bandombigbang 10: Part I
Master Post - Part II
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According to the Academy of Flight and Extraterrestrial Vessels (AFEV) there are six official classes of spaceship: cruisers, fighters, battalions, freighters, frigates, and starliners. The first three are primarily Military issue, the fourth and fifth are trading staples, and the last are listed wholly for private sector use.
In accordance with regulations of the AFEV and the Military, any spaceship must be taken out of use after fifty-five years of service, regardless of upkeep and condition. After fifty-five years of service, a ship is regulated to the private trash dumps (or as it has become more popular in the last fifty years, the governmental recycling centers) or one of the manufacturing companies for dismantling.
The starliner Fuck City, known as ‘Andy’ to its crew, has approximately one hundred fifteen years of service. It has not graced any dump, recycling center, or manufacturing company at any point in its excessively long life because ‘Andy’ is not like any other ship transporting cargo to every charted edge of the Confederate Republic (and if the rumors are true, quite a few of the uncharted ones).
‘Andy’ is a Living Ship. It is the only Living Ship on record. Not even the Ship fully knows the when or where it came about.
As a Living Ship, ‘Andy’ is subject to a slightly different set of rules and regulations than a fully mechanical ship would be. In fact, Andy is treated much like a highly improbably Citizen, and as such, enjoys many of the rights and freedoms as its more humanoid counterpoints. Rights including the choice of its working companions and of work meeting its needs and abilities.
‘Andy’ has never worked for the Military or any formal part of the Confederate Republic, beyond a single experience during its twenty-third to twenty-fifth years of service, of which there is no official record of beyond a single notation in the AFEV shipping logs.
(A personal note of caution: Do not ask the Ship about these years of service. It rarely turns out well for the inquirer. See also: incident reports from Louisiana and Kentucky Quadrants.)
Instead, ‘Andy’ has moved through the private sector, working as either passenger or cargo transport. Currently, ‘Andy’ works small cargo transports with the occasional passenger jump.
‘Andy’ is a massive starliner with a quantum drive unlike most ships currently in service. This is highly unusual, especially considering the age of the Ship. Also unusual is the Ship’s prickly consciousness and the small size of its current crew of four men: Matt Mixon, Stu Ross, Ryan Morgan, and Kyle Johnson. All four men have connections (albeit slim) to various anti-Republic groups.
It is the advice of this reporting official that Fuck City or ‘Andy’ should be closely monitored. There is a high probability of anti-Republic leanings - and possible actions - within this combination of Ship and humanoids.
- Official Report 97.52.0193
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Andy is a super-massive, super-awesome starliner equipped with a kickass quantum drive that jumps through space and time unlike anything that has yet been manufactured within the entire scope of the known galaxy. He is also a prickly, grudge-holding asshole.
“We need to stop at New Chicago, Andy!” Matt insists. They have this argument every time a job or whatever takes them anywhere near the Illinois quadrant. This time is at the tail end of a very long line of jobs that, while successful, had been seriously draining for all involved. “Stu has a feed on a trio of scientists looking for transport. Easy job, easy pay - practically a vacation!”
“I’m a Ship, Mixon. Not a fucking hourly rate employee,” Andy snaps. “I have no use for a vacation.”
“Well, man, the rest of the crew is human, and I, for one, could sure as hell use the break,” Matt says. He flops down on the pilot chair and plants his feet on the steering console. “Trust me on this one, mi amigo. Fuck City needs the break.”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me what to do again?” Andy sighs, the sound reverberating through the Ship’s speakers. More specifically through the speakers located in the pilot chair and console, where the vibrations throw Matt’s feet to the floor. “We’ve had this discussion, Mixon.”
“Whatever, dude. We’re going to New Chicago.” Matt swings his feet backup onto the console. “Stu’s already sent the confirmation that we’re taking the job.” He grins widely up at the ceiling. “You wouldn’t want to give yourself a bad name, now would you?”
There’s a soft fizzle sound, like the sound made by opening one of Stu’s rare and extremely contraband soda pops, and then Andy appears on the bridge next to Matt’s seat. Well, not Andy ‘cause Andy is totally the entire fucking Ship, but Andy’s preferred holographic projection of himself. It’s a hot little number - tiny, compact little dude with long red hair and pale, pale skin - that Matt appreciates more than he should considering how often he has to interface with the dude to pilot.
