Rating - Ummm... some parts are steamier, but mostly PG.
Feedback - Naturally.
Notes - Thanks as always to Lelak and to Rocfankat for casting their eyes over this at some point or other.
Element
Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |
Prologue
There are many things in our everyday existence that have their own unique rhythm. When you hear that beat, you recognise it as intrinsically belonging, as being right.
It's like standing at the docking portal waiting for the passenger doors to open. Do it enough times and you could do it with your eyes closed, by sound alone. You wait expectantly for that slight hiss that indicates air being pumped through the hydraulics. Then the door slides open, whisper quiet. A soft thump against the portal frame tells you it's all the way open. This is your cue to move.
You enter into air that is several degrees cooler and a shiver steals along your skin. The door begins to close behind you. If you turn and look you see the door closing, you can see a slight pause as the two sides of the portal almost meet, then close tightly. Then the hissing comes again. Air being pumped into the locks. The metallic grinding as a mechanism slides into place that you cannot see.
So like music you can almost dance to it. So ordered, so structured. The piece could be called "The rhythm of the auto-portal". No matter where you go, if there is an auto-portal on a ship or a station, you instinctively recognise that rhythm. Sometimes you don't even notice that you're mentally tapping your feet to it. Most of the time it escapes your notice completely, as with most things that you do by habit, you wouldn't notice it unless it weren't there.
Of course, like any good piece of music these rhythms have some variations. The auto-portal in the shuttle hisses louder as the air rushes in and out. The mining station doors make a soft beeping noise. It's like hearing a symphony led by two different conductors, but the underlying structure is the same. The same notes, tinged with interpretation.
It is a sure rhythm. It is how we learn to control and predict. The rhythm produces that sense of familiarity that convinces us we have everything under control.
I fly like that, almost by sound alone, everything so familiar to me I feel I could do it blindfolded. The crafts I fly have their rhythms, and I'm attuned to them now. It isn't confidence so much as surety - like I'm sure that on the planet's surface there will be oxygen to breathe, or sure that on Tuesdays there'll be meatloaf in the galley for lunch. I hear the rhythms, I feel the patterns, I fly with a mixture of confidence and habit bred through practice.
Every day I walk through the hangar door. It slides open as I punch in my five digit access code. I cross the compound quickly, softly touching the cool metal of the side of the T3 fighter when I get close to it. I check her underbelly, caress the shiny metal like a lover's skin. I check the engine report. I climb in, click the seat restraints into place. Listening hard I can hear the faint click of the restraints locking in. It had been the same when I was a novice pilot. Every detail measured, predictable, safe.
Thumbs up to ground control. Radio on. "Pre-flight check in progress." Navigation systems blinking on cue. The slow hum of the of the fighter's engine warming up, underpinning all the other activity like a bass drum. Everything is under control. An unwavering tempo.
The flight controller's voice comes through my helmet, confident and reassuring. One press of the flight ready button is all that is required to quicken the engines into a higher reverberation. So like music… so like conducting the orchestra of my life. I can almost imagine myself picking up my baton and waving it at the orchestra of the stars.
The hangar doors opened, and the sky beckons. Just as I take off is the only time I acknowledge that this time could be anything different. Variables can creep in, things can go wrong. Sometimes they have hotdogs for lunch on Tuesdays. Sometimes the air fouls and you find it hard to breath. Sometimes a tiny mechanical malfunction in your craft can mean the difference between a textbook flight and fighting fo your life.
That's why you do it. That's why you go on. That's why we live. Things might have their rhythms, life may be predictable, ninety-nine percent of human bahaviour might be habit. But one percent of the time, you're on your own.