New Paris Orbital Spaceport
Low Maine Orbit, Maine, Columbia System
Any and all misgivings aside - and there was little to no shortage of those to be had - it felt good to be on the wing again. Dr. Thelonius Stanley, explorer sans-pariel, would perhaps have preferred to be back aboard his famous Flying Scotsman, but no such comfort was to be had. For three days now, he and his longtime crew had been tucked safely aboard the C/V Rascal's Wager, an all-but-maiden prospecting surveyor fresh from the Fortnam and Fugue shipyards above Ares, back in the Stella Terra system. Such isolation had been made necessary by the need to thoroughly inspect the ship after taking ownership of it. Much like Stanley, each of his usual crew had very particular requirements and preferences from any ship they were going to service... and a shared distrust of Fortnam and Fugue.
Even if Stanley was a stakeholder.
The final phase of their shakedown was happening in the small wheelhouse that would have to qualify for a bridge on a ship this size.
"I think I'd have preferred one of the older-style Table of Orbits," he muttered, when asked. "... But I don't want to waste time on a refit."
His pilot-helmsman, a buxome female of the Venusian species with a brilliant orange-and-pink variagated cranial fin, smirked. "Don't want to waste time, or we're broke again?"
"Well... it would be an expense. We'd have to install an interface between the Turing Array and the old-school table for a Babbage to translate."
"Look at you, pretending you know what you talk about."
Misha Ashante (that was, after all, her proper name), cracked her reptillian fingers as she stood, and Stanley tried to dehumanize, a bit, the curves he saw under her close-fitting set of Spacer Leathers. "... I'm as satisfied as I can be until we get up to cruise."
There was a hum of assent from the engineer, who was still testing a few more readouts - walking along the wall-installed panels of the engineer's station, plugging in his transducer to various test points as he went. He was dapper enough - an inexpensive collarless shirt worn under a vest, with his sleeves rolled up and his slacks bloused into his boots - the flat cap on his head and trim beard giving him a distunctily astronautical look. "Ship shape, captain. She could fly."
"Thanks, Mr. Hemmingway."
The engineer looked over his shoulder to nod.
"... Mar?"
The martian - a multi-armed blob whose specialty on their last flgiht had been the maintanance of the Babbage Cluster, and now, by extension, was the ship's Turing Array specialist - raised one of his arms in a vague immitation of a human lifting a finger to indicate they needed another moment. They could get like that. Martians were odd folk - not at all integrated orassimilated like the VVenusians. Their names remained unpronouncable, their attitudes surly and warlike, which was fair after a few centuries of human subjugation of their homeworld, Ares.
"... Looks fine," he'd glug, a moment later. "I'm comfortable she's in flying shape, as long as you don't want me to hook it back into the station's Array."
"Unless we need new charts or something, I don't EVER want you to slave her to a station system." Stanley sipped from a cup he had close at hand, which contained, at this time of the morning, much more tonic than gin. "... Alright, gentlebeings, I think that's a wrap. Do we want to do a shakedown flight?"
Ashante shrugged. "I don't really see the point. It already had to be flown way the hell out here. Why couldn't we take delivery of it in Ares?"
"Because we had to come all the way out here just to find Hemmingway."
Hemmy nodded to that, in a resigned sort of way, and Stanley laughed, with a single, large clap. "Well, then. It's time for me to go get our things together. Shore leave until the evening, everyone."
Stanley's mission in the station's bustling entertainment district was quite different from his usual goals when in a city famous by day for its cafes, by night for its shows and bars, and by later night for its whoring. It was simply the nearest location of a Turing Office to the North-7 Pier. He checked his wrist, pulling back the sleeve of a cream-coloured and long-surplussed Royal Stellarines dress overcoat long enough to check the chron installed in the wrist full of gages for the spacer leathers he wore under the jacket. The wearing of leathers under an overcoat was an old habit for spacefarers.
Quarter Eight. Perfect. The next skytide for North-7 wasn't until two in the afternoon anyway.
"Can I help you, Captain?"
"Yes," he'd answer the attendant. "I need these two postings added to the station bulliten, please."
"Of course, sir. Broadcast?"
"No, station only will suffice."
The attendant quickly examined the two cards he'd been handed. "... Sixpence, sir."
"Right, there you are."
Stanley would head back to the pier at once, boots echoing off the steel decking everywhere he went, eyes by now well-adjusted to the hum of the electric lights that pervaded the station.
