Rosa Huang
The bench at the space dock is hurting my back. Captain Gomez-Velasco isn’t here yet, nor is the Vice-captain or the Chief Engineer. Should I just go to the bar or something? Should I stay he-
“Hello, Ms. Huang, I assume?”
Captain’s here.
I stand up straight, stop myself from doing a salute. It’s trained too deeply into my mind. “Hello, sir.”
“Glad to see you here, I actually wanted to run down some ship-related things with you,” He smiles, extending his right arm for a handshake and hefting his luggage with his left.
I didn’t bring any luggage.
I shake his hand, “I, uh, I’m willing to talk with you… but I have to go back planet-side really quick.”
“Why?”
“I got too… excited… and left my luggage in my apartment.” God he’s going to request another pilot, this is stupi-
He chuckles, “I’ve done that before on my first mission, too. Don’t beat yourself up too much.”
What.
“Ri- uh, right,” I stammer.
“I’ll meet you on the bridge when you get back,” he says and goes to the airlock door.
That would never happen in the Militia, I think to myself before spinning on my heels.
***
My apartment is simple, on the hundred-and-fiftieth floor, overlooking a small park where I can see street vendors and their customers lining around the block, in between trees. I pick up a little bag out of the closet and pull open my squat, cheap, little wooden dresser. Three red uniforms, some underwear, an extra set of shoes.
As I lift my shoes out of the drawer, the navy blue-black of my old uniform reveals itself. The silver emblem on the lapel reflects the red sunlight that’s drifting in through the window: a pointed chevron holding up a bright blue sphere. Terra on the precipice, Terra in balance. The two ideas had to coexist: perpetual danger and perpetual greatness. Else, there would be no Terra left.
That was the idea, anyways. The Militia destroyed Sol because they couldn’t stand not being in charge. I don’t know how I didn’t see the illogical nature of the Militia sooner. It took the apocalypse for me to finally work up the courage to leave.
I catch myself staring at this little lapel pin and put it down, burying it under some socks and spare shirts, and slide the drawer shut. I look around the small, simple room. Even this small accommodation is better than anything that would be provided by the Militia, even if I was the best pilot they’ve ever seen.
Pling.
I freeze. The notification sound is partly muted, soft, and distant. I know exactly what it is. Slowly, I turn back to the dresser and open the bottom drawer, move aside the blue fabric of my old uniforms, and lift a square and chunky commpad out. The top left corner, the Militia emblem was embossed. A single notification flag showed on the black screen.
STATUS?
I let out a shaky sigh and swipe up on the screen. A round keyboard appears under my palm and I instinctively begin typing out a reply.
MISSION IS GO. PLACED ON VERDANT. DESTINATION IS BETEL.
A moment passes while I hold the awkwardly-shaped pad in my lap. I see a rail-shuttle slide by the window, its tinted windows refracting golden-red light around my room like an animated stained glass window.
Pling.
NEGATIVE. DO NOT ENGAGE PLAN ON VERDANT. AGENTS IN PLACE ON BETEL.
Oh thank god, I sigh hard. The commpad slides off my legs onto the hardwood floor with a plastic clatter. I rub my eyes and stand back up.
* * *
Parker Burnham
Fszzzhf.
Fszzzhf.
Fszzzhf.
Clink.
Fuck.
The little screw bounces around oddly in the low gravity, defying any attempt I make at grasping at it. Finally I am able to corral it into my chest, bluntly and awkwardly using both my arms. Carefully reaching into the safe little nest it made itself, I pick out the escapist screw and softly place it onto the magnetic screwdriver tip.
Fszzzhf.
There. Final panel put back in place, I’m able to mark off checking the engine control unit circuitry on the pre-flight.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
What’s that?
I poke my head up from behind the engine control console. A short, dark man with long, slick, black hair stands in the middle of the bridge, looking out the viewscreens.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He jumps, startled, clutching his commpad to his chest, and he’s frozen like a statue for a moment before chuckling to himself and shaking his head.
I stand up fully, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s no big deal, I thought I was the first one on board.” He extends a hand out to me, over the console. “I’m Captain Max.”
Oh shit.
I shake his hand quickly.
Probably too quick. Oh, don’t worry about this now.
“I’m Parker, the chief engineer,” I stammer out.
“Oh good! I was wondering when I’d meet you,” he smiles. “How’s the Verdant?”
I put both hands on my hips, following the captain’s gaze around the bridge. “She’s in top shape, if I didn’t know better I’d think she came out of the shipyard yesterday.”
“Wonderful.”
“Yes, wonderful,” I agree.
We both stand in the muted white LED light for a moment longer before I continue speaking.
“I hope you don’t mind, I’m going to the engine room to finish my pre-flight.”
“Please!” He says, “Don’t let me keep you.”
I tap my chest and he nods. Putting my head down, I walk through the open bulkhead at the rear of the bridge and down the narrow corridor that runs the length of the ship, from bridge to the closet at the rear of engineering. All one hundred and nine feet, eleven and-a-half inches. Crews four, umbragenic drive rated for seven hundred and fifty light years before the risk of overheating becomes significant. Deployable emergency radiators and a solar sail should the drive be pushed beyond its limits and fail. But the problem with umbragenic propulsion is that, when it fails, it doesn’t just stop working. The drive keeps warping space, keeps pushing the ship along, until the space around the ship gains enough energy to become a black hole.
But that’s only if you push it.
Einstein stays happy because you’re not pushing the ship, you’re pushing the space around the ship. Standard relativity stuff, but it’s what lets us fly among the stars. Captain stays happy because he gets to where he wants to go.
Pling.
A new flag shows up on my commpad, strapped to my arm with velcro, airlock door opens and closes.
That’s three of four.
it doesn’t take long to reach the back of the ship. It’s short. It’s compact. It’s efficient.
The last thing on the pre-flight checklist is the umbragenic drive diagnostic. Three simple button presses on the console and that should be done within the hour.
Pre-flight done ten hours early.
