The stick vibrated as the vessel complained against the gravity locks. As it should be.
"ADC active."
"Check, ADC active."
"Requesting ATC clearance."
It was the small silences that got you. A thousand years ago people thought of space travel as a pastime for the mad and the sightless. The reality was sleepless blue light and a constant, growling hum that deafened you when it shield emitters charged. Like being in the belly of a gigantic, terrible fish.
"Simming roll control."
"Rollsim."
"And that's.... forty eight sections from zero power to being able to cruise on a pence. If this was combat we'd be dead thirty nine seconds ago. Give or take ten."
"Give tactical some credit. If this was a real scrap, they'd swat us out of our own bays."
"So did the redhead in on Razor aft turn you down, or are you still banging your cousin?"
"I wish. Ezzy, we've green light. Boot it."
The twin BMM-38-9 Growlers dangling pugnaciously under the Crusader's nose roared like somebody had kicked them out of a coma, which wasn't all that far from the truth. Supercharged hydrogen ions flared out from the vessel's centre of mass, rocking the nose up in a characteristic "prawn kick" until the OMS steadied her, all of which occurred in about 000.3 seconds and usually knocked the vomit virginity out of the cadets.
"Switching to internal reference. Open the bays, Grimsby control."
And the floor dropped away from under her.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)
![[Image: XTF1d6x.png]](https://i.imgur.com/XTF1d6x.png)