Itineris

[Vogel]

I suppose those are lanes. Too bad I cant use them, Doyle mused.

It was funny that this thought occurred to him first, instead of the host of other questions, problems, and gut-wrenching fears that could have applied. This was probably the result of severe mental blocks,
striving to hold back the flood of imminent insanity.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought maybe he was insane.

Once again, with no idea where to go, he simply kicked his lost Alliance machine into open space. There was a large station situated over some rocky planet with a ring, but he was too hesitant to go anywhere major; he had no idea who these people were, or what they were after, and as far as he was concerned hed be damned if he let them get a hold of his ship.

His ship. His precious little ship; the only thing familiar to him in an unfamiliar universe.

It was going to be his coffin. Instead it was a vehicle of life.

The pain in his head lingered; a physical manifestation of his minds desperate attempts at blocking out thoughts. He tried to pay it no mind, instead concentrating on his instruments for the first time in what felt like forever.

They were disconcerting. Hydrogen Fuel level was down to 45%, Afterburner mixture was down to 14 seconds of available burn time before it gave up the ghost. He hated it, but hed have to stop somewhere, eventually.

Just not yet.

The stars shifted ever so slightly as Doyle cruised through the vacuum towards a small moon in the distance. He was trying to conserve fuel best he could, but even at a drift, the power core of the fighter sucked up fuel just keeping it running. It was the price paid for a carrier-based ship equipped with a basic jump drive.

In his perspective, a jump drive was a very primitive method of space manipulation requiring massive amounts of energy, for relatively little payoff. A single jump for a fighter like his could suck up as much as half the Hydrogen power in his tanks, for a gain of only a few thousand kilometers. As a result, they were short range skips in space, suitable only for lightening attacks and withdrawals. The jump drives on the Sleeper Ships, meanwhile, were massive constructs capable of traveling much further, on sustainable power cells.

And so he was adrift, with the computer gradually warning him of his impending fate.

Thoughts tried to ram against the wall hed set up in his mind, to no avail other than to render him lethargic. But when the moon finally crept up to fill the entire canopy, a small glinting shape finally caught his attention.

A station?

Just a small one. Nothing major; hardly like that massive thing he saw floating around earlier. Perfect for being subtle; and for a quick getaway if need be.

Or was it abandoned? If it was his fuel gauge would have something to say about it.

He thumbed the transmit button and started saying, with a slight bit of nervous stutter:

This is Lieu- er This is James Doyle, requesting permission to dock with the station.

A few seconds went by with no reply. The Lieutenant started to feel sweat make its way down his back; why wouldnt they respond if all the others so far had heard his messages? Even on a coded frequency?

This is Thunder Bay, we read you, came a shrill voice, almost metallic, Bay Two is cleared for landing.

Uh, thank you, was all he managed to say.

One of the doors on the stubby end of the station folded inwards, revealing a small alcove perfectly sized for a ship like his or any fighter for that matter. Not knowing what their docking protocol was, he put on his landing lights and eased the fighter inside. Reaching down, he pulled out the lever which activated the landing gear; a faint metallic hiss and three green lights gave him the go-ahead to set it down on the hull below.

No sooner had the little skis absorbed the shock of landing had the doors been shut and oxygen pumped into a repressurizing hangar. His computer gave him an affirmative beep, a backup sensor in order to keep him from accidentally venting his cockpit.

Taking a deep breath, James Doyle of the Western Alliance popped loose the seals on his helmet, pulled it off, and opened the canopy.

The first impression was one of disorientation. On his way out of the pit, his leg seemed to hit nothing, wobble, and give way. And by the time he was on all fours the contents of his stomach were across the floor.

He felt horrible; the change was so rapid he could hardly concentrate on keeping upright. But worst of all he was afraid of what it was, or what caused it, and this fear was threatening to pull the plugs in the dam.

Oly ****, boy, a man said, running up to him, Didnt your parents ever teach ya to never drink and fly??

