somewhere near the inner system weigh station just outside Sol's asteroid belt
"Is there anything you would like to declare JXL-789?"
Thumb hovers over the channel go button.
Press.
"Yeah." Back to static. Six navigation screens,
twelve cursors, and two graphs light the cabin
in delicious aquamarine and yellow hues
against shadows and ROY G BIV LEDs
snugged into recessed plastic sheet body hues
hiding metal black frames and wires underneath.
"What would you like to declare JXL-789?"
Tones and warning notes fall to silence and rejoin
with harmonies and arpeggio bells. Custom re-encodes
because if you are going to live your life on a ship
you might as well make the good sounds really good.
It is always a good day when the inner systems defense network
does not want
to turn you and the ship you rode in on
into star dust.
They are still looking and scanning
without teeth. Sniffing.
"It's been a long year. Merry Christmas, assholes."
Unstrap while the processors wait for guides, coordinates
and paths
and dance.
Spin on the ball of the boot and skip shuffle on reinforced heels
capable of magnetism on the grates, not now. Tap your heels together
to activate or moonwalk off the main deck.
Door open.
Swoosh.
Door close.
Swish.
Bounce. Skip down the hall, the gravity generator doing it all
and a bag of chips snatched from the snack harness
as we slide. The four heavy fold mauler engines make the entire floor
buzz standing still for a second before jumping farther in
headset on. Fingertip to wrist to clip the channel to voice command:
"Josephine?"
"Yes, captain" the ship comes back.
"Can we turn off the gravity?"
"Yes, captain."
Heading toward the weapons deck
flicking switches along the way. Lights on, lights off, lights on, lights off.
The weigh stations are boring as .... and take all day while they scan every
nook and bay for things we're not allowed to keep or must declare.
It's not fair, but it keeps the peace. Nodding to bass in my head
there is no time for grief.
Fourteen chips in a bag, crumple and pocket it with the weapons deck flying close.
I learned a long time ago not to keep the big bags of chips stocked.
That was a nightmare to clean. I still find crumbs in control panel seams.
"Joesphine, hail channel all speakers."
"Okay, Hobbes."
It's a dance party in zero gravity
until I bounce off the weapons deck lock.
Pat the chest mount key and air surges through with me,
pressurized of course, but one of these days I will get around
to fixing the meter that keeps the transition clean.
"Can I have some gravity, Josephine?" Close enough to the grates
to land like a cat, it kicks and I rebound off of my thick padded knees.
Floodlights on, my mech is brilliant after a thorough wash through its lock;
opposite, my runabout fighter and far to the back where
the floods barely touch is my junker craft. As much enormous claw and saw
as engine and wing.
With gravity good and the stage set we dance,
a little mud still stuck in boot treads falling off
through the grates
to no music
save for the bang and clank of crampon, leather, and jingle shuffle of jacket
playing in time to the jungle electronica bounding through my head.
"Ain't nothing like being back home now" laughed.
Poke and prod a few buttons hear and there with a twirl and catch
of dogtags orbiting my neck at the end of their chain.
Change the lighting a little and flip it back.
"We all get down in the disco," murmur dream.
Outside, lights flash in the darkness of space. Req lights blink on and off,
portholes glitz and glam. Point lights on fins and antennas wink and shine.
Waste dumps in a fireworks comet tail of crystals.
Get the party out of the way before things get serious.
"JXL-789 you are cleared. Welcome back. Stay out of trouble,"
comes over the public address system. Fingertip to wrist:
"Thank you, thank you. We'll do right. We're not staying long."
Static. The anthem of the inner system begins to play
with it's brass and snare and begins to fade. Time to get going.
We're okay in their book.
Touch the mech, the runabout, and the junker. Remember
the adventures and the scorch marks and dents that will have to be replaced
once we get back to Earth.
If we can swing it, I'll get them a paint job or two too.
What stocks ran out in darkest space.
Bring it back in one piece. What is in the cargo hold
will buy it all back two fold. Maybe three if we're lucky.
The junker life.
Gravity off, torpedo to the flight deck. Settle the lights down
along the way.
Harness in to the driver's seat. Why do I bother to keep passenger seats
these days? "Ya never know what you'll find out there," I remind myself.
Six navigation screens glow a cool blue. Cursors have settled.
Speed read the paragraphs and glyphs. The coordinates are true.
Mind the sleeping weapons systems orbiting Sol outside,
tuned to be there whether the confederation of nations on Earth
is old or dissolved and built to bizarro specifications new.
The party is over. Do business as business should be done.
The graphs shift and change on two screens. The other four
blaze deep orange on black as cursors snap into action and read out.
Four heavy fold mauler engines
capable of moving a Marrowclare class close to light
rumble the bones of Josephine as we begin the long descent to Terra
on the ecliptic. Switches and buttons and a few dials more.
Once she is good to ride I can let go and head for sleep.
I can't remember the last time I saw the Atlantic.
The calendar read out says it will be snowing when we reach orbit.
I worked on an ornament on my way through the outer giants.
I hope the entry station to walkabout has a Christmas tree.
It'll be nice to sit with other people and cheers a cup of
long steeped steaming tea.
