This is a short (ish) story I knocked up, set in the Elite universe. I figured I'd post the first chapter and stick up more of it if people like it. It's called: 'Dealing with maintenance'. I used to be a writer for a daily newspaper, I've had stories published in the past and still do some writing for a living, so hopefully it's not too rotten. But I'll let you all be the judges of that.
‘PV-286 from Rapier Control, please expedite your approach.’
Hollister rolled the ship level with the station entry port markers and pushed the throttle up a little, speeding his approach.
‘Rapier Control from PV-286, affirmative.’
‘PV-286, you are cleared to land. Check gear down and probes retracted. Expect Bay 27.’
‘PV-286, acknowledged.’
The outer doors of the station began to roll open, the back wall of the hangar elevator slowly revealing the advertising slogan: Diet Steakette - It’s BAD!
‘It certainly is.’ Muttered Hollister to nobody in particular, although it would be an improvement on the rubbish he’d been eating for the past three weeks on his journey back from the Wolf system.
A quick burst of reverse thrust to check his speed as the station swallowed his ship, then a deft blast on the top thrusters to settle it onto the elevator floor. Behind him, the inner and outer doors rumbled shut as he felt the ship touch down and the magnetic locks kick in. A muted whooshing noise indicated the deck was pressurising. As the green pressurisation light flickered on, looking up, he noticed ‘It’s BAD’ canted over at a jaunty angle. His ship wasn’t level.
‘What the hell...?’
Thumbing the master switch, Hollister banged the quick release harness and slammed a fist on the canopy release override switch. Peering to the left, over the edge of the cockpit rim as the canopy whined upwards, he disconnected the comms and life support umbilicals, saw the exit ladder extending, coming to a halt a good three feet off the deck.
‘********. That doesn’t look good.’
Climbing down, he jumped to the deck and peered under the ship’s belly. The starboard undercarriage leg was completely compressed, a thick black trail of filthy hydraulic fluid, already pooling on the checkerplate, told its own story.
‘Oh man. How much is that gonna cost?’
Swaying unsteadily in his magnetic boots as the elevator platform laboriously trundled his ship into bay 27, he reached into his flight suit leg pocket and grabbed his phone, quickly thumbing the screen until it found Manzo’s number. After an interminable number of rings, he heard Manzo yawn. The clang of a spanner dropping to the deck came through the speaker, followed by some muttered oath.
‘Manzo? Yeah, it’s Joe Hollister, can you drag your ass over to bay 27 and take a look over my ship? She’s got a busted oleo and there may be a few other bits and pieces need sorting out, I’ll be in the Flake Out having a drink. Come on over when you’ve got the bad news and I’ll buy you a beer.’
‘You’re damn right you will, you owe me enough of them.’ Manzo groaned.
‘I love you too, ****er.’ Hollister yawned as he disconnected the call.
The Flake Out bar on deck three of Rapier Station was where all the pilots too cheap to go somewhere better hung out, but at this time of day on the Station it was almost empty. Generic techno music blasted off the walls, accompanied by a haze of flashing purple and red lights through the neo smoke, which rolled lazily in the air. Here and there the odd person sat in a booth, minding their own business, or chatting with difficulty, over the terrible music. Hollister collected his beer up off the bar and settled into an empty booth.
Three drinks later, he noticed one of the Flake Out's hookers readying to proposition him, as he expected, after she’d watched him get just drunk enough to impair his better judgment a little. Although if she’d known him well, she’d have also known it would take more than three glasses of Strato to make him anything other than merely friendly.
‘Like to buy me a drink, flyboy?’ She opened.
‘No, but I’d like to fu-’
‘Hollister you son of a .’ Manzo called from the entrance.
‘Alas, it seems true love is not to be, my darling.’ Hollister fawned.
‘Screw you, ********.’ She replied over her shoulder, as she zeroed in on new target.
'Well, apparently not.'
Hollister waved over to the barman, signalling two more drinks.
‘Two more of your finest glasses of recycled ****, barkeep!’ He shouted cheerfully.
The barman looked up and smiled, muttering something under his breath about pilots ‘all being tossers’ as he brought over two more glasses of Strato, the beer guaranteed to get you out of your system, but be completely out of your system, within six hours. Hence it being the poison of choice for spacers.
‘Park yourself here buddy. What’s the bad news?’ Hollister joked, as Manzo strolled up.
‘You won’t be smiling when I tell you Joe, that’s for damn sure.’ Manzo returned, his face completely serious as he eased into the booth, opposite Hollister.
If Hollister was even remotely drunk, now he was completely sober.
