Shouts a fat man from further down the hall. His gut hanging out of the door from the supply chain command post. “I got this Ghost fella that needs to be run over to The Righteous Chord, via an extra stop off to pick up some fuel cell rods from The Dirty Starling. Take you forty minutes tops, man. You up for it?” The fat man is chewing on a tobacco roll, like an unlit cigar, but still stinks, turns your finger tips and lips yellow, and is generally considered to be really unhealthy. Marshala stops in his tracks, not yet to his berth, so still just outside the threshold to the change rooms, and thus nearly free from any extra duties. “Countdown clock reads an hour. That’s cutting things close Rodario.” Marshala counters. “Come on man, this one got handed to me last minute, this is a VIP transfer, and a pick up. They’ll have a crab unit ready and waiting to handle the fuel rods. You drive by, grab the rods, put this Ghost down in his new digs and high tail it home. What do you say?” He smiles, a yellow gap toothed smile. The stench from the tobacco roll oozes from his every pore. “Not buying it Rodario. You forgot about it, now you want to make it my problem. Clocks ticking Rody.” The pilot grins, shifting his helmet from one arm to the crook of the other. “Fuck, fine. Triple time pay, plus the VIP bonus.” He sneers. “And?” Retorts Marshala. “What? Fuck me, and. And nothing.” Rodario snaps, his smile fading quickly. “Tick-tock, tick-tock” answers Marshala in a mocking sing song voice. “Christ almighty in heaven, fine. You can have the fuel rod danger pay stipend aswell. But only a portion, as it’s a quarter load only.” He says, reaching his arm out of his office to hand the bill of lading forms to Marshala. “You got it boss.” Marshala takes the papers and bolts back up the hall at full tilt towards his run about. Coming around the side he unsnaps the fueling lines, and toggles through the warm up check list, the dial indicators showing that the ship hasn’t completely cooled down yet from his previous trip. Strapping himself in he clicks his helmet into place feeling the coolness of his neck ring bite at his finger tips. Feeling the thunk of the latch catching, he gets an all clear from the central command tower, almost immediately after typing in his ID code and supply chain docket number. Rodario must have had him moved up in the queue in order to get this last minute trip done. Checking his wrist biometric unit, Marshala sees the clocks down to forty three minutes. Going to be a tight one he thinks, as the thrusters push him hard against his restraints as he backs the run about out of its housing.
The run about is a great little eight seater ship for taking small groups of people between larger ships, or transporting goods to another vessels dry docks, or cargo hold. Nimble, reliable, and most importantly, not orange and black like every other fucking thing build by The Company aeronautics people. Marshala’s run about is sky blue with a hint of yellow mixed in. The interior is a faux white leather, that is well worn, but in good condition. That’s why he gets to do the baby sitting tour guide trips with Company VIP’s. His ship The Renaissance, also has a wet bar, though no one ever seems inclined to drink when vertigo can strike at any time. Marshala loves in inspire his VIP’s by approaching the larger vessels in the flotilla at 90 degree angles to what they felt was up or down, and see them gasp once it dawns on them. A bit of pilot humor.
Looking at his bill of lading, the Jolene Roger will be a straight shot three kilometers starboard to collect his Ghost crew guest. Then an about face, drop 90 degrees for one kilometer to grab the fuel rods from The Dirty Starling and then book it to the reception desk at The Righteous Chord to drop off his passenger, and then a mad scramble back to The Lark Song, before they jump into battle stations where he has several hours before his fourth wave gets called into action. Nothing special, just tight timelines care of the fat bastard himself Rodario. Though he had to admit holding out for all the added bonuses, stipends and overtime was a stroke of genius. Rodario really must have dropped that ball to accept all of those charges this late in the game, but who was Marshala to turn down nearly eleven thousand credits for one forty minute run.
