa didn’t acknowledge the Garian. He could picture the engineer’s disgusting double mouth contorting and flexing with every word, and didn’t need to put himself through the distress of looking at it. The astro-navigator simply stared harder at his control panel and the holographic route-display, but his mind was far from the task. He was thinking back to his school days, when he’d studied the differences between human and Garian physiology. Aside from the obvious structural differences whereby the Garians had two mouths, an exoskeleton, and triple jointed limbs, there were some subtle divergences beneath the surface.
Garis, the Garian home planet, orbited a star which sat inside a cloud of fine stellar dust. This stellar dust didn’t interfere too much with solar proceedings, except for its strong optical filtering – Garis never once felt the touch of blue light on its surface. As a strange evolutionary consequence, the Garian body was extremely sensitive to bright blues – sensitive to the point that it would burn the skin and cause extreme discomfort, even temporary blindness in some cases. Tasa began to re-plot the ship’s trajectory for a grand tour of the bluest stars between Din-G and their destination – Polaris VI.
“Captain on the bridge!” shouted Adjutant Fergus. The whole bridge stood to attention for Captain Rainham, even Tasa. His expression of a man sucking on a drainpipe still made him an exception.
“As you were.” The captain commanded. Tasa watched her stride to her grandiose captain’s chair in the centre of the bridge. Perched above the rest of the bridge crew, Tasa thought she looked like a judgemental pharaoh with bad hair.
“Careful you don’t steer us all back to your pet back in the dorms.” Reynolds sniped again as they all returned to their duties, desperately fishing for a reaction. “I’m surprised you’d even notice someone sharing your room. After all, the schedule of a navigator is so busy.”
Tasa was having none of it, putting his headset on to drown out the bleating of his crewmate. He was used to the engineer, alongside much of the rest of the bridge crew, making light of his job. In their age of star maps and pre-planned trajectories, the purpose of the astro-navigator was murky to many; clicking on a star system and allowing a nav-computer to calculate a trajectory was scarcely brain-surgery, except for the people of Retanicca whose brains are eerily similar to nav-computer control panels. Convergences between hardware design and evolution aside, Tasa was living evidence that astro-navigation isn’t just a case of pointing a ship in a straight line and putting the throttle on. When making high speed jumps across space there are all sorts of factors to consider, such as whether or not a planet will orbit into the way, whether or not that planet has a good barbecue restaurant, and whether or not the captain can be convinced to stop for lunch on the way. Safeguarding the ship against collisions and locating decent barbecues share the accolade of ‘top priority’.
Tasa himself had spent much of his youth pinging satellites around the many moons of his home planet, and so had a strong grasp of how to throw things around space without breaking them. He’d been a respected navigator for the Phylosean Fleet in his younger days, manoeuvring the immeasurably vast bulk of his Behemoth class vessel around inconceivably wide theatres of battle in the emptiness of space. Now he was being mocked by a bug-faced jerk under the command of a destitute captain.
‘Buy low and sell high’ was the basic principle of trading between space ports, much the same as trading between any two markets, in space or otherwise. The premise was so obvious and so simple that even a child of unusually slow wits could grasp it. It’s understandable, then, that Tasa became annoyed with the captain's approach of buy high, sell low and complain loudly. When questioned about the approach she would usually respond with hostility. Whenever a more appropriate response was eked out of her she responded that since buying low and selling high was a sustained business, the low-selling goods and high-priced goods had to get to their original destination somehow. She was just completing the loop, and since she was the only person she knew doing this, it must be a niche in the market and therefore profitable. Her argument almost made sense, if one assumed that maths was wrong and none of mining, agriculture or manufacturing existed. Such assumptions are generally proven false when tested.
"Navigator!
Course plotted to Septis in the Huyer system?" Captain Rainham bellowed,
far louder than the small bridge required.
"Aye
Commander." Tasa said at the normal volume, to make a point.
"Engineer,
engines primed for launch?" The captain continued, unfazed.
"Aye
commander."
"Adjutant,
request bay doors to be opened."
The adjutant spoke quietly into a small microphone on his control station and nodded to the captain. The vast steel doors to the left of the ship creaked and groaned into life, cursing the freighter for making them move. They'd only just closed the day before, so being asked to grind themselves open again so soon was just inconsiderate. They wailed their lament throughout the hangar bay, declaring to all within that they should not be forced to endure this life of agony any longer. They also declared that they needed to be oiled.
The adjutant spoke quietly into a small microphone on his control station and nodded to the captain. The vast steel doors to the left of the ship creaked and groaned into life, cursing the freighter for making them move. They'd only just closed the day before, so being asked to grind themselves open again so soon was just inconsiderate. They wailed their lament throughout the hangar bay, declaring to all within that they should not be forced to endure this life of agony any longer. They also declared that they needed to be oiled.
"Doors
open, captain."
"Launch."
Captain Rainham commanded, leaning back into her chair after another successful
day of work.
George
paced casually through the shabby corridors of the freighter, peeking his head
into all the cubby holes and nooks he could find - thus far his wife had been
in none of them. Freighters like this one had been designed for neither speed
nor manoeuvrability. They also hadn't been designed for fuel efficiency or
acceleration. What they lacked in performance, though, they more than made up
for in ugliness; the ship was a beast to behold, and many speculate that the
only reason so many trade journeys are so long is because it means the crew
needn't look at the monstrosity from the outside too often. At the very least,
it had been made for maximal capacity – every part of the ship had been
utilised to provide additional storage, smuggling or hiding space.
The engines of the vast cargo vessel juddered
into action, reverberating around the ship as they span up to speed. It sounded
to George like a microwave in an oil barrel, clearly owned by someone who
doesn't know the first thing about either microwave oven or oil barrel care. As
the sound rumbled up from deep in the bowels of the ship, it struck George that
his wife would likely find the engine room of a ship like this to be very
interesting; he should definitely look there. Even if she wasn't there he would
be able to make notes and tell her all about it when they were eventually
reunited. They’d both like that.
The
microwave became more powerful, or perhaps the barrel had got bigger, but
either way the sounds echoed louder and louder through the corridors of the
ship as they approached lift-off power. This was the most difficult part of any
journey; moving through the vacuum was easy since there's nothing to get in the
way or resist motion, but breaking the gravitational hold, artificial or
otherwise, needed an awful lot of power. This was why it was advised to have a
cup of tea and a really hearty biscuit before making any attempt at launching a
space vessel. Securing a thorough education in rocket science is also a strong
recommendation.
The
ship slowly rose from the floor of the hangar unevenly, the tipping the front
of the ship down and causing the crew to lurch towards the stern. Captain
Rainham stubbornly persisted in sitting back in her chair, the muscles in her
torso straining to hold herself in a position which would otherwise have looked
relaxed; she was the master of this ship, not gravity or inertia, dammit.
George
tumbled forwards into a stairwell as the vessel lurched around, attempting to
right itself before exiting the station. He felt like a pinball in one of those
little games he used to play as a child and thought the whole situation was
rather fun.
Gently, the rocking motion stopped as the pilots wrestled the ship under control. They swung the nose out towards the open door, facing the ship towards the empty space ahead of them – a backdrop of stars in the distance.
George lost his balance again as the ship started to glide forwards and out of the station. He decided that sitting himself down on the staircase was probably the best plan for now – once they were up to speed he’d be able to move around easily enough, and it hadn’t taken very long for the previous ship to get going, so he could probably wait it out. He pulled his satchel onto his lap and sat patiently.
Gently, the rocking motion stopped as the pilots wrestled the ship under control. They swung the nose out towards the open door, facing the ship towards the empty space ahead of them – a backdrop of stars in the distance.
George lost his balance again as the ship started to glide forwards and out of the station. He decided that sitting himself down on the staircase was probably the best plan for now – once they were up to speed he’d be able to move around easily enough, and it hadn’t taken very long for the previous ship to get going, so he could probably wait it out. He pulled his satchel onto his lap and sat patiently.
Tasa
stared at the holographic display in front of him, scrutinising each section of
the path his nav-computer had chosen for them and checking the systems they
passed through for any reports of interstellar weather or important news. He
wouldn’t want to pass a small moon only to find that a new restaurant had
opened up on it the week before; that would be highly remiss of him. Every now
and again he’d swap one target system for another with a significantly bluer
star. The astro-navigator was also tweaking the line ever so slightly, to take
into account the small speed boosts which could be achieved by slingshotting
around planets and stars. The computer was certainly adept for choosing the
most direct path, but his experience had taught him that directness and
efficiency were often two different beasts. The fact that picking up a boost
from these small blue stars would involve getting very close to them, and the
resultant intense blue light that would fall on his Garian colleague, was
entirely coincidental. At least, that’s what he prepared himself to claim when
the medics arrived.
