Levi's Rock - Chapter Four - For Talented Pilots - Part Two

But it would be a few weeks before Ecksel heard that story. Hawking called Spencer into his office the next day, relief evident on his weary face.
“I want you to take this passkey and this print, and I want you to report to Don, who will escort you to the Pathways authority for processing.”
Spencer just stared at Hawking, not moving. “Am I under arrest?”
Hawking looked up, his brow furrowed. “Should you be?”
“No! What the hell—why are you turning me in?”
Hawking shook his head, laughing. “J. Albert Devonshire! Spence, I’m assigning you to the Pathways rotation for deputization. I changed my mind about sending you for orbit detail, that’s all.” He fell back into his chair and exhaled explosively. “Apparently, two of our long-timers didn’t pass health inspection—not unusual, but unexpected this time—and they’re on their way back here now. I guess they’re qualified to ride a rocket at forty-thousand kps, but not qualified to park transports at a hundred kph.”
Spencer passed a hand across his forehead, which had developed a sheen of sweat. “Who is J. Alfred—who?”
Hawking waved a hand. “My grand-daddy’s favorite curse when grandma was around.” Then he eyeballed Spencer. “You really thought I was having you arrested? What in hell for? You got a guilty conscience?”
Spencer bristled. “It’s not a guilty conscience; I just—I have a history of being in the wrong place at the wrong time is all.”
Hawking snorted. “That’s a bit of an understatement. Well, if you get yourself in trouble with Pathways, it’s out of my hands, but around here we overlook an awful lot for talented pilots—probably why those two are on their way back, come to think of it.”
Spencer hedged for a moment, then said, “And if I have an episode while I’m out there?”
Hawking raised an eyebrow. “An episode of what?”
Spencer hesitated only a second or two. “Yes, sir. On my way.” And then he was out the door and gone.
Hawking thumbed his desk and the screen he had been studying all morning sprang to life again, filled with data and maps and a small portrait in one corner with the legend: DaSilva, Ramon. “Yes sir,” Hawking drawled, “around here we overlook an awful lot for talented pilots.” He thumbed a commlink on the edge of his desk and barked, “Laruso, find me that smuggler; I want to see him in my office.”

It was difficult to believe that one could feel excited about something as mundane and tedious as orbit detail, but Spencer credited part of the excitement to the fact that he would be flying something new, a new ship, no matter what it looked like. It was the reason he gravitated toward test-piloting—that and the very real possibility of an accidental death, but that was an area of his own thinking he steadfastly ignored.
As he passed through the bullpen, he ran into DaSilva and wished him luck, thinking DaSilva might be long gone by the time he returned. DaSilva remarked cryptically, “You never know; a place like this grows on you. I could get used to it.” But then Spencer was on his way to meet Don, and DaSilva’s words were forgotten.
Don—or Donny—Firenze was a retired pilot, one of the few who retired by choice rather than due to a crippling illness, accident, or death. He was a fuel jockey for the station now, a regular drunk when off-duty, and something of an unofficial mentor for some of the pilots since he had more stories than anyone else, both the true and the completely fabricated varieties.
Donny’s other talent was planetside leave parties; since the crew never knew until the last minute where their drop would be—or which off-planet transport facility they would be disembarking on their return to Marques—they couldn’t very well plan out their vacations, so they would gather around Donny just after the announcement of the drop to hear Donny’s “unofficial” recommendations of places they might want to visit while planet-side. Invariably there would be a few reputable locations thrown in for comedic effect, but generally it was a recitation of brothels, bars, bookies, and brawling spots that the crew could frequent, tailored to their drop spot and their point of disembarking.
Donny never went on drops—at his age and constitution, he had a special dispensation from both Ecksel and the planetside medics for vessel transport—but he was always the handle pilot for the slow rig between Marques and the offworld transport. In this case, he would be piloting Spencer to a rendezvous with the Pathways scull, where he would trade Spencer for the two disqualified pilots and then return them to Marques.
It occurred to Spencer to wonder if Hawking had orchestrated the transfer this way to keep Pathways from encountering DaSilva, but there might have been any number of casual violations on the flight deck that a Pathways officer would feel duty-bound to report, and so he decided that Hawking just didn’t want to clean house for company.
Donny greeted Spencer gruffly and complained about the transfer, but as the deck decompressed and the magnetic moorings uncoupled, Spencer saw the satisfaction on the old-timer’s face. It was a familiarity that came only after many, many years in the pilot’s seat, and Spencer surprised himself as he realized that—for the first time in quite a while—he hoped to live long enough to feel that way … about anything.
It was stupid to get so emotional about something so dumb, he scolded himself. Then he smiled and shook his head, because he didn’t care.

