The three-vee image of Wingnut had vanished from the chair again.

Just now realizing this, CMDR Hope rolled his eyes and nodded patiently as the Bellator Honetus' VI politely informed him that the hangar that had accepted the Taipan Light Fighter was now secure.

The sound of hurried, approaching footsteps could be heard, along with the approach of exerted breathing. Yet, the door to Hope's bridge never slid open to greet any visitor.

--:-:--

In fact, by all accounts, CMDR Hope was still alone aboard the Bella - the only living thing board a fully rigged Anaconda slipping between black holes in deep space.

The breathing and pounding of boots intensified. Then all of a sudden, Wingnut's avatar flashed back into its seat from thin air.

The two of them sat there - Hope, at least, having the courtesy to wait until the hologram caught its breath before asking;

--:-:--

"You do realize that while tele-presencing, there's no actual need to run to the fighter hangar and back - right?"

Wingnut's projection held out its mug. [Fuck that stellar noise], came his voice from twelve thousand light-years away. [I just spent four days neutron humping. It's the only exercise I'm ever gonna get.]

It took a sip and smacked its lips.

"Actually, Commander, GALCORRECT feels it is imperative to get ahold of you on another matter entirely."

Even through the three-vee projection, Wingnut could sense that the bureaucrat was working far harder to put on a face than he might have been letting on.

Something about the way that eyelid kept twitching whenever Adopl Gallant paused in his speech.

"Go on," prodded Wingnut curiously.

--:-:--

"There are new instructions concerning your file with our office. We have been ordered that the outstanding credits previously charged against you, be refunded."

Wingnut allowed himself a frown. "So?"

"Several million credits have been budgeted aside for the matter of your refund alone. Much of which came from our new shareholders at the Sirius Corporation. But the instructions as to how we are to handle it are unusually specific."

"Uh-huh."

"Summarily speaking, the credits are to be refunded to you on a strictly per-incident basis, never to exceed the amount of the original fine."

--:-:--

"Incident?" Something about the way that Gallant no longer used the word "offense" caught Wingnut's attention. He hurriedly did some mental math.

The typical fine for violating the Galactic Institute for Political Correctness' sense of professional decorum was only five credits. That was about the price it cost to refill Wingnut's Hutton Mug. "Wait, what are you saying, Mr. Gallant?"

Gallant's eyelid twitched mercilessly.

"Oh, no way. No fucking way."

Twitch.

"Every time -I- swear... ... -you- guys BUY me another coffee??"

Gallant took a long swig from what at first Wingnut had assumed to be a pair of antique metal binoculars. But very clearly, it was a cleverly disguised flask.

"Enjoy your beverage, Commander."

The line abruptly terminated. Commander Wingnut, already on the verge of tears, laughed long and he laughed loud.

NGC 6705, Sector ZP-M B8-R

Into The Abyss - Day 2

--:-:--

The androdynous VI broadcaster from Hutton Orbital Radio was the only sound in the cockpit. There really was nothing else to listen to. The Busted Flush's distance from any form of human civilization was measured in Light-millenia by now; the distance a single particle of light could travel over the course of a thousand years in the yawning void of space.

The absurdly sensitive sensors aboard the Advanced Discovery Scanner, if pointed at Sol, would pick up the energy our own sun emitted almost 2,745 years before the human race first calibrated their solar calendar to the birth of Jesus Christ.

With heavy bags under his eyes, Wingnut absently rolled the stick until the light green circle of his next system was in the center of the screen.

--:-:--

"Although the Thargoid attacks have so far been confined to the Pleiades Nebula, many apparently fear that the aliens’ next target will be the core systems. This is evidenced by the huge numbers of citizens fleeing to Colonia.

The Colonia Council, the region’s governing body, has confirmed that the number of refugees has skyrocketed in recent weeks, and that the recent attacks against starports have only accelerated the rate of immigration."

--:-:--

He glanced to the holographic screen on his right, hovering above the MFPCS-02 console. The numbers he was reading back did not sound promising.

About fourty jumps back, the Frame Shift Drive had sputtered in protest, and the golden letters "FSD Disrupted" had appeared.

Forcing himself to slow to 30 km/sec, Wingnut had dropped out and rebooted the drive, before continuing on his way. Now that routine was starting to fail.

Too many neutron-star boosts - the constant supercharging in exchange for a faster run, had left him in an awkward position.