Matt doesn’t stop himself from staring though. ‘Cause, fuck, at least he isn’t drooling like that time Andy decided to try out a smoking hot, female, supermodel body.
“Mixon, did any of you bother to look into these scientists before you agreed to transport them?” Andy demands, hands on his hips. They’re nice hips, too, especially since Andy seems to have an aversion to wearing anything except very flimsy cloth shorts that are barely hanging onto his hips. “They could be working for the fucking government for all we know. Matt!”
“Dude, you are such a fucking tease,” Matt says. He grins cheekily as Andy levels a glare at him. “Your batteries not charged enough to replicate a full outfit?”
“One day I will figure out a way to strangle you with two hands of my very own, Mixon,” Andy promises.
“Sure thing, man. I’ll keep that in mind.” Matt shrugs. He’s practically one hundred percent positive that Andy would never try to kill him. It isn’t like the Ship hasn’t had a million and one chances in the last ten or so years. “Anyway, of course we checked them out! Do you honestly think that we’d let anyone with government leanings on board?”
“St. Jacob’s,” Andy reminds him.
Matt shrugs again. Sure it sucks that they’ll never be able to go back to either the Louisiana or Kentucky quadrants, but what were Matt and Kyle supposed to have done? Turn Andy over to a bunch of crazy space rednecks? Yeah, right. Then they’d have been tossed into the Pen when Andy proceeded to commit mass homicide once his crew had been tossed off. Right. “You really need to get over that, man. Totally ancient history.”
Andy raises an eyebrow. “It’s been six months.”
“Like I said, ancient history.” Matt swings his feet to the floor so that he can punch in the coordinates for the rundown space station outside of New Chicago where they’re scheduled to meet the latest in a long string of passengers. He knows that Andy doesn’t need him to do this all manually, but Matt has to do something to maintain his credibility as the Ship’s pilot.
Also, Matt knows there’s a faster way to New Chicago than the course he just plotted, and he can’t help himself from poking at Andy even just the little bit. “We’re just picking them up, jumping to wherever they need to go for a few days for some experiment or something, then we’re dropping them off. Easy-peasy.”
Andy’s hologram winks out of existence as Matt finishes punching in the numbers, but not before he gives him one last scowl. “Fuck, Mixon, stop trying to do my job. I’m better at it.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Professor, just take us where we need to go,” Matt laughs as the coordinates seemingly alter themselves into a faster, more streamlined route.
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“Dude, you should stop fucking with Andy,” Kyle says. “Every time you piss him off, he drops the temperature in the maintenance bay. I’m too fucking young and too fucking beautiful to die from hypothermia.”
Matt rolls his eyes. “Dude, you should grow some balls. I haven’t done anything.”
Ryan slides up to the table, pushing the refilled bowl of popcorn across it. “Except force him to make the jump to New Chicago, thus making sure that we will all be living in near-arctic temperatures until we pick up our cargo and leave again.”
“Didn’t we agree that you were going to sweet talk him into it? Not piss him off into one of his fucking sulks?” Stu asks. He deals out the cards. “Deuces wild, motherfuckers, and Morgan, keep your butterfingers off the cards.”
Ryan flips him off. But he wipes his fingers off before picking up his hand. “You and your fucking cards, man.”
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Andy is a Class Three Venian Cross Starliner. He has six decks - One contains the bridge and weapons; Two and Three contain crew quarters, living areas, and mess; Four contains the labs and the medical bay; Five contains engineering and maintenance; and Six is the cargo hold. He is capable of self-sustaining a full crew of thirty for six months minimum without docking, and can outrun any other ship yet produced.
(If asked, Andy will point out that the Class Three Venian Cross Starliner was actually modeled after him, considering that particular make was first manufactured seventy-years after Andy's first year of service.)
Because of his size, most docks - space or planetary - forgo the usual up-close-and-personal inspection process for a faster, more complex, impersonal scan. Andy hates being scanned. Not as much as he hates being boarded, but being scanned is up very high on his 'Do Not Like' list.
