make any smuggler drool.
The Bokka was one of a kind, it used to be the small emergency shuttle that came with the Zephyr; a Phoenix-Alpha2 parasite ship attached to the belly of the ship, but I converted it into a Bokka drone when I retro-fitted the e-pod and slide rail ejector system. It took me almost a year to get the Bokka tailored with the custom software that wasn’t readily available on the black market. I had eight different techies making wafers without them knowing about each other to avoid raising suspicion, and I integrated the components myself to create the drone. The Bokka still looked like a harmless factory shuttle and could pass the scrutiny of any life-safety inspector, but it was an unlawful weapons platform armed with ion virus charges that a friend acquired for me.
The one drawback with the Zephyr was that she only had one escape pod if things went terminal. One. It was really all I needed since I traveled alone. The e-pod was sufficient to keep me alive for a while if I had to eject, but it was only designed for one person for a short duration. I’ve never been concerned about my escape system since I never carried passengers…until now. Let’s face it, in this game every voyage had the potential of being a one way trip. It’s something that I’ve accepted as the nature of the beast.
I looked over at Scotty and decided that he didn’t have to know any more than I had already told him. He seemed more withdrawn after I disclosed our flight plan and we drew closer to the Pipe each passing day. He spent most of his time studying his SCaT Pad and basically kept to himself.
One night, as he stared blankly at the Zephyr’s instrument panel (as if it could reassure him that everything would be all right), he broke his own spell with a sigh and slowly turned his head toward me and asked “So where did you learn to fly, Nikki?”
“I thought you said no personal questions.” I chided playfully hoping to lighten his mood.
“Is asking how you got your pilot rating personal?”
“It is for me.” I felt bad for him, he looked so dejected as he turned his attention back to the console.
“Sorry.” He said weakly.
“I grew up on a farm back in the Midwest and my daddy taught me how to fly dusters when I was a teen.” I smiled as I cast an eye over the plotter.
“Flying dusters and navigating a deep space freighter are two different things.”
“By that you mean working on a farm knocking bugs off crops and smuggling weapons outside our solar system for a living are on opposite ends of the scale.”
“Yes.”
“Well to make a long story short, I was twelve the first time I made a solo flight in a duster. It was a sixty-year-old JD Fischer turbo that my father and I spent months secretly rebuilding in our barn. He’d taken me up a bunch of times in the duster that he flew, so I already knew my way around the controls. I was hooked the moment my father handed me a helmet and I strapped into the cab with him.
Anyway, it was an early spring morning, wickedly cold but the sun was out and the sky was a bright crystal blue--a perfect morning. Everyone was still sleeping when my father and I went out to the barn and hauled out the duster to a staging area at the end of the air strip. Once we got it fired-up, I hovered around next to the fields to get a feel for the controls. I’ll never forget my dad’s expression as he ran after me when I took off.
My spirit flew higher than the duster that morning. My mother heard the racket we were making and came out to see what the commotion was all about. She was really pissed when she saw me strafe the livestock yard and take out a section of fence before crash landing on the side of the main road. She didn’t talk to my dad for a week, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face for a month, especially at the dinner table when my dad would wink at me when mom and my brothers weren’t looking.
Years later when my father died, I felt like I had
The Bokka was one of a kind, it used to be the small emergency shuttle that came with the Zephyr; a Phoenix-Alpha2 parasite ship attached to the belly of the ship, but I converted it into a Bokka drone when I retro-fitted the e-pod and slide rail ejector system. It took me almost a year to get the Bokka tailored with the custom software that wasn’t readily available on the black market. I had eight different techies making wafers without them knowing about each other to avoid raising suspicion, and I integrated the components myself to create the drone. The Bokka still looked like a harmless factory shuttle and could pass the scrutiny of any life-safety inspector, but it was an unlawful weapons platform armed with ion virus charges that a friend acquired for me.
The one drawback with the Zephyr was that she only had one escape pod if things went terminal. One. It was really all I needed since I traveled alone. The e-pod was sufficient to keep me alive for a while if I had to eject, but it was only designed for one person for a short duration. I’ve never been concerned about my escape system since I never carried passengers…until now. Let’s face it, in this game every voyage had the potential of being a one way trip. It’s something that I’ve accepted as the nature of the beast.
I looked over at Scotty and decided that he didn’t have to know any more than I had already told him. He seemed more withdrawn after I disclosed our flight plan and we drew closer to the Pipe each passing day. He spent most of his time studying his SCaT Pad and basically kept to himself.
One night, as he stared blankly at the Zephyr’s instrument panel (as if it could reassure him that everything would be all right), he broke his own spell with a sigh and slowly turned his head toward me and asked “So where did you learn to fly, Nikki?”
“I thought you said no personal questions.” I chided playfully hoping to lighten his mood.
“Is asking how you got your pilot rating personal?”
“It is for me.” I felt bad for him, he looked so dejected as he turned his attention back to the console.
“Sorry.” He said weakly.
“I grew up on a farm back in the Midwest and my daddy taught me how to fly dusters when I was a teen.” I smiled as I cast an eye over the plotter.
“Flying dusters and navigating a deep space freighter are two different things.”
“By that you mean working on a farm knocking bugs off crops and smuggling weapons outside our solar system for a living are on opposite ends of the scale.”
“Yes.”
“Well to make a long story short, I was twelve the first time I made a solo flight in a duster. It was a sixty-year-old JD Fischer turbo that my father and I spent months secretly rebuilding in our barn. He’d taken me up a bunch of times in the duster that he flew, so I already knew my way around the controls. I was hooked the moment my father handed me a helmet and I strapped into the cab with him.
Anyway, it was an early spring morning, wickedly cold but the sun was out and the sky was a bright crystal blue--a perfect morning. Everyone was still sleeping when my father and I went out to the barn and hauled out the duster to a staging area at the end of the air strip. Once we got it fired-up, I hovered around next to the fields to get a feel for the controls. I’ll never forget my dad’s expression as he ran after me when I took off.
My spirit flew higher than the duster that morning. My mother heard the racket we were making and came out to see what the commotion was all about. She was really pissed when she saw me strafe the livestock yard and take out a section of fence before crash landing on the side of the main road. She didn’t talk to my dad for a week, but I couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face for a month, especially at the dinner table when my dad would wink at me when mom and my brothers weren’t looking.
Years later when my father died, I felt like I had
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