Rebound
30 Mar 2020Robert Lees
3306-03-30 1600The Coriolis class starport filled the small canopy view in an instant, seemingly popping into existence as Robert Lees disengaged supercruise and dropped from the trade lane. The commander of the Viper Mark III gave a hard push to his verticals as he boosted around the gigantic structure towards its entry slot side.
Time was, he would line up his cruise approach to minimise time spent searching for the glow of approach lights. But these days he was able to intuit the lumbering rotational path of a Coriolis, and even if he did misjudge it, a quick buzz around the station was good for the soul.
A distinctive crackle of engines ran along the simulated audio feed as a small wing of security ships swerved by. These, too, were Vipers, slicked in black and cobalt paints, or adorned with squadron stripes.
Lees smiled to himself, recalling his own ‘tactical black phase’ and all the imperious work he took with it. Currently he was more than content with banged-up yellow over gunmetal grey, and more than satisfied with the smug looks it invariably brought his way from the boys in blue.
"Docking request denied."
He shot an annoyed look towards the flight computer, as if the refusal was its doing, and slowed to a stop at the docking perimeter. There seemed to be some commotion coming from inside the starport. Red lights flashed and alarms blared as the security wing dove past him through the slot.
About a minute passed as Lees tried unsuccessfully to work the knots out of his shoulders, before a Diamondback sped out of the access corridor, Vipers in tow. He made another face as the hapless scout craft fell to pieces among a hail of pulse lasers and station defence beams.
“Poor bastard,” came a voice over the comms, replete with feigned sincerity. “You coming in or what?”
“Be right there,” Lees replied, punching in another request as he veered back inside the perimeter. This one went through, and he swiftly planted the little ship on the designated landing bay.
To his dismay, the pad was built for vessels twenty times the mass of his. The long, cumbersome walk in mag-boots would sadly do nothing for his middle-age paunch.
He reached the top of the stairwell at the lip of the pad, when the voice from before grated through his inner ear.
“What-- Ah, wait. You’re gonna need to bring her down. Sorry, chief.”
Lees exhaled deeply as he turned around and thunked back down the gangway. The little yellow ship seemed to be watching him with great amusement from below.
Something funny, Patricia?
Patricia, of course, could not respond to such internalised thoughts, neither here nor mid-flight when the neural link made them as one. But he had spent so much time with the plucky Mark III that he couldn’t help treating it like a natural extension of his mind. In reality, humankind had not yet interfaced with its equipment on such an intimate level, and Lees became somewhat melancholy when he considered it might not happen within his lifetime.
Still, there was no denying the advancements that had been made. Assorted hunks of electronics and metal were all that separated a pilot of yesteryear from a ghastly fate while making business above the towering cities. Now, having pushed through the ceiling of the original nest, that pilot flew into something infinitely unknowable; more intricate than any international border, darker and more crushing than any ocean, more terrifying than even the empty, breathless air above the clouds of Earth. Indeed now, that fate beyond the safety of the machine's confines was all the more immediate, and philosophers would find solace in private appreciation - for the tactile feel of the instruments used to guide their new wings; for the taste of filtered air (often filled with the aroma of filtered coffee). For a nice, thick hull.
It was for these reasons that some chose to epitomise their craft, treating them as more than simple tools. For simple they were not, and perhaps if they kept hearing our voices, one day we would hear an answer.
Lees was still entertaining these romantic ideas when he took his seat in the cockpit once more, flicking on the HUD and tapping “Enter Hangar”. (Why wasn’t there remote access for things like this!?) The whole landing bay jerked into motion as massive gears and hydraulics beneath acted in concert, producing sounds which he now heard first-hand within the echoing expanse of the Coriolis airlock. The vibrations rocked several-fold through the secured ship, given its relative size within the bay, and together they shuddered and bumped downward, then backward, like some frivolous theme park ride.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, finally coming to rest in the outfitting hangar.
“What’s the problem?” repeated the voice through the communicator. "Check your internals. You’re red hot.”
Lees navigated the outfitting panel, frowning at the various authority chits and infraction details that started spewing forth as he tried to access each of the ship’s components. All were petty offenses, but when piled together like this they could spell out significant criminal activity.
“I don’t even remember half this stuff,” he said, eyes glazing over.
“Listen, Roberto, don’t worry. I’ll get them scrubbed. But you know it’s gonna cost.”
“Tailgaters from the last two contracts should cover it,” Lees sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why wasn’t I flagged?”
“Yours truly went ahead and pulled some strings with the folks upstairs,” the voice said slyly. “No need for you to go grovelling to I.F. this time.”
“Great. So I owe you double.”
“You can buy me a double for starters!” jeered the voice. “Go clean up. I’ll get this done and meet you in the Whistling Limpet.”
Lees chuckled an acknowledgement to his confidant and the receiver cut out. He could certainly do with some company and a drink, having not enjoyed either during his tour over the last few weeks. He got up to leave, pausing at the top of the ramp to place a sympathetic hand on Patricia’s armour plating. No company, that is, except for hers.
Don’t fret. You’re in good hands.