While he was waiting for the lift up to his berth, he was delighted to scroll through the station bulliten system and find his two postings.
Even if Stanley was a stakeholder.
The final phase of their shakedown was happening in the small wheelhouse that would have to qualify for a bridge on a ship this size.
"I think I'd have preferred one of the older-style Table of Orbits," he muttered, when asked. "... But I don't want to waste time on a refit."
His pilot-helmsman, a buxome female of the Venusian species with a brilliant orange-and-pink variagated cranial fin, smirked. "Don't want to waste time, or we're broke again?"
"Well... it would be an expense. We'd have to install an interface between the Turing Array and the old-school table for a Babbage to translate."
"Look at you, pretending you know what you talk about."
Misha Ashante (that was, after all, her proper name), cracked her reptillian fingers as she stood, and Stanley tried to dehumanize, a bit, the curves he saw under her close-fitting set of Spacer Leathers. "... I'm as satisfied as I can be until we get up to cruise."
There was a hum of assent from the engineer, who was still testing a few more readouts - walking along the wall-installed panels of the engineer's station, plugging in his transducer to various test points as he went. He was dapper enough - an inexpensive collarless shirt worn under a vest, with his sleeves rolled up and his slacks bloused into his boots - the flat cap on his head and trim beard giving him a distunctily astronautical look. "Ship shape, captain. She could fly."
"Thanks, Mr. Hemmingway."
The engineer looked over his shoulder to nod.
"... Mar?"
The martian - a multi-armed blob whose specialty on their last flgiht had been the maintanance of the Babbage Cluster, and now, by extension, was the ship's Turing Array specialist - raised one of his arms in a vague immitation of a human lifting a finger to indicate they needed another moment. They could get like that. Martians were odd folk - not at all integrated orassimilated like the VVenusians. Their names remained unpronouncable, their attitudes surly and warlike, which was fair after a few centuries of human subjugation of their homeworld, Ares.
"... Looks fine," he'd glug, a moment later. "I'm comfortable she's in flying shape, as long as you don't want me to hook it back into the station's Array."
"Unless we need new charts or something, I don't EVER want you to slave her to a station system." Stanley sipped from a cup he had close at hand, which contained, at this time of the morning, much more tonic than gin. "... Alright, gentlebeings, I think that's a wrap. Do we want to do a shakedown flight?"
Ashante shrugged. "I don't really see the point. It already had to be flown way the hell out here. Why couldn't we take delivery of it in Ares?"
"Because we had to come all the way out here just to find Hemmingway."
Hemmy nodded to that, in a resigned sort of way, and Stanley laughed, with a single, large clap. "Well, then. It's time for me to go get our things together. Shore leave until the evening, everyone."
Stanley's mission in the station's bustling entertainment district was quite different from his usual goals when in a city famous by day for its cafes, by night for its shows and bars, and by later night for its whoring. It was simply the nearest location of a Turing Office to the North-7 Pier. He checked his wrist, pulling back the sleeve of a cream-coloured and long-surplussed Royal Stellarines dress overcoat long enough to check the chron installed in the wrist full of gages for the spacer leathers he wore under the jacket. The wearing of leathers under an overcoat was an old habit for spacefarers.
Quarter Eight. Perfect. The next skytide for North-7 wasn't until two in the afternoon anyway.
"Can I help you, Captain?"
"Yes," he'd answer the attendant. "I need these two postings added to the station bulliten, please."
"Of course, sir. Broadcast?"
"No, station only will suffice."
The attendant quickly examined the two cards he'd been handed. "... Sixpence, sir."
"Right, there you are."
Stanley would head back to the pier at once, boots echoing off the steel decking everywhere he went, eyes by now well-adjusted to the hum of the electric lights that pervaded the station.
While he was waiting for the lift up to his berth, he was delighted to scroll through the station bulliten system and find his two postings.
PROSPECTOR SHIP IN TINGEL ARM SEEKS QUALITY HANDS for roles in cargo management, security, and ship's husbandry. Qualification through the Guild (or equivalent astronautical associations) necessary in absense of a resume or references. Pay share negotiable. Inquire aboard Rascal's Wager, Berth C6, N7.
WANDERING SHIP IN TINGEL ARM REGION SERVING PASSENGERS seeking arbitrary destinations in that region. Utilitarian provisions available as this is not a passenger liner. Rate to be set on negotation of charter. Inquire aboard Rascal's Wager, Birth C6, N7 or send for Capt. T. Stanley.
