F³ Reeducation

             Flynn eased the thruster control up. He tried not to let his nervousness show, but the jerk of the ship in response to the thrusters gave him the lie.

            “Sir, are you sure about this? Officers aren’t known for doing real work,” Eltie said.

            “Says the lieutenant.” Flynn shot back. “So I’m a little rusty. It’s been a while since I conned a ship out.”

            “And the enlisted did it for you?”

            “I still called out the orders, though.” Flynn turned the yoke, adjusting their heading. The ship, slowly at first, turned to the new heading. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

            “We’re still in system.”

            Flynn sighed.

            Yeah, that.

            “Not for long.”

            The ship coasted through the bow shock and into interstellar space. Dark energy winds filled the sails, pushing them at faster-than-light speeds. Alarms blared as the sensors registered a negative trim: the bow was tipping forward. Technically, in space, this didn’t matter as it would in water. However, FTL sailers that trimmed too negative or positive could flip entirely. It wouldn’t hurt the ship, but the masts might rip out and the sails shred, entirely.

            “Captain?” Eltie said, alarmed.

            “I know, I know. The dorsal sail is filling while the ventral isn’t. I just need to get the angles right.”

            Flynn’s hands flew across the controls. He adjusted the lines, slightly luffing the dorsal sail. Then he worke don the ventral sails, trying to get the telltales—the small flag sensors built into the sails—to break even. He overcorrected more than once, but finally got the wind flowing smoothly over the ventral sails. The trim evened out, and Flynn got the dorsal sails to do the same.

            He sighed in relief. “See, no problem.”

            Flynn looked over to Eltie, who had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of her chair. “You were working on that for over half an hour.”

            Flynn’s eyebrows went up, and he checked the time himself. “Okay, so I need to put in some more practice.”

            “And hire a pilot.”

            “Hey, it wasn’t that bad.”

            “Anything that makes a marine nervous is bad.”

            “Marines always get this way when sailors do their jobs.”

            “Maybe if sailors didn’t do it so poorly.”

F³ Naval Tradition

             Flynn looked at the senior staff assembled in the ward room. This was the first meeting of them on Atlas. The XO had just gone through the usual business according to the agenda she and Flynn had discussed, previously. A lot of this was standard procedure, bordering on naval tradition. The usual round of questions came from the department heads, which the XO fielded with Flynn’s expectations. Finally, all the business was done, and it was time for Flynn’s speech.

            He stood, giving a gesture to have the staff remain seated.

            “The Navy has traditions that we’re all part of. Atlas has its own part in naval traditions, as well as her own story. In mythology, Atlas holds up the sky. We bear the weight of the universe on our shoulders. I’m honored to be part of Atlas’s story. It’s a weight and an honor.”

            Flynn gave a nod to the XO. “Years ago, when I was still vacuum-behind-the-ears as an ensign, a chief gave me some good advice. ‘Sir, everyone always thinks about the load on their shoulders, but that weight goes all the way down to their feet. You make your feet comfortable, and your shoulders won’t mind so much.’”

The XO began passing parcels to all the senior staff. “So with those wise words, I propose a new tradition on Atlas to make our feet comfortable. Go ahead and open them.

Each officer opened their bag to reveal pairs of socks personalized with their name and rank as well as “Atlas,” and the words “Broad Shoulders, Comfy Feet.”

“Sir,” Lt. Commander Benton, from engineering spoke.

Flynn nodded for him to go ahead.

“This is the finest tradition I’ve ever seen started on a ship. Our sister ships are going to be so jealous.”

“As they should be,” Flynn said to smiles and chuckles throughout the wardroom.

F³ Ice Diving

“All hands secure for maneuver, in five minutes.” Flynn announced.

“Um, sir,” Steph questioned over the comms, “did we enter combat or come across something in this system I was not made aware of?”

“No, XO. We are indulging Ann’s whimsical mood.”

Ann gave a maniacal laugh as she tapped out a course.

F³ Oceans

Around Calypso, the world stretched out in open grassland. Only to the north was there any sign of civilization in the form of wood-framed tents. Even the landing pads for ships were just areas of grass with stone markers instead of concrete slabs with radio transmitters.

F³ Drink Like A Marine

“So,” Steph began, “the way I heard it is our illustrious captain was billeted at Manticore Station and had just been promoted to first lieutenant—”

“I’ll tell it,” Flynn said, sitting down with his coffee. “I had just made first lieutenant, and we went out celebrating. . . .”

F³ Old Stories

“Shut the flare up!” Ann yelled to Steph as Flynn entered the common area.

