vessel extended the Intership Transport Tunnel--ITT--and linked with the Firestorm’s main airlock. In a few minutes the door would open and their mission would begin.
* * * *
The transport sat on the hangar floor, looking very much like a bloated tick. Wide, round, and ungainly, the beast swallowed up passengers and crew, threatening never to disgorge them again. John approached the ship with apprehension. He swiped his ID chip, boarded through the portal on the starboard side, and took a moment to walk around before finding his seat.
Twenty years ago, ships like this were used to ferry refugees from the outlying colonies to safer locations; thousands, if not millions, of people died in the cramped and unhygienic conditions imposed on them as they fled the avian invasion. Those vessels hadn’t been lined with richly upholstered reclining seats sporting privacy options and built in entertainment units. Refugees were fed a single bowl of nutrient mass; nothing like the hearty meals and snacks available at the cafes now around the ship.
John ran his hand along the smooth surface of one of the enormous observation windows in the bow and was glad it no longer bore a physical resemblance to its predecessors. He took his seat a few rows back, determined to enjoy this last opportunity to surround himself with the signs and symbols of civilian life.
When John agreed to the mission, he never once assumed he’d have to travel on a UESF vessel, let alone a warship. He’d figured Nate would book him passage on a commercial transport to help maintain the persona he’d insisted on adopting. His jaw had plummeted into his shoes when he discovered the majority of his travels would be spent on the Firestorm .
The transport lumbered out of the hangar and began its laborious journey away from the moon’s surface. Designed to land and take off from a hangar, the transport could also dock with a space-born ship as necessary through the use of extendible airlocks. The thought of crossing between two ships with only thin accordion-like walls of ceramic tiles separating him and the void of space made John shudder. ITTs were far too insubstantial for his liking. Compared to the armored hull of a warship, or even the standard hulls of civilian transports, an ITT’s walls were terrifyingly thin. John was uncomfortable with the idea of relying on tissue paper to keep his head from exploding in the vacuum of space.
The panoply of stars greeted the transport as it moved further away from the base. The Firestorm waited to meet the vessel roughly one thousand kilometers above the moon’s northern pole. John was the only person transferring over to the Firestorm , and he knew the unscheduled stop would irritate the business people who used these vessels on a regular basis.
If they wanted to complain, they could take it up with the Director of Alien Affairs. He smiled wryly. Nate would love to hear from them.
The warship came into view. In a geosynchronous orbit around the moon, she appeared to be sitting still. Her strong lines, powerful weapons systems, and predatory sleekness advertised the Firestorm as one of the deadliest ships in the fleet. Despite his misgivings about stepping foot on her, John stood at the window mesmerized by her fierce beauty. The UESF officer in him, so long repressed and feared, admired the lines and curves of the hull. He noted the changes in overall design--more cannon banks and OPs, a better-protected launch bay, and four additional quantum drives--compared to the warships of two decades ago.
Now, that’s a sleek fighting machine , John mused.
The transport slowed, preparing to dock with the warship. John’s pulse accelerated as the distance closed between the two ships. He picked up his bag and moved to the starboard side, following the signs to the airlock. Rubbing his sweaty palms against his trousers, John reminded himself the walk would only last a moment, and soon he would be safely ensconced in his
* * * *
The transport sat on the hangar floor, looking very much like a bloated tick. Wide, round, and ungainly, the beast swallowed up passengers and crew, threatening never to disgorge them again. John approached the ship with apprehension. He swiped his ID chip, boarded through the portal on the starboard side, and took a moment to walk around before finding his seat.
Twenty years ago, ships like this were used to ferry refugees from the outlying colonies to safer locations; thousands, if not millions, of people died in the cramped and unhygienic conditions imposed on them as they fled the avian invasion. Those vessels hadn’t been lined with richly upholstered reclining seats sporting privacy options and built in entertainment units. Refugees were fed a single bowl of nutrient mass; nothing like the hearty meals and snacks available at the cafes now around the ship.
John ran his hand along the smooth surface of one of the enormous observation windows in the bow and was glad it no longer bore a physical resemblance to its predecessors. He took his seat a few rows back, determined to enjoy this last opportunity to surround himself with the signs and symbols of civilian life.
When John agreed to the mission, he never once assumed he’d have to travel on a UESF vessel, let alone a warship. He’d figured Nate would book him passage on a commercial transport to help maintain the persona he’d insisted on adopting. His jaw had plummeted into his shoes when he discovered the majority of his travels would be spent on the Firestorm .
The transport lumbered out of the hangar and began its laborious journey away from the moon’s surface. Designed to land and take off from a hangar, the transport could also dock with a space-born ship as necessary through the use of extendible airlocks. The thought of crossing between two ships with only thin accordion-like walls of ceramic tiles separating him and the void of space made John shudder. ITTs were far too insubstantial for his liking. Compared to the armored hull of a warship, or even the standard hulls of civilian transports, an ITT’s walls were terrifyingly thin. John was uncomfortable with the idea of relying on tissue paper to keep his head from exploding in the vacuum of space.
The panoply of stars greeted the transport as it moved further away from the base. The Firestorm waited to meet the vessel roughly one thousand kilometers above the moon’s northern pole. John was the only person transferring over to the Firestorm , and he knew the unscheduled stop would irritate the business people who used these vessels on a regular basis.
If they wanted to complain, they could take it up with the Director of Alien Affairs. He smiled wryly. Nate would love to hear from them.
The warship came into view. In a geosynchronous orbit around the moon, she appeared to be sitting still. Her strong lines, powerful weapons systems, and predatory sleekness advertised the Firestorm as one of the deadliest ships in the fleet. Despite his misgivings about stepping foot on her, John stood at the window mesmerized by her fierce beauty. The UESF officer in him, so long repressed and feared, admired the lines and curves of the hull. He noted the changes in overall design--more cannon banks and OPs, a better-protected launch bay, and four additional quantum drives--compared to the warships of two decades ago.
Now, that’s a sleek fighting machine , John mused.
The transport slowed, preparing to dock with the warship. John’s pulse accelerated as the distance closed between the two ships. He picked up his bag and moved to the starboard side, following the signs to the airlock. Rubbing his sweaty palms against his trousers, John reminded himself the walk would only last a moment, and soon he would be safely ensconced in his
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