Millershipper
Lost in cyberspace. What a lucky fellow am I.
Starports are much the same everywhere. Plascrete buildings surround the landing berths for ships of all sizes. Personnel carriers buzz around the area, some on preset courses while a few dart directly from ship to the duty gate or vice versa. Poor tuned gravitics issue a wailing hum, while newer drive units create a smooth whirring felt more than heard. Life support maintenance, stores resupply, and fuel trucks all work their way around the major docking areas where needed. The chug of refined liquid hydrogen competes with the whine of lifts bringing foodstuffs into holds.
Annapabar's Starcity is in orbit above the iceball planet. There is a Downport on the surface, but that is mainly used by ships bringing supplies and people to the planet itself. All the trade and passengers transshipping stay in orbit. Every landing berth becomes an airlock whenever a ship is arriving or departing bringing a wisp of biting cold whenever the cycle runs. Thus the docking area itself remains fairly spartan. All the trade and shops ring the docking area in concentric corridors leading to the duty gate where anything going downside is assessed and taxed.
Along one long spire protruding from the central hub is the dry dock, where ships come for repair and modification. Several berths large enough for a dreadnaught gape open toward the top. Here and there a berth is closed while a ship undergoes whatever is needed. One of these closed berths is a smallish one, able to handle perhaps a 500-ton hull. Inside, a modest-looking freighter squats. Her hull reflects years of use. Here and there micro-impacts show, along with the streaks and marks of many planets' atmosphere. Yet an experienced eye notices the marks of good maintenance. Her access panels all show signs of regular use. All her running lights work when tested. The cargo bay door swings down smoothly with only a slight hitch just before closing.
Two largish panels gleam in the light of the repair bay. One lies on the ventral surface with its mate on the dorsal surface, each appearing to give access to the cargo bay. A small crew still bustles around her, checking wiring, running instrument tests from the bridge stations and engineering console. All routine enough. The only odd note is the three-man crew working on the two newer panels, running some type of machine over the panel to scratch and dull the surface.
Finally, the interior crew finishes up their tests and depart. A single man strides from the corridor into the bay then aboard the ship. His narrow green eyes take in the name scrolled on the hull. Quadragesimal Zephyr reads the script. His slender shoulders shrug and he takes himself into the ship, ducking his head to be sure he doesn't clip his head on the personnel hatch. His tall frame looks at odds with the ship's corridors. He strides to the bridge, pulling out a data disk. Seating himself at the astrogation console he enters the disk. Smooths whirs come from the console then the disk reemerges to disappear under the jacket of the tall thin man. He nods, then leans back. The four men of this crew will be here soon enough. The briefing will begin then.
Annapabar's Starcity is in orbit above the iceball planet. There is a Downport on the surface, but that is mainly used by ships bringing supplies and people to the planet itself. All the trade and passengers transshipping stay in orbit. Every landing berth becomes an airlock whenever a ship is arriving or departing bringing a wisp of biting cold whenever the cycle runs. Thus the docking area itself remains fairly spartan. All the trade and shops ring the docking area in concentric corridors leading to the duty gate where anything going downside is assessed and taxed.
Along one long spire protruding from the central hub is the dry dock, where ships come for repair and modification. Several berths large enough for a dreadnaught gape open toward the top. Here and there a berth is closed while a ship undergoes whatever is needed. One of these closed berths is a smallish one, able to handle perhaps a 500-ton hull. Inside, a modest-looking freighter squats. Her hull reflects years of use. Here and there micro-impacts show, along with the streaks and marks of many planets' atmosphere. Yet an experienced eye notices the marks of good maintenance. Her access panels all show signs of regular use. All her running lights work when tested. The cargo bay door swings down smoothly with only a slight hitch just before closing.
Two largish panels gleam in the light of the repair bay. One lies on the ventral surface with its mate on the dorsal surface, each appearing to give access to the cargo bay. A small crew still bustles around her, checking wiring, running instrument tests from the bridge stations and engineering console. All routine enough. The only odd note is the three-man crew working on the two newer panels, running some type of machine over the panel to scratch and dull the surface.
Finally, the interior crew finishes up their tests and depart. A single man strides from the corridor into the bay then aboard the ship. His narrow green eyes take in the name scrolled on the hull. Quadragesimal Zephyr reads the script. His slender shoulders shrug and he takes himself into the ship, ducking his head to be sure he doesn't clip his head on the personnel hatch. His tall frame looks at odds with the ship's corridors. He strides to the bridge, pulling out a data disk. Seating himself at the astrogation console he enters the disk. Smooths whirs come from the console then the disk reemerges to disappear under the jacket of the tall thin man. He nods, then leans back. The four men of this crew will be here soon enough. The briefing will begin then.