--:-:--

Magen Wolfe, a spokesperson for the Council, said:

“All who seek sanctuary in Colonia will be welcomed, but the truth is that the core systems are no more likely to be targeted by the Thargoids than Colonia. We want to offer our support, but there is a limit to how many people the region can support."

--:-:--

Of course, he had told Gaunt. All Gaunt could do was shrug helplessly.

"I told you it was a bad idea to leave the AFMU's at home. You wanted to maximize your jump range. Next time, listen to your engineer's advice, not your wingman's."

"If there is a next time. What would you suggest I do in the meantime?"

Gaunt's voice had an echo on the line - the enormous ship was mostly empty weight, a metal shell with only empty walls separating the three crew members from the vacuum beyond. "Stay away from the neutrons. Jump for safety. Arrange an RV with the Bellator Honestus - Commander Hope specified that he was carrying repair limpets. We can use those."

--:-:--

"A campaign to build additional outposts in Colonia took place earlier this month, but the pace of immigration means that further construction initiatives may be necessary to support the region’s rapidly expanding population."

--:-:--

"And for the love of Cheeba," Gaunt added. "Please remember we're over 6,000 light years from the Bubble - and there's still more than 400 jumps to Colonia. If something were to happen, all three of us will be dead for days before help gets here."

"Understood, Mr. Gaunt. No more problems." Wingnut nodded somberly, and killed the video feed to Engineering. A sound like crackling tinfoil caught his ear, and he glanced slowly upwards towards the massive canopy that enveloped half of the Busted Flush's bridge.

The cracks that had appeared in the Lexite had grown another inch.

Chapter 2: Into the Abyss

--:-:--

Commander Wingnut English was experiencing a bit of a small existential problem. According to the impeccable logs forwarded to the Pilots Federation via the EDSM servers, he had been around quite a bit.

In only 26.5 hours worth of contiguous flight time, he had made over 1,241 hyperspace jumps, and the Copperhead Road alone carried him over such a vast distance in those hours, that a single light particle would need 21,316 years before it could even think about catch up to either of them.

And yet the Travel Map still showed an abysmally tiny footprint across the massive spectacle of the holographic Galaxy Map that was projected inside of the Diamondback's cockpit.

A body of green lines, with protruding "wings" - where he had made a voyage to Quince and another the other way towards Meene - gave his projected routes the jagged, predatorial shape of a swooping pterodactyl. The cosmic bird of prey had its body squarely in the bubble, the back-and-forth of data missions past scribbling out a crude body.

He was not yet in a position to do battle with the Thargoids. It was suicidal to even attempt a confrontation alone; he still remembered the Medusa Interceptor that had chased him down. And yet, if he joined the rescue efforts full-time, it was inevitable that Wingnut would be among the casualties soon enough.

But yet, joining the Exodus to Colonia was not the wiser of the options he had either. It was an exceedingly long trip, even with the Copperhead Road's latest fuel-tank expansion - even with hyperspace travel, this was less an errand and more like a week-long road trip.

And such a voyage would not be forgiving. Briefly, he thought back to the Hutton Orbital Truckers; this was the sort of thing he might be expected to step up to to earn The Mug.

The Truckers, like those headed beyond the edge of the far rim and into the inter-galactic void to rescue the stranded pilot days into that void, were equipped with Corvettes, long-haul fuel-rat rigs that barely avoided the capital-ship classification, and Asp Explorers. Even a few Type 10's were beginning to appear now.

As these and more revelations burdened the Commander and his shoulders grew heavier, Wingnut found himself listlessly staring through the terminal screen. If any of the paragraphs flickering before him registered, we'd not see it in his face.

It was at about this point that the bridge door alert diddled, and Wingnut shot upright. "It's open, Gaunt. Come on in."

"Commander," nodded the unkempt-looking mechanic that Wingnut had now on two separate occasions pulled out of the fire. Ever since the Oracle, the gangly fellow had hovered off by himself, volunteering nothing and answering to very little. In fact, ever since the Copperhead Road had lifted off from what was left of Pad 44, this was the first time anyone had heard him speak.

"I wanted a moment to discuss something with you."

--:-:--

"The Busted Flush. So, you named it after a toilet?"

"Actually, I won it in a poker game.