Trying to hold back another heave, Doyle looked up at him and made out a blurry figure before him. The guy was dressed in rather informal garb, some type of vest, slacks, with lubricants and other mechanical detritus on his face and hands.

Im amazed you landed that thing in here so smooth, bein like that, the man chuckled, revealing a crooked set of grinning teeth. His slicked up hand went down and grasped Doyles, hauling him to his feet.

The Lieutenant was too busy trying to keep his feet on the ground to hear what he man said, but it didnt matter, since the man was already gazing over his shoulder at the fighter behind him.

The blazes is that thing? he muttered, leaving Doyle behind as if he didnt see him standing there. Look at this What kinda ship is this?

Doyle shook his head violently, trying to knock this odd onset of nausea and lack of equilibrium away, and managed to succeed to some extent. He found himself breathing pretty hard as well; it was if the wind was knocked out of him.

Good God Almighty, the strange technician continued, Look at those engines! And, and the markings! Is this some kinda kit-bash ship or somethin son?

Wha What? the pilot groaned.

You must be some kinda historian or somethin with roundels like that, eh?

Historian?

History

What are you talking about? Doyle said between clenched teeth.

Old Alliance general marking; the point where they gave up usin individual country symbols towards the end of the War.

End of the?

Yknow what this reminds me of? One of those Borderworlds jobs. Yknow, the the, uh the Dagger! Thats right, Dagger! Look at it, placement of everythings so damn close!

Doyle swallowed hard and managed to compose himself enough to respond more coherently.

Its Its a

Minuteman! the technician shouted triumphantly, I knew I remembered it from somewhere! I read a lot about ships, ya hear? Old stuff, new stuff, all kinds a stuff, always pays off sooner or later. Ill be damned! Is this a kit?

A what? No, no it was given to me just a few days ago, Doyle replied, I lost my other one

Two?? the man nearly yelped with excitement, I never knew any of these were left over! In mint condition! And you had two?? Hell, boy, tell me where you get your stock from!

Look, Doyle said, trying to cut off the mans direction, I just need a refuel, main tanks and afterburner, thats all, just a-

Names Jax, the technician said, offering his hand. Im the head honcho around this place.

Er, Doyle, James Doyle

So Jimmy, a refuel eh? Well itll be a little tough; not like they make the right fuel mixtures and probes for stuff like this anymore eh? Well, that is if its in original condition, no mods n such. Extra work then, itll cost you a bit.

James bit his lip, Money?

Makes the world go round, yes it does. A lot, Jax responded.

I uh

Doyle pulled out a small card from one of the pockets on his flight suit. It was attached to his Alliance dog-tag, with several minute bar codes inscribed on it.

All I have is this

The hell is at? Jax blurted out.

Er, my uh

Lemme see, the technician grunted, snatching it from his hands. He scratched his head for a few seconds, and then his eyes bugged out.

Damn, youre loaded with antiques arent you? But there aint no Alliance banks left over, sorry buddy.

Doyle winced. Sir-

Call me Jax.

Uh, Jax, I really dont have-

Jaxs jaw dropped. You tellin me with stuff like that youre a beggar??

Doyles throat contracted dryly as he swallowed.

Well Jax whispered to himself, scratching his chin. He turned back towards the Minuteman Fighter and let his eyes soak up the photons for a bit, while Doyle simply sat, fretting out the thought of being forced to steal the fuel himself.

Never in all my days did a Junker get the opportunity to have a look-see on somethin like this, son, Ill tell you that. Jax looked over with a wry grin. Ill take that as payment.

The Lieutenant heaved a sigh of relief, Thank you

Dont mention it, Jax cut him off. Ill take extra special care of this one, he said with a wink, You just make yourself at home here in Thunder Bay and Ill get you all sorted out though its amazing you made it this far without any Cruise Engine on that thing

Cruise what?

Jax shot him a glance. Yeah, you dont look so good. Theres a rest station over there, by the way I came in. Go nap or something.

Yes, nap, sure Doyle was in no condition to complain as he half-stumbled towards the doorway.