Jenny Waterson sat in her space craft above Earth’s atmosphere with her DPad in her lap. It was Saturday morning and the team at Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta’s docking station were being overly cautious—or her friend Stuart was. The overseer at the docking station liked to throw the newer recruits in at the deep end.
‘Experience takes time to develop,’ he’d told her once.
But his delay to her schedule that day couldn’t have come at a worse time.
Jenny shifted in her seat as the memo, received from the ESC that morning, lay open on her DPad. A review of piloting skills was underway and she’d been caught up in the latest round of bull coming from Daphne Gilchrist’s office. Last month it had been an inspection of her uniform, and she had to do a damn fashion show for Gilchrist’s assistant. The young man had been apologetic, so at least that was something. But this month, she sensed this new test would be harder to pass. The memo also said she must attend the HJA for a meeting after her flight—with whom she didn’t know.
She radioed in from the space above the Earth’s outer-perimeter force field to the observation deck, where she knew Stuart would be.
‘Captain Jenny Waterson. Craft 766-C seeking permission to land.’
The communication operative replied, ‘I’ve confirmed your identity. Please hold.’
Jenny glanced at the time. Calypso Couriers, a subsidiary under the Earth Security Centre’s control, had given her a tight schedule. Any deviation from said schedule would surely get back to Gilchrist.
She sent another ping to the operative again. ‘Could you let me know how long, please? I need to leave in the next five minutes if I’m going to make my deadline.’
The operative said, ‘Won’t be long now.’
She heard a clap of hands in the distance and a ‘Hurry up.’ Stuart.
His newbies. Her schedule. This was bad.
The operative kept her on the line.
She heard Stuart shouting in the background, ‘What’s your status?’
‘Just a few more seconds,’ said a male. Probably the trainee controlling her fate.
Ten seconds passed and Jenny couldn’t take the pressure. She asked, ‘Craft 766-C. Am I clear to land?’
Stuart’s voice crackled in the distance. ‘Hurry up. What’s the word?’
‘Just one more second,’ replied a young-sounding man. ‘I’m almost there.’
‘For Christ’s sake, the captain hasn’t got all day,’ said Stuart.
She was glad he realised that.
Then, ‘About bloody time.’ From Stuart. ‘My heart isn’t able for this shit anymore.’
‘Craft 766-C, you are clear to land,’ the operative said. ‘Dock Twelve is available. Set down on the port side of the hold.’
‘Roger that.’
Her deep sigh did little to calm her.
Jenny ordered the on-board computer to establish outgoing radio silence. She kept the incoming audio link with HJA active in case they ordered her to divert. The computer beeped once.
She checked the time.
‘Damn it.’
It was already five minutes past her scheduled drop time. That left no room for error on the way down. She ran a shaky hand through her tightly cut platinum-blonde hair. ‘Okay, Jenny. You’ve got this. Who cares if your skills are under review? You know how to fly.’ Her focus switched to her craft as she readied for the next step of the descent.
She engaged the autopilot and attempted to loosen up her rigid posture. Her pulse pounded, as it always did before a descent. The second memo had rattled her. People had been fired for lesser things. Jenny at seventy five, and with twenty years working as a pilot, was becoming an expensive liability.
She pulled her seatbelt tight and checked her descent numbers. If they wanted her gone, they’d have to do more than look at her impeccable flight record.
The operative spoke to her through the communications system. ‘Strong winds at vertical eighty miles. Be on alert. Looks like a hurricane is building.’
She reactivated the outgoing link and confirmed receipt before resuming radio silence. A little gust of wind wasn’t going to stop her. Jenny shook away all distractions and concentrated on getting this rust bucket to the magnetic landing plate at the docking station. She dried her palms on her military-green uniform, feeling her usual pre-flight jitters surface before the fall.
The craft remained in orbit over the landing coordinates at the docking station. Jenny engaged the thrusters sporadically, realigning the craft as it tried to pull in a different direction. Then it began its descent, dropping into the non-existent atmosphere and through the deactivated force field. The thrusters blasted again to maintain the correct position. She monitored the increase in atmospheric density through her screen as the computer relayed progress through the audio channel.
‘Density at ninety per cent, ninety-five, ninety-eight...’
She braced herself for the imminent drop.
‘One hundred per cent density achieved.’
A sudden jolt and a sharp push downwards knocked her against her seat belt as the thrusters forced the craft into a computer-guided free fall. Thrusters disengaged and acceleration increased as the craft dropped towards the surface. A minute passed and the craft had reached one hundred and eighty miles above the docking station—the edge of the storm.
Winds twisted violently around the craft, attempting to push her off course. Jenny yanked hard on the straps keeping her upright. The computer corrected the craft’s position realignment to compensate for the violent winds. Jenny concentrated on the screen, the same one showing the craft’s tilt variance as it lurched left, then right. She poised her hands over the controls. One touch would transfer the power back to manual. But during free fall, it was safer out of her hands.
The craft continued to rock from side to side, creaking and moaning as the computer adjusted for the motion.
Then it hit the inner circle of the storm.
A mass of blackened clouds swirled one way, then another, taking repeated shots at the craft. She fought against instincts to grab the controls and pilot the craft herself. Sweat soaked her skin. The craft’s tilt variance remained on the edge of the danger zone for three whole minutes.