Flitting
through the reports on each sector in turn, he noticed small red warning flag
on the closest edge of the sector they were heading to – a magnetic dust-storm
raged. Much like their non-magnetic planet-based cousins, dust-storms were bad
news for travellers. Quite aside from muting all the communications
instrumentation and preventing line of sight, the highly-charged dust would
ruin the paintwork on the outside of the vessel. No-one wanted to spend days
touching up eroded lettering. Tasa briefly considered the benefits of directing
the ship through the storm to scrub off its new name, but elected that it
probably wasn’t worth the increased risk of death. This time.
“Captain.” He said across the bridge. “Magnetic dust-storms on our vector to Polaris VI. Circumnavigation is possible but will increase journey time by a day. Field is marked as low intensity by early reports.”
Captain Rainham quietly pondered Tasa’s report, wondering how she could sound snide whilst asking him for his professional opinion. “You’re a big boy Tasa, I can’t make every decision for you.” She said patronisingly. ‘Nailed it.’ She congratulated herself.
Tasa’s expression darkened, but the bridge lighting was sufficient to prevent his features from disappearing into the shadows. “Re-plotting course to safeguard the ship, captain.” He replied emotionlessly.
“Wrong!” the captain shouted suddenly. “I don’t run away from my problems, Tasa. As much as you might want an extra day with your new best friend, we’ll continue as we are; the storm isn’t intense enough to worry us.”
Tasa tried not to think that the captain had been planning to contradict him whatever he’d said. She definitely had been, but he tried not to think it anyway.
“With respect, captain, these systems aren’t renowned for their strong enforcer presence. There could be bandit ships waiting in the cover of the dust to catch us off-guard.” The captain’s adjutant said nervously. It wasn’t so much that he was worried about angering the captain by contradicting her, as he was worried that he might anger her by agreeing with Tasa. She’d renamed her ship to call him a dick, and the adjutant thought that spoke of a tremendous level of distaste, although she wasn’t known for her sound judgement in these matters. It would have been a hundred times easier just to fire him if she disliked that much, after all.
The captain glared at her adjutant, in much the same way that he’d expected she might. “Noted and disregarded, adjutant.” There was silence on the bridge. None of the other officers were willing to speak up if it meant agreeing with Tasa, but they all knew that he and the adjutant were right. They’d be forced to fly slowly, since the thrusters would cause a devastating electrical vortex in the dust cloud if they travelled through at full speed, detonating the thrusters and likely much of the ship. That vulnerability coupled to the sensor blindness made them an easy target for bandits.
“Back to work.” Captain Rainham barked. “I’ve given my orders and you’ll follow them. My ship can always have more names” she added, wagering that her officers would find humiliation a worse fate than dying in a dust cloud. Against all logic, she seemed to be right.
“Captain.” He said across the bridge. “Magnetic dust-storms on our vector to Polaris VI. Circumnavigation is possible but will increase journey time by a day. Field is marked as low intensity by early reports.”
Captain Rainham quietly pondered Tasa’s report, wondering how she could sound snide whilst asking him for his professional opinion. “You’re a big boy Tasa, I can’t make every decision for you.” She said patronisingly. ‘Nailed it.’ She congratulated herself.
Tasa’s expression darkened, but the bridge lighting was sufficient to prevent his features from disappearing into the shadows. “Re-plotting course to safeguard the ship, captain.” He replied emotionlessly.
“Wrong!” the captain shouted suddenly. “I don’t run away from my problems, Tasa. As much as you might want an extra day with your new best friend, we’ll continue as we are; the storm isn’t intense enough to worry us.”
Tasa tried not to think that the captain had been planning to contradict him whatever he’d said. She definitely had been, but he tried not to think it anyway.
“With respect, captain, these systems aren’t renowned for their strong enforcer presence. There could be bandit ships waiting in the cover of the dust to catch us off-guard.” The captain’s adjutant said nervously. It wasn’t so much that he was worried about angering the captain by contradicting her, as he was worried that he might anger her by agreeing with Tasa. She’d renamed her ship to call him a dick, and the adjutant thought that spoke of a tremendous level of distaste, although she wasn’t known for her sound judgement in these matters. It would have been a hundred times easier just to fire him if she disliked that much, after all.
The captain glared at her adjutant, in much the same way that he’d expected she might. “Noted and disregarded, adjutant.” There was silence on the bridge. None of the other officers were willing to speak up if it meant agreeing with Tasa, but they all knew that he and the adjutant were right. They’d be forced to fly slowly, since the thrusters would cause a devastating electrical vortex in the dust cloud if they travelled through at full speed, detonating the thrusters and likely much of the ship. That vulnerability coupled to the sensor blindness made them an easy target for bandits.
“Back to work.” Captain Rainham barked. “I’ve given my orders and you’ll follow them. My ship can always have more names” she added, wagering that her officers would find humiliation a worse fate than dying in a dust cloud. Against all logic, she seemed to be right.
George
had been making lots of friends on his travels around the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick. All the crew members he’d passed in the
corridors smiled politely at him, almost as if they were laughing with mirth at
his presence. He heard Tasa’s name mumbled a lot when they thought he was out
of earshot, too. ‘That must mean that
Tasa is well respected among the crew’ he thought.
A lot of the doors he’d come across were locked. Some of them had been unlocked and opened when he knocked, but no-one in any of them had seen Gloria. Those which didn’t open would surely have been locked when Gloria came through anyway, so George didn’t pay them too much mind. He just kept on snooping where he could, seeking his lost wife with an unquenchable enthusiasm and optimism.
After traversing many more corridors than he was accustomed to stalking through in one go, George found the engine room – a vault the size of a block of flats, with four huge metal motors in a row on the ground. At least, they started on the ground. Each of the motors reached up to the ceiling of the room, as if they had been left in situ and a ship had been assembled around them whilst they weren’t looking. ‘It must be difficult to take something like that unawares, especially for long enough to construct a freighter around it’ George thought, dramatically misunderstanding several key concepts of spaceship manufacture.
The whirring, humming sound that had filled the ship on launch was loudest here, although it had died down by a considerable degree since they’d moved into open space. George was pleased that the sound hadn’t really been coming from a microwave oven, since he couldn’t tolerate the mis-use of cooking equipment in silence for long.
The motors were roughly cylindrical, with vast ring protrusions which seemed to entomb spinning blades and lights of some sort. Each one was ringed with amber warning lights, which were of no practical use unless someone decided they were going to try to fly a light aircraft around the engine room in the dark. In the history of freighter operation, that was yet to happen. Bright blue lights flashed within some of the whirring turbines, strobing a bright but cold light against the engineers who drifted around, tending to general maintenance duties and taking readings from the performance monitors dotted around the room. Steel catwalks framed each of the motors, granting access to all levels of the ships four hearts. Gloria would definitely find this kind of place interesting, George thought, so it was well worth having a look around in case she was helping out somewhere. Gloria was always trying to help people and volunteer for all sorts of activities.
George strode into the room, engineering staff in bright orange jackets passing him by and paying him little notice, and ascended a metal staircase up to one of the catwalks. Being high up afforded him excellent visibility of the room, a panoramic field of view to try to spot Gloria, but it was to no avail. Undeterred, he scouted around the rest of the platform to be sure that she wasn’t tucked in behind one of the outcropping turbines.
“Excuse me, are you lost?” Came a voice from behind him. George turned around to face a tall, thin humanoid with glassy, purple skin. The purple engineer didn’t face George, however, since he didn’t have one. His head was perfectly smooth, but George had the uncanny feeling that he was being looked at none-the-less.
“Oh, no. I’m not lost – that’s my wife! I’m George, it’s nice to meet you.” he told the purple gentleman merrily.
“Uh, yeah nice to meet you too. I’m Gaest. I’m not sure you’re supposed to be here, George – you might get hurt.” His voice didn’t appear to come from anywhere specific, the sound just emanated from the purple man’s body.
“Oh, thank you for your concern but I’ll be careful. I’m just here to have a quick look around for my wife, Gloria. Thought she might be squirrelled away in here somewhere. You’ve not seen her, have you?”