Never really got to fly it a lot, and I never really made much of a captain. In fact, when you scooped up my can near the Lazarus Expedition(and forgot about me for four days, he muttered), I had just escaped from someone else's ship I was serving on at the time.

She's been sitting here in mothballs for a few months now."

Wingnut's head tilted just a tad as he shot a sidelong glance at Gaunt. Above them, the enormous green ship towered. Its wide, low frame was so massive that the hangar lights struggled to reach the two men standing at the edge of the pad. The mirror sheen of its Lexite canopy alone was the size of the Copperhead Road's entire forward half.

"I don't think it's smart to let go of something like this. I was just doing my job."

The indignant scoff left little to the imagination. "Y'know, fuck the spacer life. Not everyone's cut out for the kind of shit that goes down out here, man. I could find myself a nice little agro planet and live out the rest of my days as a farmer. Or settle at a Power headquarters and punch ballots for delivery all day long.

Some asshole named Squeezy Stan, for example, he's been printing a spacer skinrag - well, until he suddenly went out of circulation, anyway. I mean, holoporn, man. There's even money in there somewhere."

Wingnut shot another glance. His glass eye twinkling in the dull light, the greasy man smiled in British. Wingnut had to suppress his shudder.

"But this big fucking ship, man, this big fucking thing is just gonna bring trouble to my doorstep for as long as I own it. If it's not the tax man, it'll be the pirates and RES bandits, or if something REALLY goes sideways, I'll fall into the sun or get it eaten by a giant fucking starfish.

You need it. I don't want it.

Ergo, my dude, it's better off in your hands than mine."

--:-:--

"So what's the catch?" He knew Gaunt would not be the type to let go of an opportunity to bargain.

"Not a catch. One last favor, really. After that, I'm gone for good - out of that nohawk you call male pattern baldness."

The commander grimaced, but didn't let it sink. "You want out."

"As far away from the Pleiades Nebula as you can take me, man. And we're gonna be picking up someone else along the way."

It didn't take long to weigh the options. An Asp Explorer, for one epic road trip. "You've got a deal, Mr. Gaunt. Forward me the coords when you get buckled in."

"Commander Wingnut of Gnosis Division, Canon Research. This is Adophl Gallant of the Galactic Institute of Political Correctness (GALCORRECT).

You have been recorded uttering the following expletives and fines are now pending against your account. Your standing within Canonn has also been adjusted accordingly.

• Cheeba's Tap-Dancing Rice
• Sweet Willumarius of Saggitarius
• Greasy Onion-nog down on Chacobog!
• the smooth coffee-flavored Sorbitol of Hutton Orbital!
• Grey Goo Poupon of Greater Popon!

In the future, you will endeavour to remember that all GALNET and FTLR traffic is monitored and a manner of professionalism is expected of all members of the Pilots Federation.

Be well."

--:-:--

When Wingnut opened the message, his eyes scanned down the items to the grand total.

He recoiled in horror and swore loudly. The terminal again buzzed angrily. A new item had been added.

--:-:--

• Jiminy Cricket in a Krumine thicket, that is insane!

Commander, kindly knock it the fuck off.

~Alophl Gallant

GALCORRECT

Then Wingnut twigged on to what Tod had just said.

"Wait a minute. What do you mean, a present?"

The Engineer paused a moment. "From AEGIS Research Corp, the owners of the Titan's Daughter. What, you mean you don't know? Here, shoot me your API key and I'll show you on my handbrain."

Wingnut authorized the key and took the tablet.

His eyes scanned up the list and stopped at the very top. From behind his normally implacable mirrored aviator glasses, eyebrows peeked up in alarm.

--:-:--

--:-:--

"This is... greasy onion-nog down on Chacobog! When did this happen?!"

"Yeah. Your name's out there now, Commander. Now everyone who's packing a cargo scoop on their ship is gonna be looking to beat that score. Welcome to the Rescue Rangers, kid."

Trophy Camp, Trus Madi --:-:-- Wolf 397 --:-:-- 24 DEC 3303

--:-:--

"So... it's a mini-gun. Definitely not what I asked for."

Tod "The Blaster" McQuinn looked almost hurt by this claim, and shot a sideways stink-eye along at Wingnut.

"On paper, we call them Multi-Cannons, and I'd like you to remember that, Commander English. But fundamentally, you're not wrong."