“Swear to the stars,” Steph held up splayed fingers to the heavens.

Flynn went straight to the meal prep area, and started brewing some coffee.

“I am so glad I never tried to become a marine,” Ann laughed.

“But then you miss out on all these stories.”

“I’m fine with that. Hey, you got any stories about our fearless leader, there? Maybe something embarrassing from his younger days?”

“First hand, no. I’m afraid I didn’t meet the Captain until just before he made rank. I have heard some stories from back in the day, though. Major Bakshi had a few stories.

On hearing the name, Flynn fumbled the can of coffee grounds, dropping it loudly to bounce off the counter and onto the deck, narrowly missing Flynn’s stockinged feet.

“Bakshi?” Flynn said. “Lt. Thana Bakshi?”

Steph nodded, grinning. “I believe that was her rank when you two served together.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this. He’s nervous just at hearing the name.”

Flare me, this is going to be bad.

 

F³ Force of Habit

Connor Reese, as he currently thought of himself, considered the patrons at the table at the far end of the concourse. They looked quite engaged in their conversation, but, frequently, the man with the slightly forked beard would check over his shoulders for potential eavesdroppers.

No chance of casually overhearing them. They may have even set up a short-range privacy field. It would be prudent, and what I would do if I were them. The concourse, is, after all, a public place, and even moderate audio filters are sufficient to isolate their conversation from the rest of the din.

F³ Truth in Advertising

            Flynn looked over the ad, made to look like a government briefing on the latest piece of hardware, mixed with just enough marketing snark to take the dryness out.

Titan Industries Pulsar Cannon

            Normally reserved as a ship-to-ship weapon, pulsar cannons hold a spinning ball of ionized plasma in a magnetic bottle, then hurl it towards an enemy. The ionized particles wreak havoc with ship shields and armor. Miniaturization technology has finally enabled us to create a personal version of this weapon. Just like against ships, the pulsar cannon’s ionized plasma is ideal for use against armored targets, cracking and disrupting powered armors with little effort.

F³ Celestial Thanksgiving

            The crew of Calypso gathered in the common area for a sumptuous a spread as they ever truly had. There were no special delicacies, but some good home cooking as well as the crops from the hydroponics bays. The highlights, of course, being the two pies, apple and pumpkin, that perfumed the entire room.

Trust Issues

            “Now,” Flynn turned back to the woman, “we are here to escort you out.”

            “Or you could lead us straight to the Nicks to end us in one shot. I don’t trust you, especially you.”

            “If I was with the Nickel Guild, I would simply give your position instead of coming in here. There are enough tanks in the street to level this building from three blocks away. Now, Doc,” Peter made out the medical corps insignia on her collar, also Alliance, “my ship is trying to slingshot around the moon to come back and pick us up, but we’ve only got one shot before orbit gets too crowded.”

            “I still don’t believe you. Not you.”

            “Mr. Reese, would you please reassure our host by giving your voice print?”

            “Certainly, Captain. I’m afraid we never worked out any kind of code phrase to give. The transmission was unfortunately cut short after we received the coordinates. Jamming, no doubt.”

            “Lita, that’s him,” said a man behind her with a machine pistol. “That’s the one I commed.”

            “Doesn’t matter, I still don’t trust him. You don’t know what he did.”

            Flynn’s semblance of patience evaporated, and he said harshly, “I don’t intend to leave people to be slaughtered, so if need be Eltie will wing you, and we’ll carry you out despite your protests.”

F³ Preceded by Reputation

            Flynn came to his feet, more slowly than he would have liked, with muscles and joints protesting, and pulled up his rail gun. It was an efficient weapon with cheap ammunition and a high rate of fire, both very good things when it came to urban combat.

F³ Grav Dive

            The three of them huddled closely in the airlock, waiting for Ann’s countdown.

            Flynn said a silent prayer to the Celestials, first for his safety, second that he not embarrass himself by screaming or vomiting . . . like last time.

F³ Proper Operational Footwear

            Flynn left the cockpit, pausing to change into more practical clothing before joining Eltie near the weapons locker. She was running final checks on her combat armor, which would make her just over two meters tall and strong enough to punch through five centimeter armor plate. As Flynn walked up, she turned and began handing him gear: tactical vest, grav harness, rail gun, and conventional slug thrower. Flynn would have preferred his pulsar pistol, but Eltie knew the mission requirements.

F³ Ann's Nobility

            “Oh, flare me. You’re going to do something noble, aren’t you?” Ann hung her head over her console.

