enough of a shock she nearly floated out into gravity.
“Whoa, space eagle,” Hartwell said, pushing her back into micro. “Grab the bar.”
Dana grabbed the safety bar and swung herself down into gravity with much more grace than she'd demonstrated going into micro. Her earlier screw-up was humiliating on several levels since she considered herself something of a gymnast.
The interior of the cargo bay of the Myrm wasn't much to look at. Six gray steel bulkheads—two point three meters high, four wide—most of them covered in access patches and latch points. At the rear was a hatch to the guidance section. In flight that was her normal station, manning the engineering and EW position.
“What do you think?” Hartwell asked.
“It looks brand new,” Dana said.
“It is,” Hartwell said. “It's straight from the Granadica Yard in Wolf 359. You have permission to temporarily undog your helmet. Because it also smells brand new. And it's never going to smell quite the same again.”
Dana carefully undogged her helmet and took a sniff. The EM was right, it did smell brand new. Not like a new car, just . . . new. Steel and oils with a touch of ozone. But . . . new.
“Don't get used to that smell,” Hartwell said. “Because in short order it's going to smell like stinky jarheads. And all the other crap we haul. There's no way to fully turn over the atmosphere and it just . . . builds up. The recyclers never quite clean it out. I thought about stiefing it, but I'm just getting all the crap that's wrong with Thirty-Three done and I didn't want to do that again.”
“EM?” Dana said.
“It's like a new car, isn't it?” Hartwell said. “A new car from an entirely new line. There's stuff that's just not right. So far, none of it has been absolutely critical, but most of our birds are deadlined about half the time. Most of it's warranty work, but Apollo is so backed up, we're handling it. And none of it's consistent. No, I take that back. Watch your port, lower, grav grapnel. For some reason those seem to be about half bad. AJ! Yo! Jablonski! Jablonski.”
“I heard you,” a voice commed back. “Micro in three
.
.
.
two
.
.
.
one . . .”
A couple of seconds after the power cut off, a suited but unhelmeted Engineer came floating out of the flight compartment towing a large capacitor.
“The Six-One-Eight is out,” Jablonski said, lifting his chin to point at Dana. “What's up?”
“This is your new EA,” Hartwell said.
“You're sticking me with a FUN?” Jablonski said, sourly. The EN was as tall as Hartwell but seemed to be slender from what she could tell in the suit. “What the hell did I do to you?”
“I'm not,” Hartwell said. “The Old Man stuck you with a FUN. Which brings me to the FUN's first mission.”
“Yes, EM?” Dana said.
“You need to do the thirty day, ninety day and six month PM on this bird,” Hartwell said. “That catches most of the major faults. Jablonski will supervise your checks and sign off on your quals on this analysis.”
“Thirty day, ninety day and six month PM, aye, EM,” Dana said, trying not to curse. That was going to take forever. But it sure would get her used to the bird.
“I'm going to have to be checking on Jablonski's sign-off,” Hartwell said. “I'll be either in the Division Bay or Thirty-Three or . . . well, here. You have the manuals on your plant?”
“Yes, EM,” Dana said.
“Dog your helmet and get to work.”
FOUR
“Yo, Behanchod, you got the cut done, yet?” BFM commed.
Butch figured the company got the name of his job wrong. He wasn't an optical welding technician. That implied he occasionally joined two pieces of metal together. So far all he'd been was an optical cutting technician.
Robots did most of the actual welding. Putting things together, the way Apollo did it, was dead simple. Most of the parts were pre-fabbed on earth and generally went together like Legos. He hadn't been part of the crew that
“Whoa, space eagle,” Hartwell said, pushing her back into micro. “Grab the bar.”
Dana grabbed the safety bar and swung herself down into gravity with much more grace than she'd demonstrated going into micro. Her earlier screw-up was humiliating on several levels since she considered herself something of a gymnast.
The interior of the cargo bay of the Myrm wasn't much to look at. Six gray steel bulkheads—two point three meters high, four wide—most of them covered in access patches and latch points. At the rear was a hatch to the guidance section. In flight that was her normal station, manning the engineering and EW position.
“What do you think?” Hartwell asked.
“It looks brand new,” Dana said.
“It is,” Hartwell said. “It's straight from the Granadica Yard in Wolf 359. You have permission to temporarily undog your helmet. Because it also smells brand new. And it's never going to smell quite the same again.”
Dana carefully undogged her helmet and took a sniff. The EM was right, it did smell brand new. Not like a new car, just . . . new. Steel and oils with a touch of ozone. But . . . new.
“Don't get used to that smell,” Hartwell said. “Because in short order it's going to smell like stinky jarheads. And all the other crap we haul. There's no way to fully turn over the atmosphere and it just . . . builds up. The recyclers never quite clean it out. I thought about stiefing it, but I'm just getting all the crap that's wrong with Thirty-Three done and I didn't want to do that again.”
“EM?” Dana said.
“It's like a new car, isn't it?” Hartwell said. “A new car from an entirely new line. There's stuff that's just not right. So far, none of it has been absolutely critical, but most of our birds are deadlined about half the time. Most of it's warranty work, but Apollo is so backed up, we're handling it. And none of it's consistent. No, I take that back. Watch your port, lower, grav grapnel. For some reason those seem to be about half bad. AJ! Yo! Jablonski! Jablonski.”
“I heard you,” a voice commed back. “Micro in three
.
.
.
two
.
.
.
one . . .”
A couple of seconds after the power cut off, a suited but unhelmeted Engineer came floating out of the flight compartment towing a large capacitor.
“The Six-One-Eight is out,” Jablonski said, lifting his chin to point at Dana. “What's up?”
“This is your new EA,” Hartwell said.
“You're sticking me with a FUN?” Jablonski said, sourly. The EN was as tall as Hartwell but seemed to be slender from what she could tell in the suit. “What the hell did I do to you?”
“I'm not,” Hartwell said. “The Old Man stuck you with a FUN. Which brings me to the FUN's first mission.”
“Yes, EM?” Dana said.
“You need to do the thirty day, ninety day and six month PM on this bird,” Hartwell said. “That catches most of the major faults. Jablonski will supervise your checks and sign off on your quals on this analysis.”
“Thirty day, ninety day and six month PM, aye, EM,” Dana said, trying not to curse. That was going to take forever. But it sure would get her used to the bird.
“I'm going to have to be checking on Jablonski's sign-off,” Hartwell said. “I'll be either in the Division Bay or Thirty-Three or . . . well, here. You have the manuals on your plant?”
“Yes, EM,” Dana said.
“Dog your helmet and get to work.”
FOUR
“Yo, Behanchod, you got the cut done, yet?” BFM commed.
Butch figured the company got the name of his job wrong. He wasn't an optical welding technician. That implied he occasionally joined two pieces of metal together. So far all he'd been was an optical cutting technician.
Robots did most of the actual welding. Putting things together, the way Apollo did it, was dead simple. Most of the parts were pre-fabbed on earth and generally went together like Legos. He hadn't been part of the crew that
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