The two of them were examining the bristling cluster of barrels mounted to a bracket on the targeting range at Trophy Camp.

"So if this is a Multi-Cannon we're looking at, what makes this one so different that I could be right and wrong at the same time?"

--:-:--

Tod scratched his nose. "Well, the damage output and accuracy are significantly lower than what you would expect from a typical machine like this straight from the market. Kind of to be expected since we're working with sub-caliber munitions better suited for anti-personnel fighting. This'll drain shields in a hurry, but won't exactly shred hull-plate.

... but with the addition of a higher horsepower belt-drive motor and some tuning to the mechanism, I was able to almost double its rate of fire. This, combined with its turret mechanism, effectively makes it a semi-autonomous point-offense weapon at the cost of a more significant power draw.

But that's not the part I wanted to show you."

--:-:--

McQuinn pressed the safety switch, and the weapon spun to life - once the barrels were up to speed, tracers lanced out and sliced into the targets downrange with the sound of Velcro in a blender.

After several moments, he then keyed the switch again and the noise ceased. The barrels continued to spin.

"In order to help the system with the aiming, we had to mod in red tracers and stagger them at 1-in-10 instead of the usual 1-in-5. So that means for every tracer you can see, another nine rounds you can't are already in the air. And those tracers come out at the same rate, so do the math."

Wingnut's expression remained surprisingly placid. "So it shoots fast. Really, really fast. But that's still a ridiculously undersized weapon. Class 2F, small hardpoint. What's the big deal?"

"Just shut up a moment and listen."

--:-:--

The two of them listened.

Wingnut became subtly aware that while the Multi-Cannon's cluster of death pipes were still spinning, it was clicking rapidly with the sound of a card shuffler.

"What is that we're hearing?"

McQuinned smiled. "Take a guess."

Wingnut continued to listen, then realized as he watched that the "bullet hose" was filling with brass, one fresh round at a time. Once there was no empty space left, the barrels clicked sharply to a parade-square halt.

THIS gave him pause.

--:-:--

"You magnificent son of a bitch - the damn thing is reloading itself!"

"That's right. Whenever you stop shooting, the conveyor uses the belt-drive to shuttle more ammo from the ship's interior magazines. It's all automatic. The longer you wait, the more you get. The system only quits when you're completely out of ammo - or dead. No reloading downtime, unlike the usual Extended Magazine mods people ask for. I'm pretty proud of my work, Commander."

"So if I had two of these on a ship, theoretically I could -"

"Yep. Assign them to different fire groups. You can keep up a light rain practically forever just by playing gunslinger, or focus your most intense fire into a single target on command. That's pretty cool by itself, granted, but here's where your present from AEGIS Research comes in."

Wingnut's eyebrows were already aloft. He was impressed enough as it was. "What's that?"

"You're actually getting three."

The former bounty hunter gestured over at a second mounted weapon in the next testing stall. Its menacing silhouette was blanketed underneath a white drop-sheet.

"And wait until you see what THAT one looks like."

Above The Copper Skies - Youtube Video

--:-:--

CASEVAC Operations Report --:-:-- UNSS Copperhead Road CA-420 --:-:-- CMDR Wingnut English, Gnosis Division - Canonn

THIS DOCUMENT WILL BE UPDATED IN REAL-TIME

--:-:--

Orbis Starport "The Oracle"

Pleiades Sector IR-W D1-55

CASEVAC Sorties Launched: 1

1. Head Count: 8

CASEVAC Operation Sub-Total: 8 passengers evacuated from "The Oracle"

--:-:--

Coriolis Starport "Titan's Daughter"

Taygeta System

CASEVAC Sorties Launched:

1. Head Count - 16 [ # Tandem with WH-15KY ]

2. Head Count - 18 [ # Tandem with WH-15KY ]

3. Head Count - 20
4. Head Count - 19
5. Head Count - 20
6. Head Count - 19
7. Head Count - 20
8. Head Count - 20
9. Head Count - 19
10. Head Count - 20

CASEVAC Operation Sub-Total: 132 passengers evacuated from "Titan's Daughter"

[ # Shift 2 ]

11. Head Count - 20
12. Head Count - 17
13. Head Count - 20

[ # MAINT Note: Structural impact damage to left engine nacelle repaired. ]

11. Head Count - 17

[ # OTFT Note: Cargo_4E replaced with PassEc_4E ]

