We dropped out of translight somewhere between the orbits of a couple of gas giants, where there was plenty of space to make it safe. The navigation computer had picked a good spot, but it always takes a moment to get your bearings.
“There’s it is.” Number One pointed out a beacon flashing brightly, about 50 million kilometres to our right. The light blinked out its identity sequence: red-white-red.
“Is that MarsCo?” I asked. “I hope I have enough credits to pay.”
“No, that's the wrong red,” Number One replied. “I think it’s Antares Fuels.” The impulse engine hummed, bringing us closer to the space station.
“Damn,” I replied. “Their stations are always such pigsties.”
“Can I get some fries?” the teenager whined.
“No! This is strictly a stop so your little brother can pee. We’ll eat when we get to our destination.”
“Fine!” she pouted. “Why don’t I just starve? That’ll make you happy.” I tightened my knuckles on the thrust control.
“So help me God, if you keep complaining, l’ll turn this ship around and we won’t even go.” The youngest started crying and Number One shot me a withering look. I hate going home for the holidays.
Comments
Be the first to comment.