[Helmsman 08] - The Turning Tide (2011) by Bill Baldwin

Author:Bill Baldwin [Baldwin, Bill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-11-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 35

. . .the S.S. Purple Abigail

ORBITING AVALON/ASTURIUS, APPROACHING S.S. PURPLEABAGAIL, A MERCHANTMAN, 18 TRIAD, 52017.

Orbital dockyards above Avalon were anything but orderly, with ungainly, non-landing-capable starship freighters in orbit at a dozen levels in seemingly random patterns. Whole fleets of lighters careened among the freighters in every dimension at breakneck speeds, reminding Brim of the awful traffic below in Avalon City—only worse. He grinned as the Helmsman of the little orbital buss picked her way through the confusion, steering as surely as if her many destinations had been at their locations for ages, instead of days, at the most.

His companions in the passenger compartment were a mixed lot at best, from neatly uniformed civilian officers to grizzled Star Sailors whose eyes had seen a thousand different worlds throughout the galaxy—none of which could be called home. S.S. Purple Abigail, Brim’s destination, was the buss’ sixth drop-off of the morning, according to his unofficial orders, she was nearly loaded and ready to join a Convoy 33A-98G bound for Carescria.

As the bus approached, Brim contemplated the elderly freighter that would be his home for the next weeks, wondering how she’d managed to survive all the years of hard use—as well as the exigencies of warfare in space. She was older than he was! If nothing else, this Abagail was clearly a survivor.

Peering through the windshield of the bus, Brim compared what he could see of the hull against ancient plans Barny Case had included with his “orders” from the Interspace Transport Bureau the previous day. The little freighter appeared to be all of her promised 350 irals in length, but not an iral more—a good point because many of these aging ships had been expanded to hold more cargo, and often such expansions disastrously failed after only a few years in service.

Built for easy loading and unloading rather than beauty, she was little more than a large pressure vessel, dented and pockmarked by thousands of collisions with space debris and Voot knew what else.

She mounted ancient RG-199A Drive Units, located at the end of skeletal pylons on either side of what, by default, had to be her aft end.

Eight large—also antiquated—spin-gravs open to space ringed the hull just aft of the Drive pylons to provide what limited maneuvering a ship like this would possess. An awkward, circular “bridge”—looking more like a can of fish than anything else—perched perilously at the “top” of the forward end of the ship, ringed by a thin line of Hyperscreens.

Eight small LifeGlobes were set into a half deck beneath the aft end of the bridge. Brim sincerely hoped his experience aboard the old freighter would not provide a ride in any of those antiques.

Built for commerce rather than comfort, Brim knew she would offer a minimum of habitation to her hard-working crew. This was how the majority of spacemen made their meager livings—spending most of their lives, shuttling back and forth in the nothingness of the void. He shivered. By the grace of Voot, he could have spent his life that way, too.

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