Itineris

[Vogel]

The beams above him were cold, gray, and sturdy.

James Doyle found himself awake in the dimly lit guests quarters on Thunder Bay Depot, laying on his back.

He shot up to a sitting position and felt the cold sweat on his back and forehead. Was he awake? Was he asleep? Was?

He stumbled out of the bed and made his way down the hallway, lit by a few flickering florescent panels above. The door leading to the hangar bay where his fighter was parked was no more worse for wear, although the control panel looked a little dented in.

He dented it just slightly more.

And there was his Minuteman.

Still there Thank God

Thank God? For what?

He tried to swallow, but yet again his throat was too dry and hurt instead. The bay was well lit, but not terribly active. Some station-worker was moving some boxes on a cart along side the opposite wall, and some silhouettes were moving about in one of the control rooms situated high above the ground level, but otherwise it was vacant.

This was Thunder Bay Depot.

Where was that?

His head ached; little pulses of acute pain shot out here and there but the rest of it had settled into a dull ache that hed nearly forgotten about. As for the rest of his body, he didnt feel like hed rested at all; his muscles felt weak, even flimsy, and there was an overall feeling of imbalance that threatened to bring the floor a lot closer to his face.

But his fighter looked fine.

He limped his way across the floor to it, dragging his feet behind him. It was the only familiar sight, the only recurring factor, the only reliable object in his mind right now.

It was here.

But it was also there.

Where was there?

It didnt matter now, he was too exhausted to dwell on it; he reached out and touched the little snubfighter on the nose with his hands, reveling in the familiar feel of Alliance manufacture.

His fighter.

Jax came up from behind, giving Doyle a start which somewhat broke him out of his weak lethargy.
The tech looked haggard, bug-eyed.

Is is there something wrong, Jax? Doyle asked innocently.

Jax just stared at him for a few moments before finding the words to speak.

Its a lovely ship, and all that, Mr. Doyle, but ah, he said uneasily, Its not exactly the most comfortable ship Ive worked on

Doyle just stared back, still confused.

Well, I, ah Jax continued, Put in a gate communicator, but it kind of fizzled out and refused to work Made a conversion probe for it and refueled it on a synthetic mixture but the engine didnt start, and uh

And what?

Its kind of cold

Cold?

To the touch

But it was room temperature, Doyle muttered, What are you talking about?

Jax looked over at the Minuteman and shifted in his boots, bit his lip, then walked over and laid his hand on the nose of it.

He cussed and yanked his hand away from it, hollering, That aint room temp, God it feels even colder than last time!

The implications bounced around in Doyles head but couldnt find a logical conclusion. In the end he just found it rather frightening, and the urge to leave bubbled up rapidly.

Its fueled?

But it wont run, Jax replied, holding his hand.

Did you restock the cargo bay?

If by restocked you mean shoved rations and **** in and slammed the door shut, yeah

The Lieutenant just felt even sicker, and the intense urge to hop in that ship and get the helmet on his head swelled to the breaking point.

I guess Ill set out then Are you sure I cant repay you anything?

Jax glared at him, without response.

Shaken, Doyle slowly limped over to the cockpit and climbed inside, one leg after the other. He moved the helmet out of the way before sitting down and started strapping himself in, completely disregarding the sweaty state of his flight suit.

He hit the Fuel Starter and Engine Start buttons.

And the engine core roared to life within a few seconds.

Jax took a few steps back and looked terrified.

Trying to wipe the terrified mans face from his memory, Doyle checked all the instruments, found everything running satisfactorily and keyed his headset.

Uh, Thunder Bay control this is James Doyle, bay Two, requesting takeoff clearance...

There was no answer.

Control?

Cleared, came the terse, hurried reply.

Doyle watched Jax sprint towards the exit and slam the door shut behind him; whether or not his haste was in fear of being vented into space or fear of Doyle he didnt know.

But his ship felt room temperature to him.

Even the new panel, crudely constructed, that was supposed to let him communicate with those gates was operating, with little readouts blinking here and there.

I dont know what he was going on about, Doyle mused as the air vented and the massive bay door split open.

He felt good.