Prichard
The reflection of my worried face stared back at me in duality from my overly-polished shoes. Matched by the twice-pressed, steamed, and freshly rolled uniform I wore that day. I felt like I was wearing a tuxedo to the first day of class back in grade school. A sharp contrast to the state of the shuttle that carried me, and our destination. Something the crew was having a good laugh at, of course at my expense.
“Sir, are you alright back there? Can we get you drink? I’m sure I can find something. We just haven’t opened the bar up in a while ya know?” The crew chief laughed in his seat, as the co-pilot continued with feigned hospitality. I may out rank everyone onboard, but with my new post, the status it brought did not include much respect. I only sighed, caught in a web of thought that ensnared all my past mistakes. However depressing, it at least made the time pass.
Listening to the constant hum of the small vessel’s engines I slowly came to terms with my path forward, for the fourth time that week. The catchphrases of anti-depression swung through my brain like the shuffle of cards: I can’t look back. What’s done is done. This too shall pass. Slamming themselves against fact. This would be my post for the next two years and if I was to survive, much less thrive, it would start with a good impression. The basics of professionalism. Another heavy sigh later and I was back to inspecting the shine of my shoes.
“Ah there she is now sir. Got her visually up here if you’d like to take a look,” the shuttle’s senior pilot offered from the cockpit, with what could be mistaken for genuine concern. Unstrapping, I made my way forward, sticking my head into the cockpit, and taking extra care to not taint my stark white uniform on any one of the innumerable greasy bulkheads. “Big, old, grandmother of a station ain’t she?” the copilot remarked, slowing us for our final approach.
“Ancient fortress becomes neglected warehouse. Nothing new for a lot of bases these days,” the chief pilot added, bringing the landing lights on and working the comms, “Thermopylae Control, this is shuttle 5-1. We’re inbound for passenger drop off, main hangar.”
The voice on the other end sounded old and indifferent, “Shuttle 5-1, you’re cleared to approach. No other traffic at this time. Hangar’s yours.”
“Making our final approach now Control, shuttle 5-1 out,” the chief pilot closed the channel while the co-pilot chuckled, “What do you think the average age is on that pile of junk? I mean sure you’ve got some young blood getting their feet wet, but the brass? The long tour guys? They have to be up there.”
At his colleague’s silence, the co-pilot quickly turned back to me, standing over him in my mid-thirties, but having a face that looked much younger. “Of course, they’re always times to reverse a trend if you get my meaning sir.” This station was to be my home, and I was determined to see to it that it, and myself were up to standard for the duration of my tenure.
“Sir, we’re about to land. Please take your seat and strap in,” the chief pilot asked, now robotic, eyes watching the looming hangar bay opening.
“Very well,” I made my way determinedly back to my seat. Being cautious as to not mar my uniform as I affixed the five-point harness of my seat. The crew chief let out a snort, or it might have been a snore, his sun-visor was down and he was belted in tight against his own seat. Not a lot of excitement in continuous Earth orbit shuttle runs I guessed.
The deceleration burn came and went, the landing gear extended, and I felt the shuttles’ weight settle on to them. Standing as the hiss of pressure equalization, I did one final self-inspection and picked up my briefcase. It was time to start a new chapter of my life. A better chapter.
The ramp dropped, and at its foot was a stout, shell of a greying man, whose most remarkable feature was a moustache that somehow seemed cleaner than the rest of him. As I walked down to meet him, my face contorted. The stench! The man wreaked, of too many things to count including alcohol, and under the bright fluorescent lights of the hangar he stared hard at me for the first time through his squinty little eyes, “Welcome aboard, glad to have a new first officer!” he grumbled, gaze unwavering.
“Thank you, sir, it’s an honor and a pleasure. Is my predecessor around? I was hoping to start turnover as soon as I was settled,” I tried not to breathe as I looked around the vast, empty space.
“I’m afraid that will be impossible, he departed yesterday. Left you a fair number of files though in your stateroom. I’m sure that will suffice,” he said it as if his inebriation didn’t affect him, only watching my reaction.
“Oh? I wasn’t aware of that. On to bigger and better things?” The man was already turning for the exit, “Early retirement my boy, early retirement,” my stomache dropped and he was gone.
“May I take you to your quarters sir?” A young second class asked, for what I could have only presumed was the second or third time. They may have been there for the whole exchange, I didn’t know. I followed with a whimper of a response, coming to terms with fate.
My name is Lieutenant Commander Prichard, and that was the day I met Admiral Zhukov.