‘What do you mean? It’s only a busted oleo...’ Hollister countered, hopefully.
‘Well, let’s put it this way. If there was a meteor heading for this station, and yours was the only ship I could fly off in. I’d stay on the station and take my chances with the meteor.’ Manzo chirped, pleased at his wit.
‘Or, to put it another way, it would be quicker to list what doesn’t need fixing. Bottom line, you’re looking at 24,000 credits to get you airworthy.’
Hollister coughed: ‘Excuse me. I’m sorry, this music’s a bit loud. For a second it sounded like you said 24,000.’
‘That’s because I did.’ Manzo deadpanned.
‘Oh come on Manzo! This is Joe, your buddy. 24,000?!’ Hollister pleaded.
‘And that’s mates rates too, Joe. If you were just some nobody, it’d be nearer thirty.’
‘Jesus Manzo, what the hell is wrong with it that’s gonna cost 24,000?’
Manzo took a breath: ‘Busted oleo, and not just one, all three. Six panels have popped rivets and need re-skinning. The cockpit seal is damn near perished away. The starboard plenum chamber needs a reline. Both engines need re-bushing. The second stage compression blades on the number two need totally replacing. Three nav lights are out. The weapon mounting pylons are all misaligned. And last but not least, the main spar is cracked on the starboard side, and that’s gonna need some serious argon welding to save it. You should have seen the diagnostic screen when I plugged into your system, it lit up like a ****ing Christmas Tree. I’m amazed you’re still alive to be honest after flying that thing. It’s a wreck. It’s a goddamn miracle you even made it here.’
Hollister let out a long sigh: ‘Are you sure?’
‘No Joe, I made it all up. Of course I’m sure.’
‘Well I’m sure I ain’t got 24,000 credits. That I’m definitely sure about. That run to Salt 34 damn near wiped my bank balance out. Surely there must be some kind of arrangement we can come to?’
‘Oh there is. I fix your ship, and you give me 24,000 credits.’
‘Come on Manzo, I’m serious. There must be something you need doing, and let’s be honest, all those parts are just sat on your shelf doing nothing right now anyway. Aren’t they?’
‘It’s not just the parts, it’s the labour. We’re talking at least three days to get all that done. And I don’t work for free. Not even for you Joe. You’ve busted that ship up pretty good, you must have been flying her really badly to get her in that state.’
Hollister, normally fiercely egotistical about his flying skills, which were certainly good, ignored the dig.
‘I’m not asking you to work for free Manzo. Like I said, there must be something you need doing?’
‘Well as a matter of fact there is one thing I would like doing, but I’m not sure if anyone could actually do it.’
‘There you go! Name it. You know me Manzo, I can get things done.’
‘I dunno. I’m not sure.’
‘Look spit it out. Who do you need me to kill?’ Hollister laughed.
Manzo looked about furtively and moved closer, affecting to whisper, even though the music meant it was actually just a slightly quieter shout. Hollister wondered if he actually was going to name someone who he wanted dead. Not that he’d have objected to that too strongly, if it got his ship fixed.
‘You know Stannac, right?’
Manzo sounded conspiratorial.
‘He’s an *******, terrible pilot. Yeah I know him. Hell, I’ll kill that guy for free, as a service to aviators everywhere, and to humanity in general. And you question my piloting skills? ’
Manzo shrugged as if to say, your ship is the witness to that one. Hollister let it go and allowed Manzo to continue, with an impatient come on wave of his hand.
Manzo continued the tale: ‘Well I got him to fly my old stuff to here from Parsus IV. You know I used to work there, right? Anyway, he collected my stuff, flew it here, but he combined the trip with a little bit of smuggling, it being from Parsus. Anyway, he got scanned and stopped when he landed here and they confiscated the containers, and my stuff was in one of them. They’re due to be destroyed next week, and Pierpoint in customs said it’s tough, I can’t have my stuff back, even though mine is nothing illegal, just paperwork and things.’
Hollister thought for a second.
‘So how do I figure in all this?’
‘Look Joe, you know what customs are like. They’re all running one sort of scam or another. So here’s the deal. You talk to Pierpoint and offer to help him work one of his scams with your ship, which I’ll repair for you, in return for getting my stuff back. How’s that sound?’
‘It sounds like we’d better drink up.’
Manzo looked puzzled. Hollister stood up and edged out of the booth.
‘Because you’ve got some argon welding to do my friend. And I’ve got an appointment with Pierpoint.’
Manzo sloshed his Strato down in one, got up and edged out of the booth as the hooker approached him. Hollister strolled toward the exit.