14. Head Count - 27

15. Head Count - 28

[ # MAINT Note: MFPSC-01 failure - heat damage ]

16. Head Count - 20

CASEVAC Operation Sub-Total: 157 passengers evacuated from "Titan's Daughter"

17. Head Count - 28
18. Head Count - 28
19. Head Count - 28
20. Head Count - 28
21. Head Count - 27
22. Head Count - 28
23. Head Count - 26

CASEVAC Operation Sub-Total: 467 passengers evacuated from "Titan's Daughter"

-

Total CASEVAC Sorties Completed: 24

Total Passengers rescued so far: 475

THIS DOCUMENT WILL BE UPDATED IN REAL-TIME

I'm in hell.

Sweet merciful Sagittarius, I'm actually in hell.

--:-:--

Frank Gaunt was, like most spacers, not a very religious man. When even the most common citizen had the opportunity to traverse the stars and see with his own eyes - or eye, as was his particular case - how the universe really worked, there was not that much room for God in his life.

He was not the only one. This, curiously, had the effect of bringing a peace and dignity to life, the likes of which was difficult to imagine in the tumultuous times of 21st century Earth.

Not to say that faith was extinct, it had merely reshaped itself over the past several centuries into a new form of pragmatic realism.

But today, even that sort of faith was nowhere to be found.

Gaunt was, when the Beluga slammed into Pad 44, helping rush stretchers laden with the broken and injured into the hangar bay below it. The floor heaved under his feet, and he was bucked against the door. Stars flashed behind his eyes as he rolled onto his back and blinked.

Once the flashing had faded, Gaunt scrambled to his feet and rushed to help the rescue team collect the screaming man who had been spilled unceremoniously onto the floor. Helmets snapped into place automatically as the atmosphere began to vent from Outfitting 44. Cracks rendered themselves through the ceiling.

With a piercing screech, several girder-sized pylons punched through the blast doors above the occupants. They speared through, and pieces of a very large ship began to spill through.

The tremors were not stopping. With a dramatic crash, a massive hull-grade plate fell through and embedded itself into the hangar floor.

On it was stencilled the words "Pad 16."

I'm in hell.

I'm in hell.

I'm in hell.

--:-:--

"The ramp!" bellowed Coordinator Therese Kennedy (AEGIS Research) through the silvered faceplate of her helmet. "We have to get up there before the rest of this place blows in!"

"You're fucking insane!" cried out Gaunt. "It's an oven up there, Kennedy. You can't seriously expect us to wait for the next pickup, we'll be dead in five minutes!"

As if on cue, the shattered blast door from Pad 16 fell over and shook the deck of Hangar 44, sending the medics staggering. Air continued to bleed out, the roar intensifying. It was getting harder to stay upright.

The woman turned, her voice almost cracking with hopeless frustration. "WE ARE GOING TO BE DEAD IN TWO, IF WE STAY HERE!

Marines! We - are - LEAVING."

--:-:--

When they reached the mouth of the ramp, they found the fire doors sealed. Swirling orange lights flashed the hallway, and through the three-inch Lexite viewports, there was nothing to see except the demonic red gas that now filled the Orbis Spaceport.

Something flashed twice, then twice again causing the viewports to blink a faintly pinkish white. It reminded Gaunt of lightning, or an electrical short.

"Great. Just fucking GREAT."

A sergeant on Kennedy's rescue team lowered his end of the stretcher. "Coordinator - I can override this and get us through."

"Don't. Not yet."

All eyes turned to Kennedy, save for the two casualties who had much bigger problems to focus on. Between the eight people present, not a word was said as they paused.

The only sounds were the tremors that rippled through the floor, and the muffled pandemonium upstairs. Ships were flitting in and out, jockeying for the precious few landing pads still operational.

"Gaunt's right. It's not just hot out there, it's boiling. Our pad is ruined - nobody's going to be landing there. And if we run across to 45 or 46, we'll all be dead before we even reach the catwalk."

The sergeant flung his arms out. "We don't have any choice, Kennedy. What do you want us to do?"

"LET ME THINK!" she screamed. "JUST ... JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME THINK A MOMENT."

Another alarm began to sound, unlike anything they had heard before. Muffled by the bulkheads, it was a discordant, broken melody - less like a klaxon, and carried with it more the sound of an electronic bagpipe blowing a dirge.

