The impact of the ship’s hull caused my head to ring. A heavy hand pushing my face against the cold metal, the taste of blood in my mouth and the smell of laser-scorched paint filled my senses.
“Seems you’ve been busy, Commander”, came the deep gravelled voice, “Why in such a hurry?”
“I outrank you, you son of a bitch, get your hands off…”
Another impact cut my sentence short, and brought with it a searing pain and a warm trickle of blood down my face. “The Senate does not care about your rank, Commander. It is only concerned with the truth. Information is all we want. Now, why not make it easy on yourself?”
The other officer had stood back silently until this point, presumably letting the heavy guy soften my resolve before he deemed it necessary to speak. His voice was almost snake-like; a whisper, “We tracked you here from Gliese 900.1...
She hit harder than I thought she would. I knew this wasn’t going to go well, but then, it didn’t start too well either…
I dumped Logan’s crumpled hull into the pad delicately enough for the landing gear to lock. It was ungraceful, to say the least, but when you are gasping for air as your life support fails, style is the least of your concerns. I’d been flying missions for CCP a while now, but this was the first time I’d crash-landed into one of their starports and needed them to save my life. They did their duties, but more out of curiosity than generosity.
I was cleared by the medical officer, and free to leave. The last 24 hours were a blur. I remembered seeing the station, and hitting the landing pad but… my head was still trying to piece everything back together. The smell of molten metal and the terrible grinding sound of a mutilated hull. Logan...
You hear the old-timers talk about witch space, not hyperspace…but WITCH SPACE. There is a reason for that…..it is dark, it is scary, and it can swallow a ship and its commander, whole, with no one the wiser. Much like the stories from long ago, where the old black hat witch captures the weary traveler and cooks them in the oven…or is it a pot?
A hand waves at the lost memories trying to grab one….
I often hear the young commanders, the greenhorn ones, eyes too big for their stomach ones, asking about Nav Beacons. ‘I can make the jump to the next star system without those nav beacons!’ or ‘Our nav computers…our A.I.s can handle the calculations now…’ or even ‘Why do we have to drop at the Nav Beacon, when I want to drop X…Y…Z’ you name it.
After a sip of whiskey….
I know better. I’ve seen things out there. Thargoids they say…the boogeyman…...
Dace throttled down to 0 just as DRY411S dropped out of super-cruise, the day DRY411S was late for a meeting would be a day that Dace would ice-skate on a sun.
Dace opened up his comm panel & opened a secure line to his dragon in arms.
“Sorry to rush you for this meeting DRY, but I think we’ve got a problem!”
DRY411S’s ever serious voice crackled back over the comm line, belaying the humor that Dace knew the man possessed.
“Ha, so tell me something new Dace, you haven’t managed to get yourself accidentally, nearly married again have you?” came the reply.
Dace smiled at the memory of DRY411S flying down out of the atmosphere and landing parallel to the building rooftop, allowing Dace to perform an incredible 20ft leap over the lazer fence to land on the wing of his hauler.
His gobsmacked bride to be stood there with tears streaming down her face while the father o...