The flight was not long—half an hour or so—and it passed quickly with the two men yammering away about Spencer’s experience so far on Marques. When the Pathways transport came into sight, Donny fell silent, and so did Spencer, guessing at the level of technical expertise he was about to witness.
There was a panel full of instruments under the dry, shriveled hands of Donny Firenze, and those old but capable hands glided over them, reading them like a blind man might—but Donny didn’t appear to be reading those instruments at all. He glanced at the door-seal light once, but the rest of the time he had his eyes on the approaching ship, even when it slid alongside them, almost completely out of sight from the front viewport.
The panel that should have been lit up, a small collection of laser-guided and magnetic alignment tools that usually beeped and chirped to let pilots know how the docking procedure was progressing—it was pitch black the entire time, and Spencer wondered whether it was just turned off or completely disabled. Perhaps it had never been hooked up at all on Donny’s ship.
The distances and leveling were all done by eyeball and sixth sense, but there wasn’t a bump or a thump to be heard until the single, triumphant clink that announced that the Pathways ship had accepted the docking seal from Firenze’s tiny vessel.
When the two doors had been opened between the ships, a Pathways officer leaned around the corner and called, “Smoothest hands in the business, Donny!”
“That’s what the ladies say!” Donny called back, and then cackled away while Spencer and the two returning pilots traded places.

“Spencer Fyodorim, welcome aboard transport number eight-zero-zero-eight. Are you carrying anything poisonous, explosive, flammable, sharp, or illegal?”
Spencer shook his head.
“I’m required to ask you to answer verbally, sir, as this conversation is being monitored and recorded.”
Spencer looked up at the co-pilot in amazement. “No, sir, I am not carrying any of those things—in fact, I’m not carrying anything at all.”
The co-pilot looked around, and it was his turn to be amazed. “Three weeks on our station and then a wet-drop for planetside leave, and you didn’t bring one single thing?”
Spencer snorted. “It’s not like we’ll be out in the wilderness, right? I assume you guys have soap and running water.”
The co-pilot snorted back. “I assume you know how to use them—but I always assume that about you boys, and I’m often wrong.”
Spencer laughed it off. “I didn’t mean anything by it, sir; I just like to travel light is all. The more stuff you bring, the more likely you are to lose something, or have it stolen. Besides, when you go planetside you get most of your stuff taken away anyway—no offense,” he added, realizing he was talking to a pair of customs officers.
“Oh, none taken,” the co-pilot shrugged. “It’s not like we get any of it. It’s all recycled or destroyed. Right, Eff?”
“Ri-ight,” the pilot drawled, a thin smirk on his face.
Spencer settled into his seat and strapped in. There was a brief conversation between pilots, and then a double-check of the hatches between ships; finally, the clink of the docking seal giving way signaled that they were free. After a slow maneuver to safe distance, the Pathways pilot lurched the ship forward, glancing at Spencer over his shoulder.
Spencer rolled his eyes, but decided to pretend he was impressed, knowing he was about to spend three weeks with these guys. “She’s got a little power to her,” he noted dryly.
If they picked up on the sarcasm, they ignored it. “Yeah, this baby looks big and clunky, but we took the propulsion system from an old Quasar—designed for quick acceleration because they were used—”
“Because they were used for automated supply runs over long distances, ships packed heavy and tight to withstand the stresses of compressed deceleration. I know.”
The pilot and co-pilot guffawed over that, and the co-pilot said, “Ooh, Effey, we got us a real specialist here. Hey, where’d you go to school, Doctor Fyodorim?”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed at them. He muttered a reply.
“Say again, boy? Where?”
Spencer exhaled slowly, counting in his head. “Serpeset,” he repeated, slowly and clearly. Then he leaned forward suddenly in his seat. “Is that a comet?”
“Is that a—what the hell?” The pilot turned slightly to see what Spencer was seeing, and as he did so they all saw the short streak of blue-white make an S-turn and head for Earth.
“That,” said the co-pilot, deadly serious now, “was no comet.”