"Is there anything you would like to declare JXL-789?"
Thumb hovers over the channel go button.
Press.
"Yeah." Back to static. Six navigation screens,
twelve cursors, and two graphs light the cabin
in delicious aquamarine and yellow hues
against shadows and ROY G BIV LEDs
snugged into recessed plastic sheet body hues
hiding metal black frames and wires underneath.
"What would you like to declare JXL-789?"
Tones and warning notes fall to silence and rejoin
with harmonies and arpeggio bells. Custom re-encodes
because if you are going to live your life on a ship
you might as well make the good sounds really good.
It is always a good day when the inner systems defense network
does not want
to turn you and the ship you rode in on
into star dust.
They are still looking and scanning
without teeth. Sniffing.
"It's been a long year. Merry Christmas, assholes."
Unstrap while the processors wait for guides, coordinates
and paths
and dance.
Spin on the ball of the boot and skip shuffle on reinforced heels
capable of magnetism on the grates, not now. Tap your heels together
to activate or moonwalk off the main deck.
Door open.
Swoosh.
Door close.
Swish.
Bounce. Skip down the hall, the gravity generator doing it all
and a bag of chips snatched from the snack harness
as we slide. The four heavy fold mauler engines make the entire floor
buzz standing still for a second before jumping farther in
headset on. Fingertip to wrist to clip the channel to voice command:
"Josephine?"
"Yes, captain" the ship comes back.
"Can we turn off the gravity?"
"Yes, captain."
Heading toward the weapons deck
flicking switches along the way. Lights on, lights off, lights on, lights off.
The weigh stations are boring as .... and take all day while they scan every
nook and bay for things we're not allowed to keep or must declare.
It's not fair, but it keeps the peace. Nodding to bass in my head
there is no time for grief.
Fourteen chips in a bag, crumple and pocket it with the weapons deck flying close.
I learned a long time ago not to keep the big bags of chips stocked.
That was a nightmare to clean. I still find crumbs in control panel seams.
"Joesphine, hail channel all speakers."
"Okay, Hobbes."
It's a dance party in zero gravity
until I bounce off the weapons deck lock.
Pat the chest mount key and air surges through with me,
pressurized of course, but one of these days I will get around
to fixing the meter that keeps the transition clean.
"Can I have some gravity, Josephine?" Close enough to the grates
to land like a cat, it kicks and I rebound off of my thick padded knees.
Floodlights on, my mech is brilliant after a thorough wash through its lock;
opposite, my runabout fighter and far to the back where
the floods barely touch is my junker craft. As much enormous claw and saw
as engine and wing.
With gravity good and the stage set we dance,
a little mud still stuck in boot treads falling off
through the grates
to no music
save for the bang and clank of crampon, leather, and jingle shuffle of jacket
playing in time to the jungle electronica bounding through my head.
"Ain't nothing like being back home now" laughed.
Poke and prod a few buttons hear and there with a twirl and catch
of dogtags orbiting my neck at the end of their chain.
Change the lighting a little and flip it back.
"We all get down in the disco," murmur dream.
Outside, lights flash in the darkness of space. Req lights blink on and off,
portholes glitz and glam. Point lights on fins and antennas wink and shine.
Waste dumps in a fireworks comet tail of crystals.
Get the party out of the way before things get serious.
"JXL-789 you are cleared. Welcome back. Stay out of trouble,"
comes over the public address system. Fingertip to wrist:
"Thank you, thank you. We'll do right. We're not staying long."
Static. The anthem of the inner system begins to play
with it's brass and snare and begins to fade. Time to get going.
We're okay in their book.
Touch the mech, the runabout, and the junker. Remember
the adventures and the scorch marks and dents that will have to be replaced
once we get back to Earth.
If we can swing it, I'll get them a paint job or two too.
What stocks ran out in darkest space.
Bring it back in one piece. What is in the cargo hold
will buy it all back two fold. Maybe three if we're lucky.
The junker life.
Gravity off, torpedo to the flight deck. Settle the lights down
along the way.
Harness in to the driver's seat. Why do I bother to keep passenger seats
these days? "Ya never know what you'll find out there," I remind myself.
Six navigation screens glow a cool blue. Cursors have settled.
Speed read the paragraphs and glyphs. The coordinates are true.
Mind the sleeping weapons systems orbiting Sol outside,
tuned to be there whether the confederation of nations on Earth
is old or dissolved and built to bizarro specifications new.
The party is over. Do business as business should be done.
The graphs shift and change on two screens. The other four
blaze deep orange on black as cursors snap into action and read out.
Four heavy fold mauler engines
capable of moving a Marrowclare class close to light
rumble the bones of Josephine as we begin the long descent to Terra
on the ecliptic. Switches and buttons and a few dials more.
Once she is good to ride I can let go and head for sleep.
I can't remember the last time I saw the Atlantic.
The calendar read out says it will be snowing when we reach orbit.
I worked on an ornament on my way through the outer giants.
I hope the entry station to walkabout has a Christmas tree.
It'll be nice to sit with other people and cheers a cup of
long steeped steaming tea.
