Dreaming of Atmosphere

by Jim C. Wilson

  Dreaming of Atmosphere

  By Jim C. Wilson

  ©2015 Jim C. Wilson

  For Jess.

  1.

  The Corus Cluster is the place to be, in the Argessi System. A chaotic, cobbled together amalgam of old refuelling stations and service depots, welded together or strung together with flexi-tubes and scaffolding. Star-ships of every size swarm around the structure, like carrion birds around a corpse, waiting for scraps of rotting flesh. Long distance interstellar haulers, pregnant with ores and other cargo. Smaller, yet still massive, interplanetary bulk carriers, private pleasure yachts and passenger barges spewing forth masses of tourists and travellers. Buzzing gnat sized police and customs vessels, largely ignored by all. Long, sleek military destroyers and their agile drone escorts looming at the edges of the cloud of 'Cluster traffic like sleeping lions slumbering after a mighty feast. At the very periphery drift the black, featureless organic ships of the Corporate galactic mega-rich, watching from afar like distant emperors.

  More money flows through the Corus Cluster than anywhere else in the system. A halfway house between Argi Major and Golus, a major stopping point for prospectors to and from the Kersios Ring asteroid belt. It’s no surprise that many other businesses besides ore refining have sprung up. Why go all the way to Argi Major when you can stop half an AU short and you don't even have to pay for set down and up lift boosts to planetary surfaces for a decent shore leave?

  Life on a habitat is always interesting. It's like living on a spaceship, except it never goes anywhere. Always standing in queues to get through airlocks, the constant changing of air pressure between compartments, the stale, recycled air smell, the high society look covering the grime and rust like a peeling coat of paint. Ok, maybe not interesting as much as it's like living in a used starship salesperson’s office.

  On average, over 2 million beings move through the 'Cluster in a week, the perfect place for a freelance crew to find clients. That's me, Seth Donovan, First Mate on the unaffiliated starship Dreaming of Atmosphere. I'm officially 49 years old by galactic standards, although due to relativistic time differences I've only experienced closer to 32. Really, I'm actually fairly young to be First Mate. Most senior crew on freelancer ships tend to be closer to the 75 galactic standard mark, with the Captain not far beyond it. Ours certainly is. Old' Maxine Cooper, our illustrious leader, is bang on 80 years old according to regular time counts. Her biological age is closer to my official age, how close I have no idea. That's the problem with interstellar travel, no one really keeps track of exactly how old you are any more. Only dirtsiders or station dwellers like to keep tabs.

  I like to think of myself as good looking, although aside from a brief civil union in my early twenties I've somehow managed to remain unattached romantically for most of my life. That's not to say I'm ugly, I guess I'm not every girl's cup of tea. I have dark brown hair, I'm not too tall, about 10 centimetres short of 2 metres, I use the ship's gym semi-regularly and I eat as well as I'm able. A couple of years ago I scored a nasty facial scar that runs from just above my right eye down to about half an inch from the corner of my mouth. Captain Max says it looks badass, although she may have just said that to make me feel better at the time.

  Captain Max, Coops, Maxine or just Max. The person I admire the most in life. She used to date my father, I've been told, although it never lasted. She was his First Mate back when my pops was Captain of the Dreaming of Atmosphere. It didn't make sense to pass the ship onto me when he died, as I was barely a teenager when he passed, and no crew would ever fully accept a Captain who inherited their leadership rather than earned it. So, I started at the bottom, under Max, who was both firm and fair with her captaincy. I never once questioned her ownership of our vessel, as far as I was concerned the Dreaming was hers. She had served under my father for nearly two decades of biological time, and I'd never known my mother, so she was pretty much the only matriarchal figure I'd ever known. She was quick witted and sharp of tongue, a tough as nails frontier trader and freelancer. She taught me how to shoot, how to negotiate a deal and how to sniff out a set-up. She sent me to the Primacy Star Marine Corps when I hit my twenties to learn how to be a fighter for real, and it was there that I became a man.

  The PSMC is often hailed as one of the most well trained military units in the Votus-Eridani Network. Maxine figured that if I could do well there, I could serve as the Dreaming's weapons and defence officer when I mustered out. That was about two years ago, and I've been a part of Maxine's crew ever since. I must have lived up to her expectations, because within a year of re-joining her she made me First Mate. You would think that the other crew would have had an issue with that, as some had served for far longer than I had, but they seem to trust me for the most part and have supported me as far as I've seen.

  Except for Mal Cutler.

  Mal 'Cuts' Cutler is one of our engineers. We've never seen eye to eye, and he's never passed up an opportunity to point out my in-experience or to highlight any mistakes I made. Our Chief Engineer, Eric Thackeray, says he's just an anti-social bastard to everyone, and don’t take it to heart. If Mal weren’t such a great mechanic and maintenance expert, I would have taken our beef to Max long ago. One thing that our systems operator, Fel'negr, likes to say is that we don't need to be friends in order to work together, and I try to be professional in all my dealings with the crew while we're under-way. Fel'negr is a member of the Orlii, a race of philosophically minded humanoids who have been allies of humankind since our early days of space exploration. Fel, like most of his kind, is tall and slender with an ovoid face and small, almost child-like ears similarly placed to a human’s ears. All Orlii are hairless, and Fel is no exception. A curious feature of the Orlii is their eyes; they change colour depending on their dominant emotions. I've come to learn that the pale blue that Fel usually exhibits when I speak with him is a mix of both admiration and amusement. I don't quite know how to take him at times, whether he is imparting wisdom or just playing with me. Perhaps both.