‘And no ****ty pattern parts, either Manzo. I want the good stuff.’
‘PV-286 from Rapier Control, please expedite your approach.’
Hollister rolled the ship level with the station entry port markers and pushed the throttle up a little, speeding his approach.
‘Rapier Control from PV-286, affirmative.’
‘PV-286, you are cleared to land. Check gear down and probes retracted. Expect Bay 27.’
‘PV-286, acknowledged.’
The outer doors of the station began to roll open, the back wall of the hangar elevator slowly revealing the advertising slogan: Diet Steakette - It’s BAD!
‘It certainly is.’ Muttered Hollister to nobody in particular, although it would be an improvement on the rubbish he’d been eating for the past three weeks on his journey back from the Wolf system.
A quick burst of reverse thrust to check his speed as the station swallowed his ship, then a deft blast on the top thrusters to settle it onto the elevator floor. Behind him, the inner and outer doors rumbled shut as he felt the ship touch down and the magnetic locks kick in. A muted whooshing noise indicated the deck was pressurising. As the green pressurisation light flickered on, looking up, he noticed ‘It’s BAD’ canted over at a jaunty angle. His ship wasn’t level.
‘What the hell...?’
Thumbing the master switch, Hollister banged the quick release harness and slammed a fist on the canopy release override switch. Peering to the left, over the edge of the cockpit rim as the canopy whined upwards, he disconnected the comms and life support umbilicals, saw the exit ladder extending, coming to a halt a good three feet off the deck.
‘********. That doesn’t look good.’
Climbing down, he jumped to the deck and peered under the ship’s belly. The starboard undercarriage leg was completely compressed, a thick black trail of filthy hydraulic fluid, already pooling on the checkerplate, told its own story.
‘Oh man. How much is that gonna cost?’
Swaying unsteadily in his magnetic boots as the elevator platform laboriously trundled his ship into bay 27, he reached into his flight suit leg pocket and grabbed his phone, quickly thumbing the screen until it found Manzo’s number. After an interminable number of rings, he heard Manzo yawn. The clang of a spanner dropping to the deck came through the speaker, followed by some muttered oath.
‘Manzo? Yeah, it’s Joe Hollister, can you drag your ass over to bay 27 and take a look over my ship? She’s got a busted oleo and there may be a few other bits and pieces need sorting out, I’ll be in the Flake Out having a drink. Come on over when you’ve got the bad news and I’ll buy you a beer.’
‘You’re damn right you will, you owe me enough of them.’ Manzo groaned.
‘I love you too, ****er.’ Hollister yawned as he disconnected the call.
The Flake Out bar on deck three of Rapier Station was where all the pilots too cheap to go somewhere better hung out, but at this time of day on the Station it was almost empty. Generic techno music blasted off the walls, accompanied by a haze of flashing purple and red lights through the neo smoke, which rolled lazily in the air. Here and there the odd person sat in a booth, minding their own business, or chatting with difficulty, over the terrible music. Hollister collected his beer up off the bar and settled into an empty booth.
Three drinks later, he noticed one of the Flake Out's hookers readying to proposition him, as he expected, after she’d watched him get just drunk enough to impair his better judgment a little. Although if she’d known him well, she’d have also known it would take more than three glasses of Strato to make him anything other than merely friendly.
‘Like to buy me a drink, flyboy?’ She opened.
‘No, but I’d like to fu-’
‘Hollister you son of a .’ Manzo called from the entrance.
‘Alas, it seems true love is not to be, my darling.’ Hollister fawned.
‘Screw you, ********.’ She replied over her shoulder, as she zeroed in on new target.
'Well, apparently not.'
Hollister waved over to the barman, signalling two more drinks.
‘Two more of your finest glasses of recycled ****, barkeep!’ He shouted cheerfully.
The barman looked up and smiled, muttering something under his breath about pilots ‘all being tossers’ as he brought over two more glasses of Strato, the beer guaranteed to get you out of your system, but be completely out of your system, within six hours. Hence it being the poison of choice for spacers.
‘Park yourself here buddy. What’s the bad news?’ Hollister joked, as Manzo strolled up.
‘You won’t be smiling when I tell you Joe, that’s for damn sure.’ Manzo returned, his face completely serious as he eased into the booth, opposite Hollister.
If Hollister was even remotely drunk, now he was completely sober.
‘What do you mean? It’s only a busted oleo...’ Hollister countered, hopefully.
‘Well, let’s put it this way. If there was a meteor heading for this station, and yours was the only ship I could fly off in. I’d stay on the station and take my chances with the meteor.’ Manzo chirped, pleased at his wit.