"They're going to scan me," Andy mutters. He appears on the screen closest to the pilot's chair, and he's glaring at Matt. Though if Matt were being uncharitable, he'd say Andy was more pouting than glaring.
"Dude, you scan us all of the time," Stu reminds him. Stu, like the rest of the crew, is lounging around the bridge trying to act like they've important work to be doing. "You're totally obsessive compulsive about scanning."
"No one asked your opinion, Rossman." Andy transfers his glare to Stu and the station he's pretending to working on. "And I do a periodic scan of every level every two hours; you don't seem to have a problem with that when we're being invaded."
"Eh," Stu shrugs. "Anyway, my observations are free-of-charge to my friends. I can't let my genius go to waste, after all."
"As amusing as Stu's delusions of grandeur can be, we've an incoming wave from the station security," Kyle breaks in. "Perhaps we can act like professionals for a few minutes, hmmm?"
"Sounds unlikely." There’s another fizzing-pop sound, and Andy's holographic shape takes form in his customary spot next to the pilot's chair. He's wearing a shirt this time, and Matt has a feeling his attempt to hide his pout wasn't very successful. For a hologram, Andy's glare packs a whole lot of heat.
"Try anyway," Kyle deadpans. "Or they'll do a scan and a full-tactical search."
"Luckily, we're going to avoid that wholly terrifying possibility all together," Matt says. Full-tactical searches involve large smelly men who take too much pleasure in attempting to intimidate the crew, which tends to piss Andy off. And that never ends well. Matt sits straight at the pilot's station; around him the rest of the crew does as well. "Patch them through."
"You do realize that you have a station of your very own, right?" Ryan gripes from what would be the primary communications station if they weren't on a sentient Ship. But he hits the button anyway.
"Station 7-2-5, New Chicago. Reason for docking?" A bored sounding middle-aged woman asks. "How long?"
"Passenger pick up," Matt says. "Two days, three tops."
"For a pickup?" the lady asks. She looks up from her paperwork with a raised eyebrow. "Awfully long pick up."
Matt grins. He hates it when they end up at the rundown, back-galaxy stations where every little peon hotshot wannabe has to give them issues. There might be more government involvement at the larger stations, but it is so much easier to slip in under the radar. "The crew also needs a little R & R; it’s been about six months."
"You don't have an R & R clearance for this quadrant," the lady tells him. Like Matt doesn't already know that. And like it ever really matters. R & R clearance paperwork is only needed for stopping on one of the Primary Planets, where the sheer mass of people and machinery means anyone who doesn’t stick to their schedules causes a backlog of movement for the entire system.
Andy had calculated the time differentials once: for a Primary Planet, a five minute shift of one schedule could cause a twelve hour lag for everyone else. For a remote space station, such as 7-2-5, New Chicago, a five minute shift actually sped shit up.
"Hence the passenger pickup," Matt tells her. Her expression hardens; obviously Matt is going to have to pull out the big guns. He really, really hates dealing with back-galaxy hotshot wannabes.
He grins for a couple of seconds longer, and then he sighs and rubs at the side of his face. "Look, I'll be honest with you. Work has been a little scarce with the new regulations, and we've been taking every above board job to come our way."
"And you haven't been doing the proper background checks," the lady accuses.
"AFEV regulations call for a surface background check that anyone with basic net access and half an IQ could do," Andy scoffs. "We abide by all AFEV standards, and we respect all of our clients' rights to privacy."
"I'm sorry," the lady snaps. "I'm authorized to speak with the Captain of the ship only. Who are you?"
Andy grins. It isn't the easy going one Matt had used to attempt to lure himself into the lady's good graces, but a creepy, creepy nasty one that makes Matt's skin crawl. Andy is good at that - too good. Stu really needs to stop watching old school Space Pirate vids.
"I am the Ship," Andy informs her.
She snorts. "Cute, but I'm not in the mood."
"Ma'am, not to tell you how to do your job, but have you actually read anything about this Ship?" Matt asks quickly before Andy can say anything to have them impounded or anything else so completely not what they want.
The lady on the screen huffs up and glares at Matt and Andy (Stu, Kyle and Ryan are all out of range of the viewing screen, lucky bastards); a deep, unsettling tingle starts up around Matt's stomach, and he's pretty sure it isn't indigestion.
