dejah_thoris | [oom] A visit to the Milliways Garage with Adrian Shephard

Dejah stepped up beside the craft, and brushed off the control consoles. She pushes something and gets no response.

"Huh. Hang on." She cracks a panel and her face is bathed in a pale blue light. "There you are. Wakey wakey." She tweaks something and the whole contraption shudders. She closes the panel and throws a leg over, leaning forward to grasp the throttle levers. A moment later, the flyer flexes and the wings unfold in a cloud of dust. Each 'feather' is a pane of blue glass and seems to swivel independent of the support structure. They angle towards the overhead lights, and the skimmer seems to shiver into the next stage of powering up.

"This is one of the older models. The kind I learned to fly on. They're a bit more fussy than the newer models, but I find them to be more responsive." She certainly sits astride it with an ease that implies more than basic competency. "The radium drive is still powered up, but it needs a moment under the lights to reach flight capabilities. Care for a spin?"

"Never heard of a reactor that ran on radium before," says Shephard, who's still a little hung up on the holy fucking shit is that thing an ornithopter factor. "How, uh. How high does- I mean, we're indoors, but-"

"I'm given to believe that what I call radium and what you call radium are two entirely different elements. And this is a skimmer, so it's designed for ground level transport, but it can get higher. It's more than capable of holding two."

Woola hears the radium drive spinning up and chuffs excitedly.

"Ah," says Shephard. So he probably doesn't have to go back upstairs and get a dosimeter, then.

Shit.

"I, uh...." He rubs at the back of his neck. "Long as we don't git goin' too fast on that thing, I'll ride with you. I got to confess, I don't deal with flyin' real well. Even when I'm the pilot."

She grins at him, and pats the seat behind her. "Tell me this doesn't look like more fun than that cart of yours..."

Her expression softened when she saw his trepidation. "I swear, on the sword of my grandmother, I will keep to a reasonable speed."

"Well, all right," says Shephard, because if nothing else his mother and father taught him to be respectful to ladies. And anyway, unless they get into the area where that Jaeger is standing, they probably can't go high enough to get into the thing's kill zone should something go wrong. As he moves to swing into the seat he adds, "It ain't gonna be a commentary on your flyin' skills if I git sick after. I always git sick after flyin'. Even when I'm the pilot."

"It's not flying, Mister Shephard. It's skimming. It should feel similar to your wheeled craft."

It might be a subtle difference, but she recognizes the psychology of the thing. She reaches back and grabs his hand, dragging it around her waist.

"Still. Better hold on."

She shifts her foot against a lever, and the landing gear retracts. The craft is quiet, the hum of the drive felt more than heard. The clattering of the wing's 'pin feathers' reconfiguring is louder. It shifts under their weight, and she pulls back on the skimmer's hand controls, moving it into reverse slowly.

"Yes ma'am."

Reputation to the contrary, Shephard does in fact know that there are times when it is better not to argue.

(Which doesn't mean that he doesn't close his eyes for just a little bit as the thing starts moving. He'll open them shortly. Really, he will.)

True to her word, she keeps it low and slow, even though she'd rather do exactly the opposite.

He can hear Woola padding along behind them as they back out of the slot, and he can feel the kah-clunk of the wings as they spread again. If he was looking, he'd see they could easily open to twice their current wingspan. But this seems a modest configuration for their purpose.

"Everything all right back there?" He can feel them shift directions, moving forward now, not even fast enough to ruffle his hair.

"Think so, ma'am," says Shephard. When he feels the direction shift, he opens his eyes. "I c'n manage, anyways. Go ahead'n pick up the pace some if you like. I ain't gonna git much worse regardless."

She does, but only a bit faster than walking. "I don't want to betray your good faith, Mister Shephard. And maybe, I'd like you to enjoy this little jaunt."

He can hear the grin in her voice.

"I'll try, ma'am," Shephard says. "Ain't makin' no guarantees, but I promise you I'll try."

After a moment he adds, "See that silver car up ahead? Turn left once you git there. That's the way to the helicopters- I used to fly some of those, before the damn things got destroyed back home."

The ride is actually quite smooth, and the quiet click clack of the wings is never really still.

"As you wish," she says. She banks gracefully, all yaw, no roll to speak of. "Oh those are strange looking craft." She slows as she looks over the lot of them. "The lift comes from the rotors? And the -- oh I see. The tail rotor acts as stabilization?"

Shephard nods. "Turns're done by tilting the rotor blades," he says. "Bank the main rotors so they'll offset lift in one direction, 'n smooth it out with the tail rotor. That little fucker's the only reason the main rotor don't wind up spinning one way while the fuselage spins the other."

And oh God does he ever hate knowing that fact.

She wrinkles her nose, pondering the vision he presents.

"Seems like a terribly fragile system. And they use these in combat?"

"'Fraid so, ma'am," Shephard says. "Things're unstable as fuck but they c'n take off'n land straight up and down, and they'll hover in place for a pilot who knows his shit. Our medics swear by 'em for rescues."

"Better not plan on emergency evac, though, the prop wash from the fuckin' rotor blades'll fuck the ever living shit out of your parachute if you try. Only way out of one of these in the air's into a convenient pile of somethin' soft, or a lake or some shit like that."

She chuckles and lets the skimmer drift in place for a moment. It bobs as gently as a cork in a bathtub.

"You sound like you speak from experience."

"You only have to jump out once for it to stick in your memory, ma'am."

(All the other unplanned exits from flying machines involved crashes.)

She turns her head, just enough to speak to him.

"You're calling me ma'am again. If you insist on attaching an appellation to my person, I'd prefer -- professor. Or doctor, whichever you prefer."

"Force of habit. Momma and my DI drummed it into me but good," Shephard says. "Sorry 'bout that."

"No need to apologize. It simply makes me feel like your mother, or your commanding officer. I'd prefer to be your friend, if that's all right with you?"

"Fair 'nough," says Shephard. "Most folks who ain't from my part of the country back home ain't used to hearin' it used much either, so I'll do what I can to avoid it."

She grins, and nods. That's all she can ask, really.

She leans forward and grips the control bars again, banking them away from the rotor craft. The aisle stretches ahead of them as far as the eye can see.

"So how fast do your two-wheeled craft go, anyway?"

She shifts her weight, and the craft begins to pick up speed. Nothing faster than the golf cart so far.

"Up to a hunnert-twenty miles an hour," says Shephard. "I don't reckon I ever did much more'n about eighty or ninety on-"

He stops; a thought occurred to him.

"Y'all use miles or metric on Barsoom? Or somethin' else entirely?"

"I'm familiar with Earth's Imperial measurements in distance."

She can do the conversions in her head adequately enough.

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