First Dive into the black
09 Oct 2017Gmanharmon
09OCT330308:03
I take the headphones off and rub the sleep from my eyes, ears ringing from the ancient Earth singer Frank Sinatra. The silence on the bridge is deafening, with two empty chairs staring back out at the galactic plane sprawled ahead.
The USS Constitution was the name of a three-masted frigate that sailed the seas of Old Earth over two thousand years ago, made of thick wood and loaded with cannon and crew. I am captain of her namesake, the USS Constitution II, late of the Faulcon deLacy shipyards, made of plasteel and titanium, crewed by one. With a draft of 31 meters, it's nigh impossible to not dip one's head instinctively when making ingress into a starport, which has been the experience of many Anaconda pilots as well. It's quite unsettling for the first-time flyers, especially after moving from a Lakon ship, which has quite the opposite effect; one feels as though they need to kiss the ground below them with their hull in the Type-9, a truly massive ship of its own accord, with maneuverability to match.
Were I in a combat zone, the Constitution II would be rigged with her full complement of seeker missile racks and A-rated components, clad to the gills in mirrored composite armor, and ready to take on the galaxy. However, as current needs have dictated, she has been stripped of her heavy armaments and armor for a deep exploration mission. Forgoing cargo racks and a vehicle hangar, she now carries a fuel scoop, a scanner suite for stellar bodies and planetary surfaces, and complementary auto-field maintenance units.
Not quite the sprightly ship as my Diamondback Explorer with her 35-light year range, the Constitution II makes do with 30, and it's plenty. My cargo, one Graham Greene and his "entourage" collected from Ohm City at LHS 20, have tasked me with delivering them to the alleged site of a black hole near the center of the galaxy so they may collect data. I reminded them of Sagittarius A*'s continued existence, and instead they looked at me as if I were loose on Onionhead. My already tenuous relationship with my charge disappeared altogether when Federal Security scanned my ship after being a bit liberal with the throttle within the Coriolis' exclusion zone.
"I do not appreciate being scanned, Commander," he huffed through the intercom. I replied how he knew we had been scanned, as there were no telemetry screens within their first-class cabin. I also reminded him that if he had a problem with Federal Security, he should have known better than to alight from a high-security checkpoint in the first place. Silence from the intercom.
Unfortunately, beggars cannot be choosers, as Mr Greene was willing to line my pockets with 32 million credits for the trouble, and a maximum allowance of four weeks to get the job done. This was a job for an Elite explorer, while I remained a Pioneer, but a little white lie never hurt anyone.
I'm currently 2,573 light-years from LHS 20, marking the furthest I've been from the bubble to date, only a fifth of the way to my first waypoint marker, and it's the third mission day. I've come across the remains of two other Commanders who met untimely ends on their own routes, and I cursed my hindsight to forgo a cargo rack, as I could not collect their survey data. Your memories will live on with me, nameless Commanders, as I cruise further into the galactic plane.
I reduce the throttle to zero and feel the ship judder as the thrusters go cold. A last flip of the switch to set the auto-pilot, and it's off to my quarters to reflect on the day's flight and pen this missive, before a well-deserved rest.