--:-:--

DOOOOOO-LOODLE-LOOO

LOODLE-LOODLE-LOOOO

DOOO DOOO LOOOOO

--:-:--

"What the hell..." murmured the sergeant, "... is that sound supposed to be?"

A medic huffed, her transparent faceplate already coated with hot sweat. "Everything else is busted as fuck. Why wouldn't the alarm system be?"Gaunt's face, his bad eye and all, promptly lit up. He had heard that unforgettable sound once before.

"Get the door, Marine. The lady said we're leaving."

The lights changed from green to red as the cargo airlock announced the end of its depressurization cycle.

Kennedy's engineer grunted, freeing the hand crank, and began to pump it furiously. Everyone could feel raw, blistering heat begin to flow into the room, the red gas from out there quickly becoming the red gas in here.

The casualties were the first to begin complaining, urging Kennedy and the others to take them back to safety.

Gaunt surveyed the carnage - the amount of destruction was staggering. The ruined pieces of the Beluga stuck out from the remains of Pad 44, like the tail end of a frozen whale. It was as if a skyscraper had collapsed right in front of them.

The white light flashed again. Blink-blink, blink-blink.

The alien-sounding alarm did not repeat itself. But Gaunt was certain he could hear the twanging of country music.

His suit's climate control, already overwhelmed, was losing its fight, and he could feel the sweat pouring down from his pits and back. If he didn't die from the heat first, there was a very good chance that Gaunt would drown in his own helmet.

For a moment, he just knew he'd made a fatal mistake.

Then what the medic had thought was a broken station announcer boomed again over the cacophony, and they knew they were listening to the recall beacon of the ship that suddenly burst into view around the side of the Beluga's wreckage. And Gaunt knew, just as surely, that they were going to make it out of this alive after all.

--:-:--

The noise of country music intensified as the Copperhead Road drew around and slowed to a hover at the edge of the pad. With its surface ruined, a touchdown wasn't going to happen. Instead, the cargo scoop flung open, and Gaunt could see a figure clad in yellow and brown, urgently waving him towards the ship. Her face was hidden behind a black, featureless helmet.

As soon as Gaunt heard a woman's voice, he knew it was Tatiana Searle, of the Chacobog Movement for Equality. What she was screaming at them was lost to the booming speakers on either side of her, but he needed no urging.

After Kennedy and her sergeant, he ran towards the brilliant white flashes of the Diamondback Explorer's strobe lights.

--:-:--

WELL MY NAME'S JOHN LEE PETTIMORE ~

SAME AS MY DADDY AND HIS DADDY BEFORE

YOU HARDLY EVER SAW GRAND-DADDY ROUND HERE

HE ONLY COME TO TOWN ABOUT TWICE A YEAR

Orbis Spaceport "The Oracle" --:-:-- Pleiades Sector IR-W D1-55 15 --:-:-- DEC 3302

--:-:--

"Mother of Chrome!"

As soon as the UNSS Copperhead Road slid back into normal space, the Oracle reverse-imploded into view only eight kilometers off his starboard canopy. Just as quickly, Wingnut realized things were worse than he had imagined. The pieces of the habitat rings that hadn't already been flung off, were aflame. The docking channel crackled orange with both emergency lights and licks of chemical fire.

Nothing was where it was supposed to be - and there were a lot more somethings where there was usually nothing.

A lot of those somethings were wrecks.

A lot more of them were other vessels. Imperial, Federation, independents from all manner of gathering. English had never seen so many ships in one place, not even during his typical rescue-and-salvage "droperations."

Ships were drop-waking in from every direction. Ships hovering near the Oracle like worried parents. Ships zipping through the docking bay at full speed. Ships hurrying back out - just as quickly.

Many of them fled for the nearby rescue Pilots Federation freighter Montreal One, or the sleek-looking Imperial hospital ship that were standing off at a safe distance. The more sluggish-looking vessels, probably laden with evacuees, simply picked a direction and low-waked the fuck out of there.

It was like a beehive had been kicked over. Even as the Copperhead Road angled herself in towards the bulbous hangar at the end of the burning Orbis, Wingnut could see a Fer-de-Lance limp out, trailing a smokey-colored gas from its disjointed cargo scoop.

A heat sink spat from its chin, but far too late.