“Erm, no. You’re the only person I’ve seen here other than the normal engine team. You’re sure you’ll be OK? Some of this stuff is pretty dangerous, you know. If those plasma-feeds burst then you might find yourself a bit, uh, melted.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all! I’ll make sure to avoid it. Thank you very much though.”
“No problem, I think.” The purple man replied unsurely, before carrying on about his business. He wasn’t entirely convinced that George should be allowed to look around unattended, but he also didn’t want to accuse the funny little man of being a liar. His hands, therefore, were tied.
As the purple man moved away, George noticed that he was floating a short distance off the ground, and had no fingers. ‘The universe is a funny place.’ George thought to himself, unsure that someone with such an obvious lack of dexterity was the best person to work on such important machinery. He shrugged, and returned to the bottom of the stairwell, ready to search the rest of the room.
A lot of the doors he’d come across were locked. Some of them had been unlocked and opened when he knocked, but no-one in any of them had seen Gloria. Those which didn’t open would surely have been locked when Gloria came through anyway, so George didn’t pay them too much mind. He just kept on snooping where he could, seeking his lost wife with an unquenchable enthusiasm and optimism.
After traversing many more corridors than he was accustomed to stalking through in one go, George found the engine room – a vault the size of a block of flats, with four huge metal motors in a row on the ground. At least, they started on the ground. Each of the motors reached up to the ceiling of the room, as if they had been left in situ and a ship had been assembled around them whilst they weren’t looking. ‘It must be difficult to take something like that unawares, especially for long enough to construct a freighter around it’ George thought, dramatically misunderstanding several key concepts of spaceship manufacture.
The whirring, humming sound that had filled the ship on launch was loudest here, although it had died down by a considerable degree since they’d moved into open space. George was pleased that the sound hadn’t really been coming from a microwave oven, since he couldn’t tolerate the mis-use of cooking equipment in silence for long.
The motors were roughly cylindrical, with vast ring protrusions which seemed to entomb spinning blades and lights of some sort. Each one was ringed with amber warning lights, which were of no practical use unless someone decided they were going to try to fly a light aircraft around the engine room in the dark. In the history of freighter operation, that was yet to happen. Bright blue lights flashed within some of the whirring turbines, strobing a bright but cold light against the engineers who drifted around, tending to general maintenance duties and taking readings from the performance monitors dotted around the room. Steel catwalks framed each of the motors, granting access to all levels of the ships four hearts. Gloria would definitely find this kind of place interesting, George thought, so it was well worth having a look around in case she was helping out somewhere. Gloria was always trying to help people and volunteer for all sorts of activities.
George strode into the room, engineering staff in bright orange jackets passing him by and paying him little notice, and ascended a metal staircase up to one of the catwalks. Being high up afforded him excellent visibility of the room, a panoramic field of view to try to spot Gloria, but it was to no avail. Undeterred, he scouted around the rest of the platform to be sure that she wasn’t tucked in behind one of the outcropping turbines.
“Excuse me, are you lost?” Came a voice from behind him. George turned around to face a tall, thin humanoid with glassy, purple skin. The purple engineer didn’t face George, however, since he didn’t have one. His head was perfectly smooth, but George had the uncanny feeling that he was being looked at none-the-less.
“Oh, no. I’m not lost – that’s my wife! I’m George, it’s nice to meet you.” he told the purple gentleman merrily.
“Uh, yeah nice to meet you too. I’m Gaest. I’m not sure you’re supposed to be here, George – you might get hurt.” His voice didn’t appear to come from anywhere specific, the sound just emanated from the purple man’s body.
“Oh, thank you for your concern but I’ll be careful. I’m just here to have a quick look around for my wife, Gloria. Thought she might be squirrelled away in here somewhere. You’ve not seen her, have you?”
“Erm, no. You’re the only person I’ve seen here other than the normal engine team. You’re sure you’ll be OK? Some of this stuff is pretty dangerous, you know. If those plasma-feeds burst then you might find yourself a bit, uh, melted.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t like that at all! I’ll make sure to avoid it. Thank you very much though.”
“No problem, I think.” The purple man replied unsurely, before carrying on about his business. He wasn’t entirely convinced that George should be allowed to look around unattended, but he also didn’t want to accuse the funny little man of being a liar. His hands, therefore, were tied.
As the purple man moved away, George noticed that he was floating a short distance off the ground, and had no fingers. ‘The universe is a funny place.’ George thought to himself, unsure that someone with such an obvious lack of dexterity was the best person to work on such important machinery. He shrugged, and returned to the bottom of the stairwell, ready to search the rest of the room.
Hours
later a klaxon sounded throughout the ship to signal the end of the first shift
rotation, and George thought that this would be a good time to return to Tasa’s
quarters. He’d been searching for a whole day, so it was sensible to get some
rest. When he arrived back, he found Tasa lying face up on his bed with a sour
expression.
“Hello Tasa!” George said happily. “I’ve been searching around while you’ve been working – I hope that’s OK. I like the engine rooms, they’re very exciting.”
Tasa didn’t look up at him. “How did you get into the engine room?”
“Through the door, of course.” George chuckled, impressing even himself with yet another example of his calamitously crushing wit.
“And no-one stopped you? It’s supposed to be a restricted area.”
“A lot of things are supposed to be a lot of other things, Tasa.” George said wisely, if not clearly. “My wife isn’t supposed to be lost, but here we are. A nice purple chap called Gaest did check that I was OK though.”
Tasa sighed audibly. “I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Well I’ll look forward to telling you again sometime then. You can enjoy the story a second time!” Tasa didn’t reply. “What’s wrong Tasa? You seem a bit down.”
“Compared to when? The time I was drinking alone or the time the officer cadre were humiliating me?”
George pondered. “Compared to a time when you weren’t so down, I suppose. Just because I’ve only ever seen you a bit fed-up isn’t a reason not to care about it.”
Tasa felt some venom build up on his tongue, then stopped himself. If Reynold’s hadn’t received a telling off, then George certainly didn’t deserve one either. He stayed silent instead.
“Ha, got you there. Now, how can I help?” George asked triumphantly.
“You can’t, George. The captain has ordered me to make the wrong choice.”
“Have you told her it’s wrong?”
“Yes. That’s why we’re doing it.”
George chuckled. “That’s a silly reason. Well, it sounds to me like you’ve done what you can and the captain is determined to do things the way she sees fit. I’m sure everything will be alright.” Tasa could only think that George’s use of the word ‘sure’ was ambitious at best, given that he had no idea what he was talking about.
“Hello Tasa!” George said happily. “I’ve been searching around while you’ve been working – I hope that’s OK. I like the engine rooms, they’re very exciting.”
Tasa didn’t look up at him. “How did you get into the engine room?”
“Through the door, of course.” George chuckled, impressing even himself with yet another example of his calamitously crushing wit.
“And no-one stopped you? It’s supposed to be a restricted area.”
“A lot of things are supposed to be a lot of other things, Tasa.” George said wisely, if not clearly. “My wife isn’t supposed to be lost, but here we are. A nice purple chap called Gaest did check that I was OK though.”
Tasa sighed audibly. “I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Well I’ll look forward to telling you again sometime then. You can enjoy the story a second time!” Tasa didn’t reply. “What’s wrong Tasa? You seem a bit down.”
“Compared to when? The time I was drinking alone or the time the officer cadre were humiliating me?”
George pondered. “Compared to a time when you weren’t so down, I suppose. Just because I’ve only ever seen you a bit fed-up isn’t a reason not to care about it.”
Tasa felt some venom build up on his tongue, then stopped himself. If Reynold’s hadn’t received a telling off, then George certainly didn’t deserve one either. He stayed silent instead.
“Ha, got you there. Now, how can I help?” George asked triumphantly.
“You can’t, George. The captain has ordered me to make the wrong choice.”
“Have you told her it’s wrong?”
“Yes. That’s why we’re doing it.”
George chuckled. “That’s a silly reason. Well, it sounds to me like you’ve done what you can and the captain is determined to do things the way she sees fit. I’m sure everything will be alright.” Tasa could only think that George’s use of the word ‘sure’ was ambitious at best, given that he had no idea what he was talking about.
Over
the next few days, George continued his exploration of the ship. He spent one
day visiting the chefs in the kitchen and searched for Gloria in their
cupboards, but only found some cookware and rice. George didn’t think that
Gloria was likely to be hiding in rice, but checked a couple of bags just in
case. The chefs didn’t seem to like that, but he was sure they’d cheer up about
it eventually. Another day took him down to the hold, where he found
house-sized containers of all manner of goods. When he asked if he could look
for Gloria in any of them he was shooed away, but consoled himself with the
knowledge that since Gloria was not industrial-scale freight, she was unlikely
to be inside them anyway.
