T. Finnegan, Junker

[TFinnegan]

THE SEXTANT and the SPYGLASS, part 3

"...its' tha' mother right there lad!"
"Radio check. Radio check.!"
"..terminus at accessway 182 starbord. Panel niner."
"Check, One two, Check"
"...engineering said it was the capacitor to the air scrubbers. Im sure it don't go there..."
*POP*
*SCREEEEEEeeeeeeeeee............*
"Check, Check, Check"
"Dammit lads! Who's fried th' bloody transfers NOW?!?!"

Radio chatter near Culebra was cacaphonous, CSV and Salvager traffic no less than a swarm, and credits were being paid out at a dizzying speed. Captain Finnegan was inbound with the resonance pods he'd requested, along with a full week's ration of 'all pissed off', so Connor Sinclair was in a bit of a pinch.

The Spyglass buildup was becoming both beautiful and nightmarish. She was bloody near complete. She shined like dolomite in the sparse rays of Puerto Rico's dodgy sunlight. Long and lean of beam, and tall of mast as they used to say, She cut an impressive line indeed. Like some huge silvery shark poised to kill, she hulked in the shadow of Culebra smelter, crews converting her scaffolding into spare parts and ships stores, until she hung alone in the dark, dreadful and stunning.

When all three of her converted Mass-Vector Asteroid Tug engines were lit, the glow could be seen throughout the system. Her acceleration curve rivaled the swiftest gunboats and freighters, and she could thrust two of these engines laterally, a design inspiration of Pilot Murphy's, allowing her to turn tighly without the drifting so common to these battleship class vessels. So powerful were these three engines however, that they were rapidly becoming the bane of Engineer Sinclair.

"Allright lads, Engine room, I need full open, zero thrust." The ship shuddered percievably.
"Pipes lit, sir!"
"Taccom, bring up the shields." Lights on the bridge dimmed then strengthened.
"Aye sir, shield holding."
"Weapons, ready group one."
"Aye sir."
**POP**

Pitch black. Then red. Smokey red.
The slight vibration of the great engines died slowly as the enormous, skyscraper-sized turbines wound down. Auxiliary lighting splashed rose and black shadows about the bridge as tendrils of greasy smoke drifted from the power and weapons consoles. As backup life support came online, the smoke began to dissipate.

"Sonofa....Engineering Report!" Shouted Sinclair into the air, then grimacing, grabbed a hand radio and repeated himself. "Engineering, status?"
"Shunts one through 13 cooked sir." crackled the radio. "only thirty-two left."
"Every -CENSORED- time the -CENSORED- -CENSORED- this bloody happens! Right! Get yer boys ter replacing the -CENSORED- -CENSORED- !"
"...oh, and get me Vieques on the horn, gonna need more -CENSORED- shunts."

-----------------------

Finnegan's Wake shuddered into existence near the Texas jumphole, came about, and thrusted toward the construction site. The ancient Pilgrim liner began to feel smaller and smaller as they approached the leviathan parked in the cloud.

"Murph, prepare boarding clamps, and get me Sinclair." Finnegan grumbled. He pointed at the deck next to his chair. "Put 'im 'ere inside 15 minutes. Or it's both yer hides. An' dinna wake me till then." He tossed back the tag-end of his pint, crossed his arms behind his head, kicked his boots onto the console, and closed his eyes...

----------------------

It was hard to tell which of the two Junkers was more angry. If it were simply a contest of red-facedness, Sinclair would have won, due to the advantage of having recently spent two full days on the sun-side of the hull with a heat sink problem and the sunburn that went with it.

"...But it's NOT bloody WORKING, cap'm!" Exhasperated Sinclair. "Theres just no way the powerplant we salvaged was ever meant to do more'n supply the engines. If that!"
"Aye, an' what ken ye 'bout addin' some power to 'er?" Asked a fuming Finnegan, arms crossed
"I swear I need another whole reactor just for the shields. An' another fer the weapons. Only if I run that much juice through the capacitor, well let's just say you don't wanna be in the system if all three reactors fail....or any nearby systems. This containment shielding is OLD."
"The Wake's bloody transfer system can handle 'er pipes as well as 'er guns, Connor!" Shouted Tim. "An' she's nigh as old, if nay a bet older even!" He was poking his finger into Sinclair's chest now, backing him across the bridge. Gunner Kelley moved to break up a possible fistfight. This had happened before.
"An' Ye can bloody 'ave it if tha's what it bleedin' takes to make that big dog hunt!" Raved Finnegan, stabbing his non-poking finger at the dark hulk hanging outside the windows.

"Son, I've put me name, me money, and me arse on th' line fer tha' bloody ship there. Now I'm puttin yer arse on th' line in front o' mine." He grabbed the front of Sinclair's tunic in his gnarled fist. "Ye get tha' bird ter fly, Yesterday! Or yer frozen corpse'll make her a bloody fine hood ornament!"
"Two months!" He shouted at the ceiling, raising Sinclair to his toes. "I've waited two bloody months! An' what've ye done wi' tha' parcel from Malta? Aint heard a squeak about it 'nall this time."

Finnegan drew Sinclair in close, almost touching noses.
"This bird's nigh on broken me bank already, I dinnae see why ye cannae just bankrupt me..." he breathed hotly into Sinclair's face. "Call th' Zoners, see if they got any specs on these rottin' coils. It's gonna cost me, I'm sure...Hell, call the Hellfire bleedin' Legion! I need this bird ta fly, an' so do you lad."
His fist tightened, veins standing out.
"Engineers are ruddy cheap, lad." he was whispering now. "Specially 'round Junkers, aye?"

Returning Sinclair to his heels and releasing him, he spun toward his chair, kilts flaring.
"Now get back to th' trophy ship, lad, an' bleedin' fix tha' powercore! R' th' next whine I hear outta you will be the air leavin' yer husk."
He grabbed the half-full pint of Invergordon Black Ale from the Dais and scowled at Sinclair's receding back.

"Murph! Call Ames, have em prep that software for Casablanca."

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