"I don't care if this was the private vessel for a Republican Senator, young man," she snaps. "Every ship that wishes to dock at this station must go through the same identification procedures."
Matt sighs again. "We aren't asking you to bypass procedures..."
"Having one of your crew men act as the 'voice of your ship' is in clear violation of every procedure I have ever come across!"
"Look, lady," Stu interrupts, poking his head around Matt to look her in the digital eye. "How many life form reading have you registered?"
The lady hrumphs and glares. But answers, if a bit reluctantly. "Five. Four humans and one alien."
"How many sets of heartbeats?" Stu continues.
"I don't know what you lot are trying to pull..."
"How many heartbeats?" Stu asks again.
The lady glares some more. Stu just stares back. Matt has seen him square off against Mossian Pixies - who never blink for the very simple reason that they lack the eyelids to do so - and win. Matt leans back in the pilot's chair and wishes he had some popcorn for the show.
It takes several minutes, but the lady blinks first. She sets aside her papers and taps a few keys on the keyboard that had previously been hidden. "We are reading five life forms, four human and one alien, as I already said, and four heartbeats."
She stops talking for a moment, blinking furiously at her screen. She taps another couple of commands in before muttering. "I don't understand. There have been no recordings of any alien species to exist without a viable heartbeat..." Not true but Matt isn't going to bring up the thousands of recorded cases that probably haven't filtered this far into the Universe.
"Please re-read our official paperwork," Matt says. He hates it when this happens. They won't have time for R & R here, not unless they want someone - Republic or private sector - trying to steal Andy away from them to do experiments. Again. They're going to have to locate their clients and hightail it out of the Illinois quadrant ASAP.
Ryan seems to have come to the same conclusion as Matt. He's typing furiously away at his console, most likely trying to get a hold on this Wentz character they're here to pick up.
"Oh," the lady says after a minute and a few more keystrokes. "He is the Ship."
Stu moves out of Matt's personal space with a self-satisfied smirk. "Allow me to introduce Fuck City, the only known Living Ship in existence. We mostly just call him Andy."
"Yes, of course," she says as she turns back to them, a tight, insincere smile on her face. "As a representative of Station 7-2-5 of New Chicago, I welcome you to the Illinois quadrant and grant you your three day pass."
Matt smiles back at her, his just as insincere as hers. "We accept your welcome and thank you. We ask permission to remain in orbit around the station and to dock with our transport shuttle."
She nods. "Of course. Just allow me to initiate our standard scan - it won't take more than a few minutes, and you'll be on your way."
Matt nods again, not pointing out that she'd already completed one scan - otherwise she'd never have known the whole thing with the heartbeats.
"Have a pleasant visit, gentleman," she says once the scan has been completed. She cuts the connection before Matt can reply.
Matt spins his chair so he can glare at Andy. "Dude! What the fuck?"
Andy shrugs; Matt sort of wants to punch him. "She pissed me off!"
Scratch that. Matt definitely wants to punch him. "You just didn't want us here for three days," Matt accuses.
Andy shrugs again but doesn't say anything. His shit-eating grin is really more than enough.
"Just because you don't need the periodic rest, man, doesn't mean the rest of us can survive indefinitely without it," Matt reminds him for what has to be the two millionth time.
"Not to disrupt this little lover's quarrel," Ryan interrupts. "But I have our client's location. Between restocking and pick up, we'll only be here about twelve hours."
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Pete Wentz is a short, inked, weird little alien. He is also a crazily competent shot.
Matt watches Pete take aim around the edge the packing crate they’re hiding behind. There’s a shout and a crash, and then silence as whoever was shooting at them isn’t anymore. “Dude, you have to tell me where you learned how to do that.”
Pete laughs and winks at Matt. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Then he ducks around the edge of crate and announces the all-clear. “I think Patrick, Joe, and Stu are a couple of levels below us. Where did you say your shuttle was again?”
“If you say so, dude, but if you turn out to be a Republic agent, I’m not going to stop Andy from spacing you and your buddies,” Matt says. He climbs out behind Pete and double checks his hipshooters’ charge levels before following him past a moaning pile of broken crates. He almost stumbles over Pete when he stoops down and grabs a couple of laser rifles from the floor. “We’re two sections too far left, and how do you know where they are? We lost comms an hour ago.”