Tasa
had spent his duty cycles making fine adjustments to his trajectory, tuning the
path the ship would take in order to expose the bridge to as much bright blue
light as possible. It had become a project of his, and kept him suitably
distracted from the jibes his colleagues enjoyed throwing around at his
expense. More importantly, it kept him distracted from the death-trap his
captain was sending them into. Even though Reynold’s had been wheeled away,
screaming, to the infirmary a couple of days before, Tasa made a point of
continuing the blue-tour. He was no quitter.
The
time to enter the dust cloud approached rapidly, at a rate of one second per
second, so all hands were on the bridge to make preparations. All the antennae
they could live without were drawn back into the ship and sealed over, the
engines were spinning down to a low, cruising speed, and all tennis matches
were put on hold until such a time as the cloud was cleared. Needless to say,
but tautologically said regardless, the bridge was tense. It was a sea of
uniforms, control panels and tennis whites. Control panels flashed their
warnings as the sensors were tricked by the magnetic storm into thinking that
the ship was simultaneously inside and outside of a swarm of budgies. Budgies
really had no business in a magnetic dust-storm, whether the ship was within
their swarm or not. It is worth noting that the design choice to include a
specific ‘swarm of budgies’ alert was questioned by nearly every member of
staff who worked on the control panel, including the person who implemented it.
Several times.
The wall of chromatic dust loomed before them, rushing downwards across their line of sight like the catastrophic consequences of a ripped celestial hoover-bag. Tasa spared a moment to watch the cascade before they disappeared into it, a dust-fall carried on the remnants of a solar wind which likely blew out millions of years before.
“Prepare for comms blackout” the adjutant declared into the microphone. His words echoed through the corridors and compartments of the ship as they blared from the internal speaker system.
“Is our course locked, Mr Arton?” Captain Rainham asked him.
“Yes, captain.” He replied, much like he’d told her the last time she’d asked. And the time before that. She was worried, and that made Tasa even angrier. She clearly had the good sense to know this was a terrible idea, but she was making them do it anyway, just to spite Tasa and satisfy her own ego. In any other circumstance, Tasa supposed that he should be flattered that he mattered that much to someone.
“Then I expect no drift. Keep us on course and we’ll be through this cloud in a few minutes, Ms Ash.”
“Yes, captain.” The pilot replied, her eyes flitting between her display panel and the dust-covered window.
The bridge dimmed briefly as they passed into the rushing debris, but was then transformed into a psychedelic discothèque as the magnetic storm crackled and sparked across the surface of the ship. The flashing lights across all of the bridge’s instrumentation began to protest about the manifold horrors they thought were occurring outside. Much of the bridge crew had never been inside a magnetic storm before, and so they gawped mindlessly at the light show outside, entranced by the dancing colours and obscure silence of it all.
Tasa watched the storm casually, but kept one eye on his trajectory. Pilot Ash was holding the course well, given that she couldn’t see anything of use, but it wouldn’t last forever. It never did. Even if she could keep her bearings and maintain a straight line, the force of the remnant solar wind in the cloud would buffet her downwards before they’d cleared the storm.
Just as everyone on the bridge had got used to the new multi-coloured strobe show, the ship shook and rang out like a vast steel drum. Before the crew could regain their balance, it happened again, and then a third time. Tasa remembered this feeling; it made his stomach sink to his feet and hide in his boots, but there was no refuge from the truth. A few of the other older officers caught his eye, and Tasa could see that they knew too – they were under attack.
“Ash! Control this ship!” The captain shouted. She was yet to catch on to the reality of the situation, which only reinforced Tasa’s prejudices against her.
“Forward, fast!” Tasa shouted, overruling the captain. “We’re under attack, they must have been hiding and waiting in the cloud!”
“ARTON! Remember your place!” the captain shrieked to deaf ears. Her authority was somewhat undermined when she lurched over her ridiculous seat, legs kicking uselessly in the air, as the ship shook again.
“Arm the cannons!” Tasa ordered anyone who would listen, before coming to two important realisations. First of all, and perhaps most importantly, he was currently flying in a freighter, which naturally meant that it had no cannons fitted. Secondly, no-one was listening anyway. They were all far too busy panicking and slamming uselessly at buttons on their control panels.
The sensation of acceleration swept over the bridge as Pilot Ash pushed the throttle forwards. Almost immediately, the thruster temperature readings began to rise, but she didn’t tell anyone that. As much as she would have liked to say that it was because she had the situation under control, a far more accurate explanation would be that any attempt to communicate with the crew was doomed to failure. After all, a dead pilot rarely conveys information succinctly in a high-pressure environment, least of all when several quite major elements of the control panel have been relocated into several equally major elements of the pilot’s head and chest. Captain Rainham did her best to inform the rest of the crew that this kind of thing was just not on, by screaming through the sheet of pilot-blood which was washing down her face.
A second panel exploded, filling the bridge with flames, smoke and electrical components. The adjutant put his hands on his hips and tutted loudly. Who was going to have to clean all this up, he wondered sarcastically, suffering from an extreme lack of perspective as well as a severe burn from the explosion. Shock may or may not have played a part.
Tasa pushed through the burning wreckage of the bridge, and scrabbled towards the door, as did most of the other officers. They were panicking, a bunch of scared children running away from something they were struggling to understand.
“Someone get on the auxiliary controls and keep us moving!” Tasa heard Captain Rainham command as she struggled to her feet. The auxiliary controls were in the centre of the ship, designed to remain functional in the event of a collision or attack. The outer skins of the freighter might be torn off, but there would always be a way to steer it back to a habitable world. Tasa tried to think of the best route down there – at the very least if he went in that direction first, it would be a good enough reason to have abandoned his post. Realistically, not having an astro-navigator to plot an optimal route through the next few star-systems would have been fairly inconsequential during a bandit attack anyway.
“On the way!” Tasa shouted into the room, cementing the reason for his exodus. Captain Rainham tried to construct a snide rebuke, but found herself cut off by a ball of flame bursting from one of the ship’s status monitors. Quite why the major subsystems on the bridge had been designed in such a way as to erupt in a wave of fire and shrapnel was confusing, objectively speaking, but everyone was far too busy burning, hiding from the fire, or pulling shrapnel out of themselves to think about it. Distracting consumers from the flaws of a product by burning them is a risky strategy at best, but it seemed to have paid off thus far.
The wall of chromatic dust loomed before them, rushing downwards across their line of sight like the catastrophic consequences of a ripped celestial hoover-bag. Tasa spared a moment to watch the cascade before they disappeared into it, a dust-fall carried on the remnants of a solar wind which likely blew out millions of years before.
“Prepare for comms blackout” the adjutant declared into the microphone. His words echoed through the corridors and compartments of the ship as they blared from the internal speaker system.
“Is our course locked, Mr Arton?” Captain Rainham asked him.
“Yes, captain.” He replied, much like he’d told her the last time she’d asked. And the time before that. She was worried, and that made Tasa even angrier. She clearly had the good sense to know this was a terrible idea, but she was making them do it anyway, just to spite Tasa and satisfy her own ego. In any other circumstance, Tasa supposed that he should be flattered that he mattered that much to someone.
“Then I expect no drift. Keep us on course and we’ll be through this cloud in a few minutes, Ms Ash.”
“Yes, captain.” The pilot replied, her eyes flitting between her display panel and the dust-covered window.
The bridge dimmed briefly as they passed into the rushing debris, but was then transformed into a psychedelic discothèque as the magnetic storm crackled and sparked across the surface of the ship. The flashing lights across all of the bridge’s instrumentation began to protest about the manifold horrors they thought were occurring outside. Much of the bridge crew had never been inside a magnetic storm before, and so they gawped mindlessly at the light show outside, entranced by the dancing colours and obscure silence of it all.
Tasa watched the storm casually, but kept one eye on his trajectory. Pilot Ash was holding the course well, given that she couldn’t see anything of use, but it wouldn’t last forever. It never did. Even if she could keep her bearings and maintain a straight line, the force of the remnant solar wind in the cloud would buffet her downwards before they’d cleared the storm.
Just as everyone on the bridge had got used to the new multi-coloured strobe show, the ship shook and rang out like a vast steel drum. Before the crew could regain their balance, it happened again, and then a third time. Tasa remembered this feeling; it made his stomach sink to his feet and hide in his boots, but there was no refuge from the truth. A few of the other older officers caught his eye, and Tasa could see that they knew too – they were under attack.