As he watched this small slice of surrounding chaos, the Fer-de-Lance' canopy shattered, one engine nacelle snapped away, and the ship suddenly vanished into a bright fireball and was gone.

The hailing channel was not just alive, it was sheer pandemonium.

--:-:--

[ HTR-55 ] : Oracle traffic, Huntress V. Emergency clearance, please. Python coming in.

[ JARJAR ] : Oracle, Jarminx, type Anaconda for emergency landing.

[ MEA-12 ] : Jarminx, hold short. This is Mea Culpa, off with twelve and outbound! Clear the doors, clear the doors!

[ JARJAR ] : TRAFFIC! We just lost that Fer-de-Lance. I can see further damage to the pylons from the derelict Beluga as well. It's just bouncing off the walls in there.

[ JARJAR ]: At this rate, you're not going to have any more big pads left I can reach.

--:-:--

[ CA-420 ] : Oracle Traffic, Charlie Alpha Four-Two-Zero is on site to provide relief. Copperhead Road is type Diamondback Explorer. Can I get a pad, please?

[ ORACLE ] : Thanks for coming, Commander. Be advised we have several emergency situations developing simultaneously. We are advising all civilian pilots to remain clear of the station.

[ CA-420 ] : Oracle, are you absolutely sure on that? You really look like you could use some help.

--:-:--

The pause before Traffic's reply was so long. So quiet. So very pregnant. Several seconds passed.

English was almost certain the signal had been interrupted. He was about to repeat, just once more, when the strained voice came back on.

--:-:--

[ ORACLE ] : We need everyone we can get. The casualties in here are staggering, the flight deck is jammed with panicking evacs, and the whole thing is falling apart around us.

We're not gonna turn you away, Commander, but we're not in a position to help wave you in either. It's gotta be your call.

--:-:--

The commander deliberated. The spaceport yawned to his side, belching gas, smoke, and flame. If a space station could take on a list and begin sinking, this is what it would look like. His grip on the stick tightened ever-so-slightly and he found himself swallowing.

He was about to fly into a kiln, rattling with the pieces of very dead pilots who had been every bit as brave as he was about to be.

[ CA-420 ] Understand situation, you have solid copy on all. Go ahead and clear me, Traffic.

[ ORACLE ] Charlie Alpha Four-Two-Zero, you're approved under Starport Evacuation Protocol for Pad 44. You've been warned - Be careful ... and thank you.

--:-:--

"Commander.... COMMANDER!"

"I see it. Get them aboard, RIGHT NOW."

--:-:--

The Beluga Liner, produced by Saud Kruger, was not a small ship. If you were to drop her into a body of water, it would displace nearly 950 tonnes of it.

That made the luxury cruiser almost four times the size of the 260-tonne Diamondback Explorer.

If you were to look up from the bridge of the Copperhead Road, you would see Pad 16 - upside down about a kilometer above your head - and this enormous mass of broken, burning metal crunching sideways into it like a monster ravaging Tokyo.

Fatigued bulkheads gave with a hideous squealing moan, and the landing pad buckled like tinfoil beneath (above?) it; the hangar it concealed gaped into space. A rushing fountain of breathable atmosphere vented around the wrecked ship.

The Beluga broke in half at her waist like a dead tree falling in the woods.

Huntress V, a Python that had parked inside, was pulled across the floor of Outfitting Hangar 16 and came out with it, swept free of her mounts by a raging river of oxygen and nitrogen - which, in turn, was tainted with hundreds of untold (and very flammable) chemicals.

Huntress was sucked back out into the raging inferno she had sought to shelter from. Through its glass, the Python's commander could be seen scrambling to finish his interrupted pre-flight routine and take control of the gyrating ship.

The hellish scene continued to unfold above Wingnut's canopy, and his fingers drummed the flight stick nervously. It was very clear that the remains of the Beluga were not ready to rest just yet. With the station's spin slowing, the artificial gravity was only 0.3 G and dropping. This left the two halves of the broken liner with very little weight to resist the jet that was shoving it away.

[ Temperature Critical ] intoned the Copperhead's VI.

In a moment, he was going to have to eject his third and last heat sink.

Pushed free of its crater, the Beluga's burning skeleton arose menacingly from the flames. Unmanned and utterly broken, the two halves began to fall ponderously towards Pad 44.

Wingnut swallowed again, furiously trying to predict its trajectory.

The equation wasn't promising.