The jaunt from The Lark Song to the Jolene Roger, was uneventful. Black, bleak and boring. Taking Marshala less than three minutes to cover the distance. He was guided to his pick up point by an automated bouy that towed him in the last five hundred meters, and a shadowy figure clinked and thunked his way through the airlock at the top of the run about. The medium sized man in a bizarrely harnessed beige jumpsuit floated in nonchalantly and buckled himself down two rows back. Close enough to talk, but not too close. Akin to taking the second urinal over in the men’s room, if you will. Without looking back Marshala says “Get comfortable but don’t take your helmet off ok.” After a brief, yet agonizing pause Marshala was given the go ahead to flop into a dive, relative to the Roger’s position, and head for the Dirty Starling’s cargo hold. The run about peeled away with an audible gasp from the Ghost crew, who followed it up with both a hoot, and a holler. Marshala was zipping now, he had an open lane in front of him, as everyone else was packing it in, and heading back to their berths for the flotilla’s jump into battle.
A proximity alarm sounds causing Marshala to have to produce some evasive maneuvers to avoid a field of shrapnel. Somebody must have lit off a couple of fuel rods and not lived to tell the tale, as the shipping lanes weren’t marked, or rerouted yet. Looking at the countdown Marshala has a full twenty five minutes left. As the Renaissance shoots across the void the automated buoys have been recalled and Marshala has to find his own way to the tiny crab unit that is supposed to be waiting for him, in order to load his fuel rods. The running lights on the Dirty Starling are off in preparation for the jump, so Marshala has to call in manually. All taking precious minutes. Toggling switches on his dash he sees his own wrist communicator is pinging him with an urgent message from Rodario. The radio crackles with static. “Nice of you to arrive Renaissance. Crab unit ninety one is on it’s way. Be there in four minutes.” The radio clicks off. Countdown clock reads seventeen minutes left. “Still good. Still good.” He whispers. Just as foretold the crab unit floats by and racks the fuel rods in one fluid motion, and Marshala rockets off without waiting for the all clear. Shaving off seconds of delays is a matter of life and death at this point.
Turning to look over his shoulder Marshala says “I can’t come in with you, so be ready and waiting in the air lock. I’ll give you a wee push, and you go in. I’m not going to stop, so be ready. And be careful.” A gulp and the sound of a buckle unclasping answers him. Toggling the intercom Marshala shouts over the sounds of the air pumps. “I’m not going to pump out all of the air. I need some to help propel you to the airlock doors. I’ll wait as long as I can to see you go in, but otherwise you’re on your own.” The loud banging of the pumps makes Marshala’s seat vibrate. “Oh, ok… I guess. Thank you?” The Ghost offers from inside the air lock. The red digits of the countdown clock on his dash shows eleven minutes. In moments The Righteous Chord looms large in the cabin windows and Marshala comes screaming in over the hull as he dives into a roll over towards the aft cargo bay. Orienting his air lock door to the main cargo hold Marshala brings the run about The Renaissance down to a crawl. “On my mark – mark!” He shouts, as a beige projectile fires out of the air lock with an icy puff of grey. Sitting with both hands on his joy sticks, one eye on the Ghost Crew and his other eye on the slowly counting down clock Marshala just breaths. His sensor array shows the Ghost approaching at a fast, but survivable speed. Three hundred meters, 10 minutes, two hundred seventy five meters, nine minutes forty seconds, two hundred fifty meters, nine minutes twenty, on and on, as both the countdown clock and the distance go down in tandem. With a triple click over the comm’s, a standard call for all clear, Marshala watches as the cargo bay doors creep open, and the beige body slips safely inside.
Like a canon ball Marshala pushes his run about to the near red line as he careens back towards the Lark Song, from the under belly of The Righteous Chord. His arms pinned to his arm rests, and breathing hard in the haut-haut, chest compression chant he was trained to use to keep his blood pumping under pressure, he races back to the homing beacon emanating from his dry dock berth. As the coordinates draw near, and the count down clock still registers three minutes and fourteen seconds he eases back on the throttle, only to notice that his fuel gauge is on empty. With only his attitude adjustment thrusters available to him now Marshala begins to sweat. A trickle beads up on his brow, and rolls slowly towards his eye. Within moments the Renaissance goes dead stick in his hands, and the craft begins to tumble on all three axis. The g forces are too much to handle, Marshala blacks out.
From out of the darkness a previously recalled bouy reboots, and bursts free from its holding station. It connects blindly to a tumbling blue run about, and brings it in for docking, using every ounce of fuel reserves to steady the ships tumble. The pilot is unconscious, but within seconds of locking in place in the berth aboard the large vessel, The Lark Song jumps into battle.
Part Thirty Nine: Ghost of the Dirty Starling.
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