“Ash! Control this ship!” The captain shouted. She was yet to catch on to the reality of the situation, which only reinforced Tasa’s prejudices against her.
“Forward, fast!” Tasa shouted, overruling the captain. “We’re under attack, they must have been hiding and waiting in the cloud!”
“ARTON! Remember your place!” the captain shrieked to deaf ears. Her authority was somewhat undermined when she lurched over her ridiculous seat, legs kicking uselessly in the air, as the ship shook again.
“Arm the cannons!” Tasa ordered anyone who would listen, before coming to two important realisations. First of all, and perhaps most importantly, he was currently flying in a freighter, which naturally meant that it had no cannons fitted. Secondly, no-one was listening anyway. They were all far too busy panicking and slamming uselessly at buttons on their control panels.
The sensation of acceleration swept over the bridge as Pilot Ash pushed the throttle forwards. Almost immediately, the thruster temperature readings began to rise, but she didn’t tell anyone that. As much as she would have liked to say that it was because she had the situation under control, a far more accurate explanation would be that any attempt to communicate with the crew was doomed to failure. After all, a dead pilot rarely conveys information succinctly in a high-pressure environment, least of all when several quite major elements of the control panel have been relocated into several equally major elements of the pilot’s head and chest. Captain Rainham did her best to inform the rest of the crew that this kind of thing was just not on, by screaming through the sheet of pilot-blood which was washing down her face.
A second panel exploded, filling the bridge with flames, smoke and electrical components. The adjutant put his hands on his hips and tutted loudly. Who was going to have to clean all this up, he wondered sarcastically, suffering from an extreme lack of perspective as well as a severe burn from the explosion. Shock may or may not have played a part.
Tasa pushed through the burning wreckage of the bridge, and scrabbled towards the door, as did most of the other officers. They were panicking, a bunch of scared children running away from something they were struggling to understand.
“Someone get on the auxiliary controls and keep us moving!” Tasa heard Captain Rainham command as she struggled to her feet. The auxiliary controls were in the centre of the ship, designed to remain functional in the event of a collision or attack. The outer skins of the freighter might be torn off, but there would always be a way to steer it back to a habitable world. Tasa tried to think of the best route down there – at the very least if he went in that direction first, it would be a good enough reason to have abandoned his post. Realistically, not having an astro-navigator to plot an optimal route through the next few star-systems would have been fairly inconsequential during a bandit attack anyway.
“On the way!” Tasa shouted into the room, cementing the reason for his exodus. Captain Rainham tried to construct a snide rebuke, but found herself cut off by a ball of flame bursting from one of the ship’s status monitors. Quite why the major subsystems on the bridge had been designed in such a way as to erupt in a wave of fire and shrapnel was confusing, objectively speaking, but everyone was far too busy burning, hiding from the fire, or pulling shrapnel out of themselves to think about it. Distracting consumers from the flaws of a product by burning them is a risky strategy at best, but it seemed to have paid off thus far.
George
was quite sleepy. He’d done an awful lot of searching over the last few days,
and contrary to the beliefs those kind-hearted souls must have had when
building his bed, it wasn’t terribly comfortable to sleep on a vegetable-supported
mattress. He was also a grocer by trade, not a ship-builder, so he didn’t make
any claims to know what should or shouldn’t go where in an ideal freighter. Sleepiness
and poor ship-knowledge added together meant that George didn’t have an awful
lot of confidence in his assessment of a ship’s interior. Even so, however, he
was fairly sure that the end of the corridor in which he was standing should
not have been on fire. Thinking back to the other corridors he had been in,
they were definitely linked by a common theme of not being violently ablaze.
Then again, only one corridor so far had led to the engines, and none of the
other corridors had been shaking and pitching over so violently. Even the steel
clanging sound was new.
George shrugged and turned away from the flames. If he knew Gloria, and he was pretty sure that he did, she wouldn’t be standing around in a fire like that. Another huge impact shook the ship, followed by a screeching, crackling, whining sound coming from within. It reminded George slightly of the engine noise, except now it was like a kettle inside a microwave inside an oil barrel. And all three were rolling down a large gravelly slope. George found it most curious, and made a mental note to relay this to Gloria – she’d definitely be intrigued.
The grocer backtracked along the hallway to put some distance between himself and the inferno. The going was rather difficult with all the rocking around and shaking the freighter had taken to, lately, which made it all the worse when George took a new path and found yet another fire at the end of that route. ‘It never rains, but it pours!’ George laughed to himself, at his own rotten luck. Four days with no fires, and then here were two all at once. He shook his head and set off to try a third direction, but was interrupted by the wing of another ship slamming through the hull of the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick and bursting into the corridor. This, in a manner rather grander than George had expected, heralded the decision of the new corridor to give this fire lark a try, along with a powerful explosion which sent George flying off his feet.
George shrugged and turned away from the flames. If he knew Gloria, and he was pretty sure that he did, she wouldn’t be standing around in a fire like that. Another huge impact shook the ship, followed by a screeching, crackling, whining sound coming from within. It reminded George slightly of the engine noise, except now it was like a kettle inside a microwave inside an oil barrel. And all three were rolling down a large gravelly slope. George found it most curious, and made a mental note to relay this to Gloria – she’d definitely be intrigued.
The grocer backtracked along the hallway to put some distance between himself and the inferno. The going was rather difficult with all the rocking around and shaking the freighter had taken to, lately, which made it all the worse when George took a new path and found yet another fire at the end of that route. ‘It never rains, but it pours!’ George laughed to himself, at his own rotten luck. Four days with no fires, and then here were two all at once. He shook his head and set off to try a third direction, but was interrupted by the wing of another ship slamming through the hull of the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick and bursting into the corridor. This, in a manner rather grander than George had expected, heralded the decision of the new corridor to give this fire lark a try, along with a powerful explosion which sent George flying off his feet.
Spinning
through the air, surrounded by gouts of flame, raked by flying shrapnel, and
careening towards a flaming nest of twisted metal wreckage, George couldn’t
help but feel a little pessimistic about his situation. It was, sadly, likely
to end with him being hurt. Still, there’s no use in crying over spilt milk, he
told himself. At the very least, this was another new experience on his
journey. As the Zen grocer’s trajectory curved down towards the jagged steel
and agony, he let out a deep breath in preparation for the unique sensation of
slamming into a pile of ship wreckage, but was denied any such fulfilment by the
rapid decompression of the corridor behind him.
The fire, metal and carnage that the grocer had been heading towards rushed out of his way, like a child swept from the path of a swing moments before tear-inducing impact. George tumbled along the hallway in mid-air, propelled by both the explosion and the rush of air moving into the vacuum. He desperately tried to grab at anything to steady himself, but between his hands slipping off the smooth surfaces of fire extinguishers or oxygen bottle boxes (two items which would rather work against one another in a fire such as this) and the steel corridor being incredibly hot from the fire, he had no luck. His satchel, however, was far more resourceful, tangling its strap on an outcropping of torn metal.
George had always liked his satchel. It had been a gift from his wife, and she was clearly an excellent judge of a quality bag – the strap was not only comfortable and stylish, but apparently capable of holding his whole body weight whilst the torrent of air from the ship was trying to push him into empty space. He decided in that moment that he would never go to a rival satchel manufacturer as long as he lived.
A chorus of rending metal rang out in the direction of George’s feet, and the rush of air stopped as suddenly as it had started. That rate was only an approximation of course, but if questioned, George would have said that the rise and fall times of the rushing air had been about the same. The grocer’s feet fell back to the floor, and he saw that much of the flaming wreckage he had previously been tumbling towards had piled up at the breach in the hull and plugged the gap. Carefully, George unhooked his satchel from the wall of the corridor, giving it a quick dust off and an appreciative pat.
“Good work, satchel.” He told it, beaming with pride.
Rows of red emergency lights ran along the ceiling, arrowheads directing anyone on the ship towards the escape pods. George recognised the safety feature as a standard present on all space vessels, aeroplanes and even boats that he’d ever ridden. It would be a shame to leave so much of the ship unsearched, but clearly if Gloria was still aboard, she’d be heading towards the escape pods as well – she was no fool when it came to personal safety. The grocer set off at a trot in the direction of the crimson flashing arrows.