  Aside from Mal, Fel, Eric and Max there are another four members of our crew. Hergo and Denno are our general duties deckhands, a pair of indigenous Argen who operate our various systems depending on the type of job we're performing. The Argen are reptilian humanoids native to the Argessi System, where we’ve done most of our business lately. They're both shorter than most of the crew and broader of shoulder. I'm just a little bit embarrassed to confess that I can't tell them apart, and often confuse the two.

  Crege is our pilot, a member of the avian Garz'a race, and my sparring partner in the ship's gym. Although not the deepest thinker, he has a quick mind and, like all members of his race, has fantastic reflexes that make him an excellent pilot.

  Zoe Ward, an intern from the Kanto Prime University who is studying medicine and cyber-augmentations, is our newest crewmember. She is our acting medical officer, although she lacks any real experience, and is probably having the hardest time fitting in. Unfortunately, for her, Max has made me her 'Space Daddy' as she likes to call it. It's my responsibility to ensure she receives adequate orienteering and advice on ship life, and her first point of contact if she has any questions. And she has lots. All the time.

  It's not that I don't have the time or the patience for endless questions about the correct use of sanitary facilities, or personal storage space, or the shortest route from the aft cargo deck to the bridge, or whether we should order replacement bandages if our current stock is listed as out of date, or whether we should consider reviewing the ship's auto-chef menu every six months or three months, but...ok may be I don't have the patience for all the questions. Max always laughs when I complain to her about Zoe, and then she reminds me of how I was before I shipped out t
o Kanto Moon for my PSMC training. I kind of feel bad after that, and remind myself that Max probably made me Zoe’s Space Daddy to teach me about command as much as Zoe needs continuous guidance on pretty much everything not related to health.

  That's pretty much the whole family, aside from a few temporary crewmembers and third party contractors for various jobs where we have a skills shortage. Overall, we work fairly well together, although we've yet to be through truly trying times and for the most part have had a good run. Which brings us to our current destination.

  The Corus Cluster, the most often tread upon cesspool at the arse end of the Votus-Eridani Network.

  2.

  “I vote we take dock when we see one.” Blurted out Crege, his usual, impatient self.

  “That would piss off more than just the next ship in line,” reminded Max, “And since this isn't a democracy, you don't get a vote, Crege.”

  “We wait for 5 hours! For what? Slow bezak to remember to bring docking fees?”

  “We have this conversation every time we pull into port.”

  “And still we must wait! Try my way once. See for yourself. We off this ship in one hour, I swear on my lurzak!”

  “I don't doubt you, Crege, but if we jump the queue, you'll need your lurzak blade after we dock to fend off all the angry station officials we pissed off and I wouldn't put it past a few of our fellow patiently waiting ships to take a few pot shots at us to teach us a lesson.”

  “I know fast way in, they not spot us. I work out plan last time we came here, remember?”

  “Crege,” I interrupted, “was this the plan than involved dumping 15% of our Imodium gas and igniting it, then flying through the cloud to mask our propulsion signature while Fel switches off our IFF transponder to confuse everyone out there before we slip into a dock undetected?”

  “Yes! Excellent plan! We should try it!” Crege proclaimed excitedly.

  “And what was the reason I gave you last time why we can't do it?” Asked Max, a small grin on her face.

  “Err...” Crege's face screwed up in concentration.

  “Hey, Cap,” I asked Max innocently, “Didn't we remove our Imodium tanks last year?”

  “You know, Donny, I think I remember something about that.” she mused, striking a comical thinking pose, “What did we put there instead?”

  “I think we needed that space for our manoeuvring thruster upgrade that Crege requested.”

  “Oh yeah! Are you saying we should have left our thrusters as they were now, Crege?” asked Max

  “Um...no. No, Dreaming fly like yendag now, much better than Imodium storage.” admitted our chastened pilot.

  Max and I shared a chuckled at Crege's expense, and turned away to continue with our previous task before Crege interjected. More a man of action, Crege was prone to springing into action first and apologising later, much like most of his race. He was good value though, he could take a joke and realises when he makes a mistake.

  I was working on a communication with our client, trying to organise a job report on our latest endeavour. We had just finished a simple courier job of picking up a case for the client from the adjacent system, Harakiwa System, and delivering it to a contact on Argi Major. These types of jobs were common. With the vast distances between planets and star systems, real time communication was impossible. Transmitted communications were seldom secure, with the advances of technology over the centuries it became increasingly easy to decipher and decode nearly any message that was put into space. As a result, contracted couriers were often used to carry sensitive data physically. Although not 100 percent secure either, it was often better than the alternative. Couriers with proven trustworthiness found frequent employ in such tasks, and many in the trade would rather fight than give up their cargoes of data. We were one such franchise, although far from our only capability. It was steady work with decent, usually easy pay. As First Mate, one of my duties is to take care of the details that are often summarised or overlooked by the Captain, she decides what we're going to do, and I work out how we're going to do it safely and efficiently.