            “Ann—”

            “No! Okay, I understood in the Reach. They were enslaved and Constantine was an ass, but we owe nothing to these people. Why do you want to help them?”

            “Whatever else you may think of the people of the Consortium,” Reese answered, “they believe in paying their debts. Always.”

            “You mean we can get a reward out of this? Right. Let’s go save the Connies. Mama needs an upgrade.”

F³ Seller's Market

            “Captain, I believe there’s a problem.” Reese said, throwing the market values to the main screen as a HUD overlay on top of Ann’s navigational course.

            Flynn looked at the numbers for several common shipboard weapons systems.

            “Those are high, aren’t they?”

            “Captain, the prices are double what they should be.”

            “Double? Why would they be that high?”

            “Because, right now, there is a very high demand for them.”

            “Oh, flare me,” Ann sighed.

F³ Fund Raising

            “And how much have we raised?”

            “Eight thousand, Captain. The going is quite slow because we are operating without a proper license and are subject to high taxes.”

            Ann swore under her breath, for which Flynn was grateful.

            “And our supplies?”

            “On that front, we are on better standing. Consumer goods aren’t as heavily taxed, and food not at all. Also, Hank has been able to make thorough headway on our repairs.”

            “Meaning he hasn’t blown us up, yet,” Ann said flatly.

F³ Odd Jobs

            “Mr. Reese,” Flynn intoned with all the warmth of vacuum, “explain it to me again. How is it that we are unable to trade cargo in the Consortium?”

            “You flaring listened to a flaring liar, that’s how.” Ann didn’t bother to mask the contempt from her voice. She sat at her console forward of Flynn, plotting the entry path to the moon’s atmosphere. Her dark hair hung in loose curls to her shoulders. Since there was no expectation of combat, she hadn’t bothered to braid it or put it up.

F³ Transencdence

            Ann was sweating as Lita helped her out of her suit. Her hands shook with the endorphins and adrenaline coursing through her. But more than all of that, she felt completely overwhelmed by the surfing. She wanted to think about it, but at the same time, didn’t.

F³ Unbeing

            Ann went loose, letting her body twist in the wind. All she did was keep her hands tight on the rail. What was once a tempest, throwing her about became something else, something wild, but with a guiding force to it. She knew—but didn’t know how she knew—where the wind would go, and moved her body and the sail before the wind did. The sail's telltale sensors still screamed at her as they only went blue for an instant.

F³ Wind's Mercy

The board bucked underneath Ann’s feet, while the sail jerked, almost beyond her control. The idea that she, using simple human strength, could control a sail caught up in a dark energy wind that propelled a ship at 1.1 light years per hour was ludicrous. It was beyond insanity. None of the math would ever work out, but then she hadn’t tried.

At first Ann fought for control, but the futility quickly became apparent. She and the board tumbled in front of Calypso, though the ship was gradually gaining on them. Flynn kept the sails trimmed so there was no spill, while Ann was tossed like a leaf in a tempest.

Procedures for how to trim sails flew through her head. The readouts on her HUD flashed information from the board’s telltales. Numbers and alerts cascaded, flashing from blue to white to yellow to red before going back along the spectrum.

“Ann,” Lita’s voice sounded in her helmet, “your pulse and blood pressure are jumping. Blood oxygen saturation is dropping. You’re coming close to hyperventilating.”

The sail jerked again, her left hand slipping free.

Flare it!

She couldn’t see her hand, nor could she see the rail on the sail. All she had as a reference was where her body knew her other hand was. She flailed blindly, a sense of panic rising up as her right hand ached from its death grip on the rail. Several times her hand glanced off, but she was never able to grab it.

“Ann, your vitals are spiking again.” Lita’s voice took on worry.

Flaring thing!

“Ann!” Panic welled in that voice.

“Flynn!” Lita was now on the ship-wide comms. “Ann is not responding. You have to bring her in.”

Flynn’s voice cut in. “Stay calm, Doctor. Ann, we’ve got telemetry and know your comms are active. Call it.”

She said nothing as she continued to flail. Fingertips hit something, and she grabbed reflexively.

“XO,” Lita came over again. “You have to reel her in. She’ll go into a panic attack soon.”

“Got it!” Ann yelled.

Despite the assurance, the sail kept fighting her, and she was amazed her feet hadn’t torn free from the board. Dully, she could feel her whole-body ache from every muscle exerting to try and control the board.

Just . . . stop! Stop fighting it. Stop thinking. The wind can’t be thought out. Stop being. Feel the wind. Surrender control to the wind’s mercy.