The fire, metal and carnage that the grocer had been heading towards rushed out of his way, like a child swept from the path of a swing moments before tear-inducing impact. George tumbled along the hallway in mid-air, propelled by both the explosion and the rush of air moving into the vacuum. He desperately tried to grab at anything to steady himself, but between his hands slipping off the smooth surfaces of fire extinguishers or oxygen bottle boxes (two items which would rather work against one another in a fire such as this) and the steel corridor being incredibly hot from the fire, he had no luck. His satchel, however, was far more resourceful, tangling its strap on an outcropping of torn metal.
George had always liked his satchel. It had been a gift from his wife, and she was clearly an excellent judge of a quality bag – the strap was not only comfortable and stylish, but apparently capable of holding his whole body weight whilst the torrent of air from the ship was trying to push him into empty space. He decided in that moment that he would never go to a rival satchel manufacturer as long as he lived.
A chorus of rending metal rang out in the direction of George’s feet, and the rush of air stopped as suddenly as it had started. That rate was only an approximation of course, but if questioned, George would have said that the rise and fall times of the rushing air had been about the same. The grocer’s feet fell back to the floor, and he saw that much of the flaming wreckage he had previously been tumbling towards had piled up at the breach in the hull and plugged the gap. Carefully, George unhooked his satchel from the wall of the corridor, giving it a quick dust off and an appreciative pat.
“Good work, satchel.” He told it, beaming with pride.
Rows of red emergency lights ran along the ceiling, arrowheads directing anyone on the ship towards the escape pods. George recognised the safety feature as a standard present on all space vessels, aeroplanes and even boats that he’d ever ridden. It would be a shame to leave so much of the ship unsearched, but clearly if Gloria was still aboard, she’d be heading towards the escape pods as well – she was no fool when it came to personal safety. The grocer set off at a trot in the direction of the crimson flashing arrows.
Tasa sprinted
through the corridors of the IGS Tasa
Arton’s a Dick, pushing other crew members aside in his effort to get to
the escape pods first. The abyss could take Captain Rainham and her cohort of
cretins – he wasn’t getting himself killed by bandits for them. Besides, most
of the people he was currently shoving down were also attempting to evacuate,
so why shouldn’t he? Any survivors would need his skills to navigate their way
back home.
The engines were still spinning up from the pilot’s last efforts, but even their whining couldn’t drown out the gunfire from their assailant, which continued abated – it felt like they were being methodically sprayed with fire from stern to aft and back again. Every now and again the rounds from the bandit ship would touch off something volatile and rock the freighter violently, throwing the crowds in the hallways off their balance – Tasa included. He’d never been particularly good at keeping his feet during an attack, and age hadn’t improved his skills. What he had learned to do, however, was not slow down. He would run, scrabble, crawl or climb as he had to, but never slow down.
The ship’s lifts were crowed and running flat out, and in any case they were a terrible bet. When a ship was ablaze, standing in a sealed metal box was literally throwing oneself into an oven. Baking wouldn’t solve this problem. Tasa rushed past the crowds and kicked the grating off a service hatch which ran alongside the lift shaft. Crouching himself inside, he grabbed hold of the ladder which ran the length of the shaft, braced his feet on the outside, and slid down with practice and grace. Tasa watched the floor-numbers rushing past as he shot downwards, willing ‘24’ to appear faster. Once he saw ‘20’, Tasa gripped the ladder harder and squeezed his boots against the steel, slowing himself down enough to start using the rungs.
Tasa leapt off the ladder at floor 24, kicked out the grate to the corridor, and resumed his dash to the escape pods. He’d barely taken two steps, however, before he was thrown to the floor by the largest impact yet, accompanied by the sound of shearing metal. The chassis of the ship vibrated violently, punctuated by a series of deafening blasts. Tasa fought to regain a footing and shook his head to try to shift the ringing in his ears.
Even before that blast, the damage from the bandit ship had been far worse down here, with every other corridor being blocked by wreckage or a fire. The structure of the freighter was weakened from the perforation of sustained gunfire, and the proximity to the overcharging engines probably wasn’t helping. Their buzzing and whirring had increased to a scream as they struggled against the electric vortex they were creating. That same vortex would be arcing back to the ship, great lightning strikes filled with superheated dust slicing into the hull. The pilot’s panicked attempt to flee, at Tasa’s instinctively shouted order, was just as likely to kill them as the bandit ship if they didn’t clear the storm soon.
The crowds were thinner as he approached the escape pods, which gave Tasa some hope that he’d made it before there was a crush for room. The pods ran along the edge of the ship, small circular airlocks facing outwards from a wide, open corridor, with enough space for double the crew, if all spaces in all pods were manned. Unfortunately, the theory is never quite as good when put in practice, and this situation was no exception. The open corridor was strewn with bodies, bloodied and burning. Blackened steel stood as a witness to the flames and explosions which had been erupting all along the row of pods. The nose of the bandit ship was wedged firmly against the back wall of the corridor, with elements of the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick’s crewmembers smeared along its hull. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh choked the air out of Tasa’s nose and mouth, making his eyes water and his stomach turn. All in all, this hadn’t been the salvation he was after.
The astro-navigator scanned along the row of pods, looking for any which might be able to fly clear, but with the bandit ship bound in place, the pods would only slam into the hull. Knowing this ship, they’d probably explode too. Tasa cursed Captain Rainham once more for directing them into this and tried to think of a viable plan B. His best bet was the row of pods on the opposite side of the ship, but with the engine power increasing it was just as likely that the freighter would be torn apart before he reached them. With grim reluctance, he accepted that he would have to follow Captain Rainham’s order and get to the auxiliary control room. At least if he died on the way she’d be going down with him, he consoled himself.
The engines were still spinning up from the pilot’s last efforts, but even their whining couldn’t drown out the gunfire from their assailant, which continued abated – it felt like they were being methodically sprayed with fire from stern to aft and back again. Every now and again the rounds from the bandit ship would touch off something volatile and rock the freighter violently, throwing the crowds in the hallways off their balance – Tasa included. He’d never been particularly good at keeping his feet during an attack, and age hadn’t improved his skills. What he had learned to do, however, was not slow down. He would run, scrabble, crawl or climb as he had to, but never slow down.
The ship’s lifts were crowed and running flat out, and in any case they were a terrible bet. When a ship was ablaze, standing in a sealed metal box was literally throwing oneself into an oven. Baking wouldn’t solve this problem. Tasa rushed past the crowds and kicked the grating off a service hatch which ran alongside the lift shaft. Crouching himself inside, he grabbed hold of the ladder which ran the length of the shaft, braced his feet on the outside, and slid down with practice and grace. Tasa watched the floor-numbers rushing past as he shot downwards, willing ‘24’ to appear faster. Once he saw ‘20’, Tasa gripped the ladder harder and squeezed his boots against the steel, slowing himself down enough to start using the rungs.
Tasa leapt off the ladder at floor 24, kicked out the grate to the corridor, and resumed his dash to the escape pods. He’d barely taken two steps, however, before he was thrown to the floor by the largest impact yet, accompanied by the sound of shearing metal. The chassis of the ship vibrated violently, punctuated by a series of deafening blasts. Tasa fought to regain a footing and shook his head to try to shift the ringing in his ears.
Even before that blast, the damage from the bandit ship had been far worse down here, with every other corridor being blocked by wreckage or a fire. The structure of the freighter was weakened from the perforation of sustained gunfire, and the proximity to the overcharging engines probably wasn’t helping. Their buzzing and whirring had increased to a scream as they struggled against the electric vortex they were creating. That same vortex would be arcing back to the ship, great lightning strikes filled with superheated dust slicing into the hull. The pilot’s panicked attempt to flee, at Tasa’s instinctively shouted order, was just as likely to kill them as the bandit ship if they didn’t clear the storm soon.
The crowds were thinner as he approached the escape pods, which gave Tasa some hope that he’d made it before there was a crush for room. The pods ran along the edge of the ship, small circular airlocks facing outwards from a wide, open corridor, with enough space for double the crew, if all spaces in all pods were manned. Unfortunately, the theory is never quite as good when put in practice, and this situation was no exception. The open corridor was strewn with bodies, bloodied and burning. Blackened steel stood as a witness to the flames and explosions which had been erupting all along the row of pods. The nose of the bandit ship was wedged firmly against the back wall of the corridor, with elements of the IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick’s crewmembers smeared along its hull. Smoke and the smell of burning flesh choked the air out of Tasa’s nose and mouth, making his eyes water and his stomach turn. All in all, this hadn’t been the salvation he was after.