  It's not that she is incapable of doing this, far from it, but the Captain of any active starship can't focus too tightly on one aspect of a job or one operation of the crew. She needs take a step back and see the whole picture; it's my job to make sure she can do that. Space, especially in a frontier system like Argessi, is a dangerous place for the vague and unaware. It's impractical for a police force or military arm to protect the vast distances between points of interest or population centres in a star system. The simplest way is to allow licensing of starship weaponry for defensive purposes and allow crews to defend themselves against piracy and other hostile actions in space.

  Frequently used routes between stationary features in a system tend to be dotted with outposts with limited defence capabilities, but for the most part, you were on your own once you left a station or planetary body's sphere of influence. Most star system governments offer mercenary contracts and licenses, post bounties on known pirates or public enemies, and generally turn a blind eye when taking the law into your own hands. They don’t publically approve of such measures, but the average law-abiding citizen or business owner will appreciate any effort made to make a system and its space lanes safer. One can make a name for oneself championing such causes, and there are many popular movies that romanticise such people. Max has always been rather vocal in her dislike of such folk tales, and from my time in the PSMC, I know where she's coming from. Space combat is one of the most terrifying types of battle I've ever faced, the sense of helplessness that nearly overwhelms you as you're completely at the mercy of your technology and tactics, where one mistake could not only be the end of you but can cost the lives of everyone on board.

  A noise from Fel'negr pulls me from my thoughts. “We have clearance to dock, Captain!” he declared, “Berth 232, Terrace Depot.”

  “Take us in, Mr Crege.”

  “Garz'a obeys, kitrak!” said our pilot, a big grin on his beak.

  The Dreaming shuddered ever so slightly as Crege engaged our engines. A steady, low pitch hum began to permeate the bridge. It's probably not exactly right to call it a bridge, though cockpit doesn't seem to do it justice either. The official designation on the ship schematics calls the compartment the Command Module; it's a three metre by four and a half metre box filled with several command stations. The pilot sits at the front, surrounded by half a dozen displays showing visual and holographic depictions of the outside, sensor data from various sources and indicators and control used in piloting. Directly behind and on the port side of the module is Maxine's station. She has a few of the same displays as Crege, only smaller, and several other displays that are configurable depending on the task that Maxine wants to oversee. I sit aft of her at a similar station, in what is called a secondary command console. I also have controls that allow me to direct the ship's weapon systems. Opposite me, on the starboard side, is the systems panel. Fel'negr controls and monitors the many diverse systems needed for starship operations, such as communications, sensors, power distribution, shields and internal status indicators. Usually two people perform this job, but we long ago learned that Fel is something of a maestro when it comes to multitasking and putting anyone extra in the role to support him just ends up getting in his way. I learned this the hard way.

  It's cramped, but the seats are comfortable and we're all friends in here anyway, so it works for us just fine. We don't spend our whole time under-way in here, that would just drive us nuts, but during the brief periods of operation that are critical, such as berthing and navigating, we remain closed up in here until it's safe to stand down.

  “Are we docking?” That was Zoe, she just came up from down below deck, probably alerted by the shuddering start of the ship's propulsion drives. She stood at the hatch to the command module, taking it all in with wide eyes, clearly excited at the prospects of finally berthing at the Cluster.

  “We sure are, you should ge
t below and strap in,” I warned her, “you never know if Crege's going to hit something coming in.”

  “Crege is here, human, with superior hearing.” came Crege's mockingly insulted tone.

  “Has he hit something before?” Zoe's eyes became even bigger.

  “Ah...only once, little human.”

  “What was it? Did you cause a hull breach?”

  “Come on, Zoe,” I shooed her away, “We need to close the hatch in case we lose pressure.”

  I hit the control button and the hatch closed on her worried queries about de-pressurisation probabilities. I caught the look Max gave me as I swung back to my console.

  “I know. Patience, understanding and reflection.” I sighed.

  “You could have let her stay for a bit longer. We still have thirty minutes of manoeuvring before we dock.”

  “Sorry, I know. I'm just having issues with Isaac Cameron. He's being difficult.” I was referring to our client.

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants to meet and greet once we dock. Won't transfer payment until we've met.”

  “Kak!” swore Crege, “He wants to cheat us.”

  “I don't think so, he's been straight with us in the past.” mused Maxine.

  “Perhaps Mr Cameron wishes to speak of things unsafe on radio alone?” broke in Fel, his hands flying over his console in almost Zen-like fashion.

  “Yeah maybe, but why withhold payment? He's got confirmation of our drop. Jobs done.”

  “Well, it's not so big a deal to go meet him. Set it up, tell him it's fine so long as it's sooner rather than later. I've got crew that needs to be paid and a thirst that needs quenching of my own.”

  “Captain drinks like Garz'a warrior.” said Crege, respect in his tone.

  “The Captain has a cheeky pilot.” observed Max

  “But a perceptive one, at that.” offered Fel, sagely.