“I always know where Patrick is,” Pete says with a grin as he tosses one of the rifles over to Matt. “Come on, we have, like, five minutes before those fuckers’ backup shows.”
Matt shakes his head as he holsters his weapons so he can use the rifle. Fucking laser rifles - Andy never lets Matt use the laser rifles. “Right. So, what’s the fastest way from here to the others that doesn’t involve running into anymore hostiles?”
“Ductwork, of course,” Pete says. He pries open the grate to the main ventilation shaft and motions Matt through. “After you, dude.”
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“I told you flirting with the station owner’s daughters was a bad idea, man,” The curly haired guy tells Pete. He leans out the small hole in the wall and fires off a couple of shots, ducking back inside the hold to avoid the immediate return fire. He leans against one of the boxes that form the walls of their little hiding spot and reloads. “This might be a small station in the middle of nowhere, but that doesn’t mean we won’t need to come back some day.”
“We won’t ever need this back-galaxy station again and you know it, Joe,” Pete waves off Joe’s concern as he swaps out his liberated laser rifle with one of Patrick’s spare hipshooters, both of Pete’s having been lost when the ductwork had mostly blown up around them. “You just like their doughnuts.”
Joe shrugs easily. “Good doughnuts are hard to come by.”
Stu takes the mangled laser rifle from Matt. “I hate saying this, but, dude. Maybe Andy was right.”
“Look,” Matt says as he powers up and double checks the charge on his guns. “We knew there was a possibility of an ambush as soon as the whole Living Ship thing came up. You can’t blame our passengers for that.”
Stu levels a glare at Matt that indicates just how low Stu currently rates his intelligence level. “I wasn’t talking about the ambush, Mixon.” Stu holds up the remains of the rifle. “I was talking about this once awesome piece of weaponry. You’re never allowed to use anything other than those hipshooters again, understand? You are a disgusting, technologically inept cretin, I swear.”
Matt rolls his eyes as he tries the comms again. They’re still two floors directly below the shuttle, and they missed the last three check-ins. They need to get a message out to the others before Andy takes it into his fool head to start shooting and not asking questions. “Sure, sure, whatever, Rossman. When was the last time your comm worked?”
“About the same time as those Republic agents started firing on us. Then again…” Stu holds up the mangled remains of what was once his comm unit.
Matt winces at the mess of wires poring out of the tiny black box and does his best not to look at the corresponding hole in Stu’s shirt. “Right. Well, I’m fresh out of good ideas. How about you boys?”
“Thanks to Pete, the ductwork is out of the question,” Patrick grumbles. He has a data-pad in hand, and he flicks through a series of screens faster than Andy shooting down any of Matt’s great ideas.
“Yes, you are welcome, Patrick,” Pete says. “I am so happy to have saved your ass. Again. I do love the practice.” He leans out the hole and fires off a couple of shots that result in two screams and a minor explosion that nonetheless shakes the entire level. Matt really hopes Pete hadn’t managed to cause a hull breach somewhere. “Shit. Missed the leader.”
“We could pull a Kansas City Shuffle,” Joe says.
Patrick shakes his head before Matt can ask what that is. “Way too complicated, Trohman, and we seriously don’t have the time. Or the man power.”
“Okay.” Joe shrugs easily. Then he points behind them to where there is now a gap between the boxes behind them. Pete’s explosion must have knocked them over. Matt really hopes there isn’t anything explosive in them. “We could always just throw this awesome flash grenade out the hole and make a run for it. The stairs are right there.”
Patrick narrows his eyes at Joe. Who just smiles back happily.
“Right. Sounds good!” Matt breaks in. “That is an excellent idea, Joe.”
“It is not an excellent idea!” Patrick protests. “You know that they’re guarding your shuttle; going to the shuttle is suicide!”
“Nah, it’s totally an excellent idea - it’s just that it is also a poorly thought out plan,” Matt tells him as Pete starts shuffling Patrick through the narrow gap between the boxes. “Now, going back to Fuck City without Andy’s shuttle? That’s suicide. And I have to tell you, man, you and yours seem like awesome people, but I am so not ready to die, so. You’re either with this plan or you’re looking to stick around this station while we make a run for it.”