The astro-navigator scanned along the row of pods, looking for any which might be able to fly clear, but with the bandit ship bound in place, the pods would only slam into the hull. Knowing this ship, they’d probably explode too. Tasa cursed Captain Rainham once more for directing them into this and tried to think of a viable plan B. His best bet was the row of pods on the opposite side of the ship, but with the engine power increasing it was just as likely that the freighter would be torn apart before he reached them. With grim reluctance, he accepted that he would have to follow Captain Rainham’s order and get to the auxiliary control room. At least if he died on the way she’d be going down with him, he consoled himself.
As George drew
closer to the escape pods, he began to meet more and more of the ship’s crew.
Everyone seemed very agitated all of a sudden, probably something to do with
all the shaking and the fires. That ship which had come to visit them and ended
up stuck in their hull was probably getting the crew anxious too, especially if
they weren’t expecting visitors. George made a mental note to remember this the
next time he felt like dropping in on someone unannounced.
A group of engineers from the engine rooms pushed past him, running along the lines of emergency lights with panicked expressions. George thought that pushing people was rather rude, but didn’t pay it too much mind. It must have been a stressful time for them, after all. Seeing everyone move with such urgency, however, did imply to him that he should be moving a little more quickly. That many people couldn’t be wrong, especially given that they knew this space-ship lark far better than he did. George increased his trot to a vigorous jog, but it made his satchel bounce around rather uncomfortably so he soon stopped again. ‘Slow and steady wins the race.’ He consoled himself.
It took only a few minutes for George to reach the escape pods, but they didn’t fill him with hope. For one thing the room was crowded with panicking crew members and he wouldn’t possible have time to comfort them all. For another, there were many dead bodies lying around, some of them badly burned; that was never a pleasant sight. Last of all, there was the general carnage, the largest aspect of which was the nose of the vessel whose wing he had seen earlier. Whosoever had been piloting that ship had done it a right mischief, if you asked him. The fact that no-one had exited to survey the damage must have meant that they were terribly embarrassed too. Couple that to the fact that the ship had inadvertently blocked the escape pods from being able to leave the freighter and it was a terribly unfortunate situation all over.
George was willing to forgive and forget. Everyone made mistakes, and as long as they weren’t maliciously intended, he could be patient with them. He looked sympathetically at the ship as it sat there helpless, but then a green glow began to build up underneath the nose, which piqued George’s curiosity. It was like a glowing, fiery lightbulb had been switched on. The glow grew brighter and brighter, larger and larger, until it was the size of an oil barrel, probably one without a microwave in it. Then, the green glow shot forwards unbelievably quickly, blasting a burning hole in the opposite wall. That made George very cross indeed – this was clearly not an innocent mistake, and the grocer could have no patience with that kind of behaviour.
The worried personnel in the corridor were making an awful racket, as were the engines; there was something disquieting about the sparking, cracking noises that they were now making. It seemed that the freighter had become rife with troubles in a short time, and George felt that he should repay the kindness that the crew had shown him by trying to fix at least some of those troubles. Removing that spiteful extra ship, perhaps, would be a good start.
George meandered between fallen bodies and bloodied wreckage until he reached one of the pod doors. A large red button with a glass cover advertised that it should only be pressed in an emergency, and the button itself had ‘LAUNCH’ written across it in bold, confident lettering. Looking at the ship protruding into the corridor, this pod must have been fairly well pressed up against its hull. Actions speaking far louder than any words he might have cared to utter, George broke the glass with his fist and punched the launch button, much to the dismay of the engineering staff in attendance.
“No!” they shouted.
“You’ll kill us all!” they cried
“That’s a lovely satchel!” someone else complimented. That one made him smile, since it really was a lovely satchel.
A bank of red lights above the escape pod door flashed red, and the coupled sounds of jet thrusters and grinding metal emanated from behind. The protruding bandit vessel began to vibrate and slowly scrape backwards. A stunned and tense silence filled the corridor. Many of the crew fled for the depths of the ship, and many others stared dumbly at the bandit ship. Calmly, George walked to the next pod along and launched that one too. The vibrations grew stronger, and the ship slid backwards a little faster. The green glow under its nose began to build again, and most of the remaining crew started to flee.
With more urgency, George launched a third, then a fourth escape pod. He was about to go for a fifth, when Gaest approached from behind, scooped him up in his smooth, fingerless hands, and ran from the corridor clutching the puzzled grocer.
The bandit ship, pressed by the escape pods, suddenly lurched free of the breach it had made in the hull, firing its weapon one last time as it did so. The green blast blew another vast hole in the structure of the freighter, debris flying lethally around, and then silence fell as all loose metal, bodies, and other evidence of the carnage, were vented out through the hole the ship had left.
A group of engineers from the engine rooms pushed past him, running along the lines of emergency lights with panicked expressions. George thought that pushing people was rather rude, but didn’t pay it too much mind. It must have been a stressful time for them, after all. Seeing everyone move with such urgency, however, did imply to him that he should be moving a little more quickly. That many people couldn’t be wrong, especially given that they knew this space-ship lark far better than he did. George increased his trot to a vigorous jog, but it made his satchel bounce around rather uncomfortably so he soon stopped again. ‘Slow and steady wins the race.’ He consoled himself.
It took only a few minutes for George to reach the escape pods, but they didn’t fill him with hope. For one thing the room was crowded with panicking crew members and he wouldn’t possible have time to comfort them all. For another, there were many dead bodies lying around, some of them badly burned; that was never a pleasant sight. Last of all, there was the general carnage, the largest aspect of which was the nose of the vessel whose wing he had seen earlier. Whosoever had been piloting that ship had done it a right mischief, if you asked him. The fact that no-one had exited to survey the damage must have meant that they were terribly embarrassed too. Couple that to the fact that the ship had inadvertently blocked the escape pods from being able to leave the freighter and it was a terribly unfortunate situation all over.
George was willing to forgive and forget. Everyone made mistakes, and as long as they weren’t maliciously intended, he could be patient with them. He looked sympathetically at the ship as it sat there helpless, but then a green glow began to build up underneath the nose, which piqued George’s curiosity. It was like a glowing, fiery lightbulb had been switched on. The glow grew brighter and brighter, larger and larger, until it was the size of an oil barrel, probably one without a microwave in it. Then, the green glow shot forwards unbelievably quickly, blasting a burning hole in the opposite wall. That made George very cross indeed – this was clearly not an innocent mistake, and the grocer could have no patience with that kind of behaviour.
The worried personnel in the corridor were making an awful racket, as were the engines; there was something disquieting about the sparking, cracking noises that they were now making. It seemed that the freighter had become rife with troubles in a short time, and George felt that he should repay the kindness that the crew had shown him by trying to fix at least some of those troubles. Removing that spiteful extra ship, perhaps, would be a good start.
George meandered between fallen bodies and bloodied wreckage until he reached one of the pod doors. A large red button with a glass cover advertised that it should only be pressed in an emergency, and the button itself had ‘LAUNCH’ written across it in bold, confident lettering. Looking at the ship protruding into the corridor, this pod must have been fairly well pressed up against its hull. Actions speaking far louder than any words he might have cared to utter, George broke the glass with his fist and punched the launch button, much to the dismay of the engineering staff in attendance.
“No!” they shouted.
“You’ll kill us all!” they cried
“That’s a lovely satchel!” someone else complimented. That one made him smile, since it really was a lovely satchel.
A bank of red lights above the escape pod door flashed red, and the coupled sounds of jet thrusters and grinding metal emanated from behind. The protruding bandit vessel began to vibrate and slowly scrape backwards. A stunned and tense silence filled the corridor. Many of the crew fled for the depths of the ship, and many others stared dumbly at the bandit ship. Calmly, George walked to the next pod along and launched that one too. The vibrations grew stronger, and the ship slid backwards a little faster. The green glow under its nose began to build again, and most of the remaining crew started to flee.
With more urgency, George launched a third, then a fourth escape pod. He was about to go for a fifth, when Gaest approached from behind, scooped him up in his smooth, fingerless hands, and ran from the corridor clutching the puzzled grocer.
The bandit ship, pressed by the escape pods, suddenly lurched free of the breach it had made in the hull, firing its weapon one last time as it did so. The green blast blew another vast hole in the structure of the freighter, debris flying lethally around, and then silence fell as all loose metal, bodies, and other evidence of the carnage, were vented out through the hole the ship had left.