‘Come on Jenny, you can do this. You’ve done this a hundred times.’ She doubted every action made that, without a memo from Gilchrist’s office, would have been instinctive.
The craft rocked and rolled. Jenny’s hands hooked in a claw-like poise over the controls. Her erratic breathing eased, but a new panic tightened her chest again. For the first time in twenty years as a pilot, she prayed to a god she didn’t believe in. Earth had gone to hell. What God would let that happen?
The craft dropped below the black mass and into the grey, toxic atmosphere that hung over the cities. A laugh bubbled into her throat as the weather turned instantly calm. The only wind fifty miles above the docking station was the one created by her craft.
The tension in her body was the last thing to break. Dizziness followed, and the full effects of the rocking motion and the vertical drop hit her. Maybe it was a good thing she’d eaten little for the last six hours. While in the training room, Jenny had been shoved vertically, horizontally and exposed to the greatest G-force in cockpit simulations. She still wasn’t used to it.
The craft’s motion evened out and settled her stomach. The descent continued in a controlled, smooth manner. A minute later, she arrived at the landing plate at Dock Twelve.
A nervous breath skittered across her lips as she listened to the clink clunk of magnetic levitation kicking in. The blocks on the underside of the craft took on a positive charge, opposite to the negative charge of the landing plate. The craft jerked upwards; the force field surrounding it absorbed some of the sharpness, but not all. A deep shudder knocked her about as the magnets fought against each other.
At twenty feet, polarisation switched to the lowest levels. The craft hovered metres above the landing plate. Jenny regained control of her cockpit and engaged the thrusters. She switched off the magnetic field and guided 766-C into the hangar bay, setting it down on the port side. Disengaging the thrusters and force field, she stood and peeled her sweat-soaked uniform away from her back and legs.
At the exit, she scanned her security chip on the touch pad. The exit door released and she stumbled out of the craft.
A thin docking station attendant in his early thirties walked towards her, DPad in hand. Jenny recognised him—an overachieving pompous ass, if she remembered correctly.
She checked the time.
Damn.
Could her day get any worse?
He offered his hand. ‘Welcome to the HJA docking station. Is this your first time?’
She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. When she opened them a bemused looking attendant watched her.
‘Bumpy trip. I need a moment.’
What she needed was a stiff drink and a different attendant. Jenny was certain her time infringement would not go unnoticed.
The attendant withdrew his hand, muttering something about older pilots not having the stomach for it. With one hand he motioned her closer, and used his other to comb through his oily hair.
He flipped the DPad around to face her. ‘Place your thumb here.’ She did; the computer scanned her chip and the words “Captain Jennifer Waterson, Grade 4 Pilot” flashed up on the screen. Her photo appeared beside her name.
The attendant glanced between it and Jenny. ‘The photo doesn’t match.’
She ran a hand over her cropped, platinum-blonde hair. ‘I recently cut my hair and changed the colour. We had this discussion the last time I was here.’ The photo on file showed her with a brown, shoulder-length style. Her face was younger than her age. Training kept her body lean and she was physically strong.
‘I see. Ms Waterson. I should warn you, you’re late by ten minutes with your drop. Can you verify your cargo on board, please?’
‘Captain Waterson,’ she corrected. ‘I’m returning from Saturn with xenon compound.’
Earth’s atmosphere contained minute amounts of stable noble gases—helium, neon, argon, krypton and xenon—and traces of the radioactive noble gas radon. In 2087 the World Government discovered that xenon existed abundantly in compound form within Saturn’s recently uncovered supply of water. Xenon compound was primarily used as a propellant for the large passenger ships travelling to Exilon 5, but also in laser technology.
‘Ah, yes, I have you here now,’ he said, wirelessly scanning the on-board content through his DPad. ‘Well, I guess there’s just the time infraction to record.’ He hit the screen with his finger.
Her heart thudded. ‘About that. I hit a bad storm on the way down. It knocked the craft off course, twice. Could you let it slide this time? I promise it won’t happen again.’
The attendant smirked at her. ‘If I did that for every pilot, I’d lose my job.’
‘I’m not asking you to do it for everyone, just me. Just this one time. Because of the storm I mentioned.’
She eyed his finger, poised over the DPad.
‘It’s not my problem if you can’t keep to schedule. Maybe you should consider a different job.’
Doing what? Piloting was all she knew.
Jenny forced a smile. ‘You look like a reasonable man.’
The attendant smirked again. ‘I guess I can overlook it this one time.’
It took all her strength not to wipe the smug look off his face. He flicked something on the screen then gave the ground staff the thumbs up to proceed. When his back was turned, a few gave him the finger. Jenny almost choked on a laugh.
‘Something funny?’
She straightened her mouth. ‘Still a little giddy after the flight, I guess.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘How soon will you be flying again?’
‘In three hours. I’m delivering cargo to the ESC in Sydney.’
He turned and walked away. ‘Next time, ma’am, how about you try to make it here on time, okay?’
His words sent a shiver through her. Through gritted teeth she mumbled, ‘Don’t call me ma’am.’ She was only seventy-five.
But the attendant was right. She couldn’t afford to be late again. Except, this time the delay hadn’t been her fault. It had been Stuart and his little protégé’s.