Stu rolls his eyes at Matt before he follows Patrick and Pete out. “Hurry the fuck up, Mixon. We’re only going to get one chance at retaking the shuttle.”
Matt waves him off. Then he sticks his own head out of the hole for a quick look around. “You’ve got a group of them on our left looking to make a run for us, man,” he tells Joe when he pops back inside. “The right is completely blocked off. That Wentz guy isn’t all that bad at accidental explosions.”
“Who said it was an accident?” Joe smiles easily at him. He takes pokes at the flash grenade - actually, Matt’s pretty sure it isn’t just a flash grenade, at least none of the flash grenades Matt’s ever seen have looked quite like this one - then he shifts towards the hole. “Okay, this is going to be a big ass bang - we’re gonna want to be moving before it blows.”
“Thought you said it was a flash?” Matt asks even as he starts after the others. Behind him, Joe is laughing as he shouts, “Fire in the hole!” Then they’re off to the races.
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“I told you that was a bad idea,” Patrick snaps as he wraps a bandage around Matt’s upper arm. “It figures that I’m stuck with these two, and you lot have to be just as stupid as they are.”
“Aw, Pattycakes, don’t front! You know you love us,” Pete says. He’s curled up in the co-pilot’s chair now that Stu is piloting them back to Andy because Patrick insisted on taking care of the slice on Matt’s arm.
“Seriously, Patrick, relax, dude,” Joe agrees. He pops his head up over Patrick’s shoulder and winks at Matt. “No one died, all of our stuff is intact, and we’ve made a clean get away. You really can’t ask for more than that.”
Patrick turns his head to glare at Joe. “Are we two quadrants away yet? Are we out of range of any of their ships or their ship’s tractive beams? No, we are not. So I’ll thank you for not jinxing us prematurely.”
“Aren’t all cases of jinxing premature? I mean, really,” Matt says. He pulls his arm out of Patrick’s grasp and examines the bandage, acting like he can’t see that Patrick is about to pitch an apocalyptic fit. “Can you actually jinx someone after the fact?”
“Mixon, shut up, and get your ass up here,” Stu says. “I think I’ve figured out their jamming frequency. You know how Andy’s going to react if he sees you’re not driving this thing.”
“Andy is a worrywart,” Matt says. He trades places with Stu again, ignoring Patrick’s squawking about his arm. Matt punches in the emergency broadcast frequency and calls up the visual display, which pops up next to the sub-space radar. The sub-space radar that’s telling them that 7-2-5 New Chicago just launched five ships that are heading in their direction.
“This is shuttle craft Nirvana hailing starliner Fuck City,” Matt says. “I repeat: Fuck City, this is Nirvana. We’re coming in, and we’re coming in hot.”
“The deities fucking wept, Mixon, what the fuck did you do this time?” Andy’s voice snaps just seconds before he appears on the display.
“I’ll have you know, Andy, that I am not responsible for this,” Matt tells him. “Stu and I landed, loaded the cargo, then went looking for our passengers. Who had been, um, delayed.”
“‘Um, delayed’?” Andy glares at him. “Why do I not like the sound of that?”
“Because you’re a paranoid fuck, Andy,” Stu tells him. He leans over Matt’s shoulder to smile at Andy. “Seems someone on the station has taken a liking to you, dude, and they wanted to have a meeting with the ‘captain’ here.”
“‘Captain’?” Andy says. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“Mixon’s not the Captain?” Pete asks.
“Mixon dreams of being the captain,” Ryan’s voice cuts in. “Fortunately for the rest of us, he’s just the pilot.”
Matt rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Morgan. You always sing a different tune when I’m the one piloting us out of trouble.”
“I’m confused,” Joe breaks in. His head, well, his hair pops into Matt’s peripheral. Stu squawks as he’s pushed out of the way. “Who’s the Captain?”
“Fuck City doesn’t, technically have a ‘captain’,” Matt says. “We know, AFEV and Military Protocols necessitate the whole ‘captain’ thing, but that doesn’t really work with us.”
“Still confused,” Joe says. “How do you operate without a Captain? Is it a democracy?”