Tasa ran all the
way to the auxiliary control panel, blessing the lack of rocking and rolling
impacts the ship had experienced since the bandit had crashed through the wall.
The electric vortex created by the engine must have magnetised the hull of the
ship and pulled the bandit in, he supposed. A double edged sword, these engines
– the ship was still shaking violently as the engines tried to rip themselves
out of the hull, making a bid for electromagnetic freedom in the dust-cloud.
When Tasa finally reached the controls, a group of kitchen staff were looking
desperately at the banks of buttons and levers, trying to make sense of what
they were seeing.
“Out of the way!” Tasa shouted, knocking a pastry chef aside to get to the panel.
“What do we do?” a sous-chef asked frantically.
“Nothing, just let me handle it.”
“You’re a bit of a dick, aren’t you.” The pastry chef said flatly.
“Apparently so.” Tasa said distractedly. He punched in the authorisation code to unlock the controls and hammered the emergency engine-stop button.
“Out of the way!” Tasa shouted, knocking a pastry chef aside to get to the panel.
“What do we do?” a sous-chef asked frantically.
“Nothing, just let me handle it.”
“You’re a bit of a dick, aren’t you.” The pastry chef said flatly.
“Apparently so.” Tasa said distractedly. He punched in the authorisation code to unlock the controls and hammered the emergency engine-stop button.
Outside, in the
magnetic dust storm, a battered, stolen Raptor-class frigate accelerated
backwards along the IGS Tasa Arton’s a
Dick, propelled by a collection of small escape pods. The engines were
dead, knocked out by one of the inexplicable explosions from inside the
freighter. The communications systems were down due to the magnetic storm. The
coffee machine had been out of milk for a week. As if things couldn’t get any
worse, a devastating electrical vortex was whirling around the screeching
engines of the damaged freighter, a vortex which pulled the Raptor-class and
escape pods alike inwards. Just as the rear of the ship was about to enter the
vortex, the freighter engines cut out, and the swirling maelstrom of
electromagnetism dissipated in a burst of cracking electricity. It was enough
to short out the remaining functional systems of the Raptor-class, and heat the
hull until it was welded to the freighters thrusters, but nothing more.
“Captain?”
“Arton?”
“Engines dormant but somehow still functional. The damage is likely to be heavy, but they should be able to coast us on low power to Polaris VI.”
“Understood. Take us there.”
“Aye, captain.”
“Arton?”
“Engines dormant but somehow still functional. The damage is likely to be heavy, but they should be able to coast us on low power to Polaris VI.”
“Understood. Take us there.”
“Aye, captain.”
The blistered,
pock-marked, rent, burned and blasted freighter limped its way into the
space-dock above Polaris VI, with no small amount of help from the orbital
lifeboats around the planet. Of the mockery and jeers that the local crews
made, the mainstay of their confusion was the choice to pilot a ship which had
the burned out husk of a Raptor-class frigate welded to the rear thrusters.
George had spent the rest of the journey being hailed as a hero by all the crew. The purple man had shaken his hand in a manner that the grocer still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around, but he and the rest of the crew agreed to search the whole of the ship for Gloria. At least, they’d search all of the ship that was left - everyone agreed that Gloria wouldn’t have chosen to drift around in empty space or the dust storm, so there was no use in looking back there. Sadly, there was no sign of her, not even in the crisps, so George crossed ‘The IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick’ off his list.
When they reached the dock, George waited for Tasa to return to their bunk.
“No luck.” He told Tasa, the instant he walked through the door.
“Me either.” Said Tasa, agreeing completely, even though they were talking about completely different things. “Everyone still thinks I’m a dick.”
“I don’t, I think you’re a tremendous chap.” George told him reassuringly.
“I’ll be glad for the break from this ship and these people. Maybe I’ll be able to find work here and they can leave me behind.”
“Are you really that sad here? Even as an officer on an exciting ship like this?”
“I am.” Tasa replied simply.
“Well, if you don’t want to be here, and you’re looking for work, I could always use a companion. Someone who knows the universe better than I do would be great. And two sets of eyes will be far better than one for finding Gloria.”
“I doubt you could afford me, somehow.”
“I did alright for myself.” George told him, opening his satchel. “Take a look.” The grocer showed him his currency chit, set to ‘current balance’. Tasa had never seen so many zeros on the good side of the number.
“How in the abyss…”
“A penny saved is a penny earned. I can support you for as long as it takes to find Gloria.”
“What if it takes years? Are you going to look forever?”
George nodded. “She must be somewhere.” He said. But then his eyes widened and his expression faded as a grim realisation came over him. “Wait… what if she isn’t somewhere? What if she’s nowhere? Oh I’m a fool! You can only look nowhere if you haven’t looked somewhere yet! I should have tried looking nowhere to see if she was there first, and then started looking somewhere afterwards. I’ve missed my chance! What if I’ve missed my only chance to find her?!”
Tasa stared in silent disbelief. This man had stared death in the face and fired little boxes of rocket fuel at a Raptor-class, point blank, without flinching. But here he was panicking because he couldn’t understand the difference between real life and semantics.
“She can’t be nowhere, George. Everything is somewhere.” Tasa told him. George gave Tasa a concerned look. “Honestly. We’ll find her.” He said with a reassuring smile. It was the first time George had seen Tasa wear anything but the grimace of a rotten parsnip.
“Well, if the great Tasa Arton thinks so, with a ship named after his prowess, then I’ll believe it.” Tasa wasn’t sure if George was mocking him or not. George scrawled ‘Polaris VI – Space Dock’ into his notepad, then tucked it back into his satchel. “Are we going to tell Captain Rainham before you go?”
“Nah.” Tasa replied. “Captain Rainham’s a dick.”
George had spent the rest of the journey being hailed as a hero by all the crew. The purple man had shaken his hand in a manner that the grocer still hadn’t quite wrapped his head around, but he and the rest of the crew agreed to search the whole of the ship for Gloria. At least, they’d search all of the ship that was left - everyone agreed that Gloria wouldn’t have chosen to drift around in empty space or the dust storm, so there was no use in looking back there. Sadly, there was no sign of her, not even in the crisps, so George crossed ‘The IGS Tasa Arton’s a Dick’ off his list.
When they reached the dock, George waited for Tasa to return to their bunk.
“No luck.” He told Tasa, the instant he walked through the door.
“Me either.” Said Tasa, agreeing completely, even though they were talking about completely different things. “Everyone still thinks I’m a dick.”
“I don’t, I think you’re a tremendous chap.” George told him reassuringly.
“I’ll be glad for the break from this ship and these people. Maybe I’ll be able to find work here and they can leave me behind.”
“Are you really that sad here? Even as an officer on an exciting ship like this?”
“I am.” Tasa replied simply.
“Well, if you don’t want to be here, and you’re looking for work, I could always use a companion. Someone who knows the universe better than I do would be great. And two sets of eyes will be far better than one for finding Gloria.”
“I doubt you could afford me, somehow.”
“I did alright for myself.” George told him, opening his satchel. “Take a look.” The grocer showed him his currency chit, set to ‘current balance’. Tasa had never seen so many zeros on the good side of the number.
“How in the abyss…”
“A penny saved is a penny earned. I can support you for as long as it takes to find Gloria.”
“What if it takes years? Are you going to look forever?”
George nodded. “She must be somewhere.” He said. But then his eyes widened and his expression faded as a grim realisation came over him. “Wait… what if she isn’t somewhere? What if she’s nowhere? Oh I’m a fool! You can only look nowhere if you haven’t looked somewhere yet! I should have tried looking nowhere to see if she was there first, and then started looking somewhere afterwards. I’ve missed my chance! What if I’ve missed my only chance to find her?!”
Tasa stared in silent disbelief. This man had stared death in the face and fired little boxes of rocket fuel at a Raptor-class, point blank, without flinching. But here he was panicking because he couldn’t understand the difference between real life and semantics.
“She can’t be nowhere, George. Everything is somewhere.” Tasa told him. George gave Tasa a concerned look. “Honestly. We’ll find her.” He said with a reassuring smile. It was the first time George had seen Tasa wear anything but the grimace of a rotten parsnip.
“Well, if the great Tasa Arton thinks so, with a ship named after his prowess, then I’ll believe it.” Tasa wasn’t sure if George was mocking him or not. George scrawled ‘Polaris VI – Space Dock’ into his notepad, then tucked it back into his satchel. “Are we going to tell Captain Rainham before you go?”
“Nah.” Tasa replied. “Captain Rainham’s a dick.”
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