I wiped the moisture off my palms onto the knee of my suit, steadily, one hand and then the other. Then eased the throttle forward. This was the last test. I'd be sad to turn her back in.
I knew how this was supposed to work. Hours of research and patient visualisation had paid off -- the last few maneuvers had no flaw. There was a place on the other side of this moment where it was done, and done perfectly. I just had to get there.
I checked that the ship recorder remained on alongside the mind-comm. "Skye in the Eralia 4752," I murmured. "Test five."
Now the owner would be listening in too, not just Pach, the crew leader down at the port. "I'm at thirty meters," I went on. "Taking planned measurements at twenty-five."
I'd take the ship down in steps, measuring the available haze of water vapour at her tail at every point. What speed would wet her enough at a safe height above the waves? Would it make this new fuel system worth the added weight?
I watched the lightbar slide down another notch. Then tapped the button on the seat's arm with the pre-programmed instructions for the rear air scoop. Hoped they weren't judging how I went right back to hovering my hand over the base rocket controls. I was out here in a ship I could never afford. Any dipping towards that water, at this speed, and I'd be up and out before one breath.
The red light on the panel came up, showing the air scoop was back in the base of the tail with its sample. After a second or two, the reading came in. Not wet enough. The ship would need to be a bit closer to the surface.
I relayed this to Pach and the owner, who said, "Try twenty."
"Understood."
I took the ship down another increment. Still had five meters before the scarier type of alarms would start. Without being asked, I pushed the air scoop sensor again. At this speed, I wouldn't feel the drag at all. But I imagined it, longing to have even tighter control of the machine in delicate spots. The sensor went red again with a finished sample, and we all three waited for the results.
"Ah," I said. "This one did it."
Pach let out a small breath over the comm. "Wanna try it then?" he asked the owner.
"Wait," I put in. "I need to angle just a bit out. There's a headland coming up."
"Alright. Go on out."
"Heading five degrees south."
While I did, Pach and the ship owner muttered about common air temperatures and wave heights on the regular routes around Daltia. By the time I'd banked to port out over the open water and then back towards the north, they'd decided.
"Run it and see, Jessyn."
"Understood," I repeated. I took a deep breath. Back at twenty meters over the waves, at the correct speed and angle of attack. If this worked, the auxiliary engine would pick up speed and efficiency from the extra fuel supply. I tapped the correct series of switches and buttons on the panel and waited.
Was there an extra hum towards the tail of the ship? Line after line of gold-topped waves flew by beneath the forward window, mesmerising. I turned my attention to the instruments on the dash, the reddish bar of the engine optimisation, and paid close attention to the slightest shifts and vibrations of the throttle in my hands. The engine bar began to inch up. It was working.
I gave it another couple of seconds to be sure, and then told the two people listening in. I could hear the satisfaction take hold and expand their voices, and I loved it.
This was why I did this. Not simply the pleasure of a solid process, a machine taking well to a new ability. But the response in those who'd planned it, their relief and eagerness.
As the fuel bar grew incrementally higher, Pach relayed a few optional tests for me to perform. Slight changes to altitude, speed, and power level to the fuel intake. It only took me a few minutes to do them all, and to capture the data they wanted. I'd have to wait and look at the graphs back at the port, but it seemed to me that the refuelling numbers matched the increases in speed and distance above the water's surface.
It would be up to the owner to implement it safely, of course. But she'd gotten what she paid us for.
I relayed my return to the port. They thanked me and signed off, leaving me to concentrate on the final approach to Southport. I skimmed over the water for a little longer, hesitant to climb away from the beautiful gold sheen on the turquoise waves. It never got old -- not the gorgeous view, or relief, or the sense of height. But it was high noon, and even the modest southern spaceport would have traffic. Reluctantly, I eased the throttle back up and over, and headed in.
Diraganni Southern Spaceport -- or Southport, as we lazy pilots called it -- was originally built before the Adjustment, near one hundred and fifty years ago.
In case someone ever looks at this record who’s not from Daltia, the world's mostly tropical island. A huge archipelago winds halfway around the equator, with some areas projecting into subtropical zones. Only two of the land masses are big enough to be called continents, and only one of those is habitable. It's also called Damor, after the colony's capital city.
Because of the massive axis storms that used to strike the southern coastline, the main building of Southport was built wedge-shaped. It had the additional symbolism of loosely resembling an olden-times ship, lifting skyward off the moderate headland on which the port was built. Nowadays, though, the angled architecture was mostly useful for noticing what time of day it was. If you were working in the Point, the sharpest angle of the building by the sea, morning and afternoon could be determined by what side the heat came from.
The Root, on the other hand, was more modern. Added approximately the time Arind's house was built, it housed the passenger terminals and many of the area's shops and requisition offices. The architects had followed and expanded the wedge shape, both in the terminal and in the scatter of outbuildings and hangars that trailed off the north side. It was to one of those hangars that I taxied the ship now.
A great swarm of pilots filled the hangar, as usual.
I greeted Pach, who clasped my hand in congratulations. He wasn't usually so formal, but the progress of the upswept bronze ship behind me had been a particular interest for him.
It only took a few minutes for me to look over and then submit the official record I'd made of the flight. But by the time I was finished, the adrenaline was worn off and all I wanted was a shower and some mindless entertainment.
I headed out the massive main door of the hanger, and cut through the huge shipyard to the private lot where I'd parked. Tired as I felt, I never passed up an opportunity to gawk.
The ships were monstrous—some in their tanks, some out on the pavement.
I stepped carefully up to one of the behemoths. It stretched a hundred meters into the sky. At this close distance, one felt nervous—although they were anchored with nuclear hooks, there was the primordial fear of one of these great steel animals rolling over and crushing you. It was impossible, of course. But standing next to the enormous brushed metal beauty, looking directly up at the clouds coursing over the distant top edge, it was hard not to believe the optical illusion that the clouds were staying still, and the ship was falling down on you.
It was sickening. It was terrifying. It was bracing and beautiful.
I wanted to see this every day.
Would an apprenticeship with DeBlays get me closer? Was there farther I could go?