“What? No,” Andy says. He’s glaring at Matt again. “You are shit at explaining, Mixon.”
“You’re not doing any better there, Professor,” Matt points out.
“Okay, I get that this is all part and parcel with that whole unresolved sexual tension between the two of you, but we do have five enemy vessels baring down on us,” Ryan interrupts. “How about we give the lectures after we’re two quadrants away and alone?”
“I don’t know who that is, but I like him,” Patrick says. “He sounds reasonably smarter than the rest of you.”
“Patrick, that isn’t very nice,” Joe points out.
“No, it isn’t,” Ryan agrees. “But the truth so rarely is.”
A light starts blinking lazily on the console. “Not to cut your quality bonding time short or anything,” Matt says as he flicks the light off, and then sends the shuttle on a sharp turn to avoid a sudden burst of laser fire. “But our unwanted company just showed up. You folks might want to buckle in; they aren’t all that friendly.”
“Noted,” Andy says as the rest of the shuttle scrambles to their seats. “Kyle is all set to receive you in the bay. And Mixon?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Hurry the fuck up. I can’t make the jump to hyperspace without you in the chair.” Andy cuts the connection before Matt can reply.
Matt would roll his eyes, but he’s a little busy trying to keep the shuttle intact and triangulate their approach into the shuttle bay at the same time. “Stu, I need…”
“On it, Matt,” Stu says. He and Pete switch spots, and the weapon system is finally online. “You just get us there in one piece.”
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Obviously Matt isn’t the only human that Andy has ever interfaced with. Matt is, after all, a significant number of years younger than Andy, and Fuck City has had several crews over his years of service. That bit of logic aside, Matt’s fairly certain that he’s Andy’s favorite pilot ever. He’s come to this conclusion by compiling all of the stories and records he can get his hands on and comparing them to his own experiences with Andy.
And really. Andy doesn’t rag on just anyone like he does Matt.
“Mixon, seriously,” Andy’s voice rings out over the shipwide comms. “Hurry your ass up.”
“We think they might have a tractive system hooked into the actual station,” Ryan adds. He sounds a little wistful. “At least, that’s the only thing I can come up with against the current spike in energy readings.”
“Morgan, we do not need a tractive system,” Stu says with a long suffering sigh. Stu is, as Matt has said in many a crew meeting, under the unfortunate assumption that he is wiser than everyone else on the Ship. Stu actually thinks that because he’s right more than sixty percent of the time that that lends credibility to this argument. Matt says that he’s just fucking lucky.
“Look, I’m on my way,” Matt says. “Unfortunately, unlike that tractive system Ryan’s drooling over, no one’s come up with a workable teleportation system yet, so you’re all going to have to wait the whole three minutes that it’s going to take us to run to the bridge. Geeze.”
“So I should just send a quick note to the lovely people of 7-2-5 to hold off on that whole capturing or destroying us plan while you amble your way up here?” Andy asks all sugary sweet. Sometimes Matt wishes Andy had a physical body so that he could choke the shit out of him; Andy’s expressed the opposite enough times, and Matt doesn’t think he should have all the fun.
“Dude, I know you can do that whole evasive maneuver thing in your sleep…” Matt starts.
“Do Living Ships actually sleep?” Patrick asks.
Apparently Kyle has decided that doing his job and escorting the civilians to the nice safe lounge with the seats and the safety belts expressly designed to keep them from being tossed around like so much confetti isn’t all that important. Matt glares at him a little. He just shrugs back at him.
“He has a stasis mode that’s basically the same thing,” Matt says. “And he can totally do evasive maneuvers without a pilot in the chair.” Matt clenches his teeth as the ship moves sharply to the left - too quickly and sharply for the inertial dampeners to compensate for - and he slams into the wall right in front of the emergency ladder that goes directly up to One.
“Like I said,” he mutters as he flips out his knife and pries the panel off the wall, reveling the ladder. A second later, the panel is lying halfway down the corridor, his knife is in its sheath, and Matt is climbing the ladder.
“Isn’t having a direct route to the bridge a bad plan?” Pete asks. He’s directly below Matt and his hand hits Matt’s foot when he reaches for a rung too fast. “Shit, sorry.”
