report."
She turned back to her console and started flicking switches; with a jolt the airlock separated and they began to float free, a touch of thruster speeding them away from the station. "Funny. Name's Margaret Orlova. Buy me enough drinks and flowers and you can call me Maggie," she said, grinning.
Marshall strapped himself carefully to one of the passenger seats, pushing some of the clutter out of the way, noting that one of the straps seemed rather frayed. "Daniel Marshall. When was the last time this shuttle got serviced?"
"By some tinkerer from the station? Yahweh knows, I wouldn't trust those morons to service a coffeepot. Based on what I paid, probably before the war. Handle all of that myself." She started to tap thrusters with a nonchalance that indicated long experience, then kicked the engines into full, sending Marshall rocking back into his couch. He looked over at some of the readings – they were well within the prohibited radius of the station.
"Why isn't Dock Control calling?"
"You want to fly, Danny?" She ran the thruster up all the way, locking it down into automatic control for the last course adjustments. "I've thrown us up into the standard approach pattern from the upper docks. Makes it look like we're in the normal approach queue. So many ships coming and going right now that the Deck Officer's just waving them through."
Marshall shook his head. "Why do I think you've been out there already?"
She laughed. "Not that I'd tell a stranger. But I feel sorry for the poor sucker they hired to command that flying scrapyard. Word got round that anything on her is up for grabs. Half the pilots down in Harry's spent most of the off-watch going back and forth with bits and pieces from their contingency stores."
"What?"
She locked down her console and turned her chair around to face him. "What's it to you? I figured you were just another scavenger ."
He rubbed his hand through his hair, "I'm the poor sucker. I was sneaking on board to take a look over her before I took formal command." Marshall frowned his way through her peals of laughter. "It's not funny. I was hoping for at least some professionalism, not a gang of sore losers salting the earth."
"Salting the earth?"
"Forget it. Do me a favor, though – when you get back, pass the word that the good times are over."
"No fun."
The shuttle spun around, slamming on its engines again to slow down, drifting back into the standard approach pattern. He pushed his way forward into the cockpit to get a better look at the ship; the young shuttle pilot made no move to stop him, evidently recognizing the look on his face.
He could just about make out a couple of space-suited figures on the outer hull repainting the ship's name, switching the 'C' to a 'T'. TSS ALAMO. Whatever the difficulties, it was his ship. He felt a surge of pride build up inside him as he looked over its lines, fixing them in his head. The hours he'd spent pouring over the blueprints on his way out from Mars didn't equal a single second of this experience, of actually looking at the ship he was to command.
"Coming into dock, Captain Danny, better strap in."
He looked over at her, shaking his head, "Don't call me that. I'm trying to keep a low profile. That's why I'm not wearing a uniform."
She laughed again. "No-one out of uniform has a shirt that well-creased. Tell you what, I'm in a generous mood. Couple of spare jackets over in the equipment locker, see if one fits you. No extra charge. Just dump it back when you get thrown out."
The shuttle crashed gently against the side of the ship, then bounced away, prompting a brief fusillade of swearing from Orlova. The docking latches engaged on the second try, and he heard the hissing of atmosphere filling the airlock, and felt himself getting heavy again in Alamo's rotational gravity. The locker had a pair of jackets in it – along with a small avalanche of junk which left some rather odd stains on his trousers. The oldest one of
She turned back to her console and started flicking switches; with a jolt the airlock separated and they began to float free, a touch of thruster speeding them away from the station. "Funny. Name's Margaret Orlova. Buy me enough drinks and flowers and you can call me Maggie," she said, grinning.
Marshall strapped himself carefully to one of the passenger seats, pushing some of the clutter out of the way, noting that one of the straps seemed rather frayed. "Daniel Marshall. When was the last time this shuttle got serviced?"
"By some tinkerer from the station? Yahweh knows, I wouldn't trust those morons to service a coffeepot. Based on what I paid, probably before the war. Handle all of that myself." She started to tap thrusters with a nonchalance that indicated long experience, then kicked the engines into full, sending Marshall rocking back into his couch. He looked over at some of the readings – they were well within the prohibited radius of the station.
"Why isn't Dock Control calling?"
"You want to fly, Danny?" She ran the thruster up all the way, locking it down into automatic control for the last course adjustments. "I've thrown us up into the standard approach pattern from the upper docks. Makes it look like we're in the normal approach queue. So many ships coming and going right now that the Deck Officer's just waving them through."
Marshall shook his head. "Why do I think you've been out there already?"
She laughed. "Not that I'd tell a stranger. But I feel sorry for the poor sucker they hired to command that flying scrapyard. Word got round that anything on her is up for grabs. Half the pilots down in Harry's spent most of the off-watch going back and forth with bits and pieces from their contingency stores."
"What?"
She locked down her console and turned her chair around to face him. "What's it to you? I figured you were just another scavenger ."
He rubbed his hand through his hair, "I'm the poor sucker. I was sneaking on board to take a look over her before I took formal command." Marshall frowned his way through her peals of laughter. "It's not funny. I was hoping for at least some professionalism, not a gang of sore losers salting the earth."
"Salting the earth?"
"Forget it. Do me a favor, though – when you get back, pass the word that the good times are over."
"No fun."
The shuttle spun around, slamming on its engines again to slow down, drifting back into the standard approach pattern. He pushed his way forward into the cockpit to get a better look at the ship; the young shuttle pilot made no move to stop him, evidently recognizing the look on his face.
He could just about make out a couple of space-suited figures on the outer hull repainting the ship's name, switching the 'C' to a 'T'. TSS ALAMO. Whatever the difficulties, it was his ship. He felt a surge of pride build up inside him as he looked over its lines, fixing them in his head. The hours he'd spent pouring over the blueprints on his way out from Mars didn't equal a single second of this experience, of actually looking at the ship he was to command.
"Coming into dock, Captain Danny, better strap in."
He looked over at her, shaking his head, "Don't call me that. I'm trying to keep a low profile. That's why I'm not wearing a uniform."
She laughed again. "No-one out of uniform has a shirt that well-creased. Tell you what, I'm in a generous mood. Couple of spare jackets over in the equipment locker, see if one fits you. No extra charge. Just dump it back when you get thrown out."
The shuttle crashed gently against the side of the ship, then bounced away, prompting a brief fusillade of swearing from Orlova. The docking latches engaged on the second try, and he heard the hissing of atmosphere filling the airlock, and felt himself getting heavy again in Alamo's rotational gravity. The locker had a pair of jackets in it – along with a small avalanche of junk which left some rather odd stains on his trousers. The oldest one of
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