‘Or, to put it another way, it would be quicker to list what doesn’t need fixing. Bottom line, you’re looking at 24,000 credits to get you airworthy.’
Hollister coughed: ‘Excuse me. I’m sorry, this music’s a bit loud. For a second it sounded like you said 24,000.’
‘That’s because I did.’ Manzo deadpanned.
‘Oh come on Manzo! This is Joe, your buddy. 24,000?!’ Hollister pleaded.
‘And that’s mates rates too, Joe. If you were just some nobody, it’d be nearer thirty.’
‘Jesus Manzo, what the hell is wrong with it that’s gonna cost 24,000?’
Manzo took a breath: ‘Busted oleo, and not just one, all three. Six panels have popped rivets and need re-skinning. The cockpit seal is damn near perished away. The starboard plenum chamber needs a reline. Both engines need re-bushing. The second stage compression blades on the number two need totally replacing. Three nav lights are out. The weapon mounting pylons are all misaligned. And last but not least, the main spar is cracked on the starboard side, and that’s gonna need some serious argon welding to save it. You should have seen the diagnostic screen when I plugged into your system, it lit up like a ****ing Christmas Tree. I’m amazed you’re still alive to be honest after flying that thing. It’s a wreck. It’s a goddamn miracle you even made it here.’
Hollister let out a long sigh: ‘Are you sure?’
‘No Joe, I made it all up. Of course I’m sure.’
‘Well I’m sure I ain’t got 24,000 credits. That I’m definitely sure about. That run to Salt 34 damn near wiped my bank balance out. Surely there must be some kind of arrangement we can come to?’
‘Oh there is. I fix your ship, and you give me 24,000 credits.’
‘Come on Manzo, I’m serious. There must be something you need doing, and let’s be honest, all those parts are just sat on your shelf doing nothing right now anyway. Aren’t they?’
‘It’s not just the parts, it’s the labour. We’re talking at least three days to get all that done. And I don’t work for free. Not even for you Joe. You’ve busted that ship up pretty good, you must have been flying her really badly to get her in that state.’
Hollister, normally fiercely egotistical about his flying skills, which were certainly good, ignored the dig.
‘I’m not asking you to work for free Manzo. Like I said, there must be something you need doing?’
‘Well as a matter of fact there is one thing I would like doing, but I’m not sure if anyone could actually do it.’
‘There you go! Name it. You know me Manzo, I can get things done.’
‘I dunno. I’m not sure.’
‘Look spit it out. Who do you need me to kill?’ Hollister laughed.
Manzo looked about furtively and moved closer, affecting to whisper, even though the music meant it was actually just a slightly quieter shout. Hollister wondered if he actually was going to name someone who he wanted dead. Not that he’d have objected to that too strongly, if it got his ship fixed.
‘You know Stannac, right?’
Manzo sounded conspiratorial.
‘He’s an *******, terrible pilot. Yeah I know him. Hell, I’ll kill that guy for free, as a service to aviators everywhere, and to humanity in general. And you question my piloting skills? ’
Manzo shrugged as if to say, your ship is the witness to that one. Hollister let it go and allowed Manzo to continue, with an impatient come on wave of his hand.
Manzo continued the tale: ‘Well I got him to fly my old stuff to here from Parsus IV. You know I used to work there, right? Anyway, he collected my stuff, flew it here, but he combined the trip with a little bit of smuggling, it being from Parsus. Anyway, he got scanned and stopped when he landed here and they confiscated the containers, and my stuff was in one of them. They’re due to be destroyed next week, and Pierpoint in customs said it’s tough, I can’t have my stuff back, even though mine is nothing illegal, just paperwork and things.’
Hollister thought for a second.
‘So how do I figure in all this?’
‘Look Joe, you know what customs are like. They’re all running one sort of scam or another. So here’s the deal. You talk to Pierpoint and offer to help him work one of his scams with your ship, which I’ll repair for you, in return for getting my stuff back. How’s that sound?’
‘It sounds like we’d better drink up.’
Manzo looked puzzled. Hollister stood up and edged out of the booth.
‘Because you’ve got some argon welding to do my friend. And I’ve got an appointment with Pierpoint.’
Manzo sloshed his Strato down in one, got up and edged out of the booth as the hooker approached him. Hollister strolled toward the exit.
‘And no ****ty pattern parts, either Manzo. I want the good stuff.’
Last edited:
And then trying to explain syncing, and attempting to hammer the idea of a manometer into a fair-weather v-twin riders mind. 