“Please,” Andy snaps. “I do know how to do the whole optical allusion shit. My crew is the only people who know where the appropriate access panels are, and I have systems in place to keep invaders from using service areas with ease. Minute thirty, Mixon.”
“Yes, dear, thanks for the heads up,” Matt says. He’s reached the end of the line, and he slams his hand down on the release pad. The access panel hisses and shifts forward, and Matt only has to lightly slam against it for it to fall off. He shoves it further out of the way as he climbs into the corridor outside the door to Weaponry that hasn’t worked in eighty-five years (Andy says it was fused shut by one of his past crew members during a particularly dicey raid by Space Pirates posing as Republic agents, and he’s never really seen the need to have it fixed. Considering there are about five other ways into Weaponry aside from the main door, Matt doesn’t blame him), and he races down the corridor. “Kyle, we totally need to check the access panels again.”
“Yes, I’ll get right on that, Mixon,” Kyle snaps.
Matt skids around the last corner to the bridge, only avoiding slamming into the wall again because the ship takes another sharp curve, and then he bursts onto the bridge. He leaps for his chair, pulling the straps tight almost before he’s fully seated. Coordinates, trajectories, and the locations of every ship in the system scroll past on his screen, and he types in an approach to a nice little moon three quadrants over. “How does everyone feel about Coreas this time of year?”
“Sounds good, as long as we aren’t visiting,” Ryan says. “They’ve still got that warrant for Stu plastered across the ‘Net.”
“Eh, we won’t be there long enough for it to matter,” Matt says. He sends the final coordinates through to Andy and brings the hyperspace controls online. “Everyone strapped in?”
“We’re set!” Kyle confirms.
“Your numbers are shoddy again, Mixon,” Andy says. His face pops up on the main viewer screen. “Seriously.”
“What? That’ll get us there, won’t it?” Matt asks. He lets the Trance come over him, head falling back and eyes closing, and suddenly he isn’t hearing Andy through his ears anymore. No, now Andy is a voice right in the back of his head. Matt can even feel him grinning. Those coordinates will work, and you know it, asshole.
Are you telling me that you're going to say you're right, against me calculating the odds in one millionth of a second? Are you really going to go there, Matt?
Matt laughs. Then fix them so we can get out of here, man.
Like I was going to wait for your permission. You have a thirty second window; take us away.
For another second there is just black against the back of his eyelids, and then the entire scope of the Universe flashes in bright neon colors before fading to just the space around them. Matt finds the trail that follows Andy’s coordinates, the brilliant steel blue that matches the unadorned portions of Fuck City’s hull, and directs the Ship to lie along that path. All right. Time to go.
He reaches out for the brightest point along the line, Andy reaching, not alongside of him, but with him, and together they pull.
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The thing about hyperspace travel? It isn’t like the stories that floated around in ancient bad science fiction. At least, not with Fuck City. Andy isn’t one hundred percent sure about how it goes down with the handful of other ships known to use hyperspace travel - schematics will only take a person so far - but for Andy? He needs to interface directly with his pilot. Any being in the chair will do, but there are certain ones that are just more suited for it. Maja was one, Matt is another.
Interfacing is most simply explained as a small (a very, very, very small) portion of Andy’s consciousness is downloaded into the pilot’s mind. That’s not exactly what happens, mind you. Most beings would never be able to handle even a very small portion of any being’s consciousness competing with their own - even for a short period of time - but that’s really the only way of explaining it to someone who would never actually experience it.
Maja had once tried to explain it to Felix, saying that she went into the Pilot Trance - the common phrase for the way most pilots will slip between complete awareness of their surroundings and into a quasi-dream state during intense maneuverings, which hyperspace travel certainly qualifies - where she could communicate with Andy on a more direct level. Felix had only vaguely understood, but then again, he had been one of the worst interfacings Andy had ever experienced - he hadn’t even been able to hear Andy shouting - so it probably stood to reason.
Andy would explain, should anyone actually ask him, that interfacing is basically mental sex, wherein the objective isn’t for mutual orgasms but for breaching the barrier between normal space and hyperspace. It takes Andy calculating the right coordinates, the pilot finding the right path, and them both breaching the barrier together.
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Master Post - Part II