[1.21] On Proper Equipment

The secret of Conlan's success as an airship racer has long been a favorite topic among sports commentators. Any number of opinions exist on the matter, ranging from the possible to ideas that Graham might come up with (and very well might have - nothing gives Graham more joy than feeding rumors into online airsports forums). They've cited his wealth, his age, his diet, his mechanics, alleged communion with eldritch beings, possible immortality, and the fact that his love life is one of the biggest media mysteries of the current century. They have even considered the possibility that he wins by cosmic intervention.

However, if there was ever a single secret, one paramount source of Conlan Sterling's unmatched skill in an airship, it would have to be none other than his choice of seating.

You see, the standard captain's seat in an airship is much the same as you've likely imagined it - as something like a car seat or a seat in a standard airplane. The pilot sits in it and all the controls are positioned in front of him. He is strapped in or not, depending on circumstances, and from then on it is the vehicle doing most of the maneuvering, not him.

Very early on, Conlan took issue with this arrangement. He had always been extremely in-tune with ships while he was flying them - able to feel them out almost as though they were an extension of himself. And when in a situation of stress or one that required dynamic piloting, he found the typical arrangement restricting. He felt it necessary for the ship to move just as he directed it - to move with him.

Which brings us back to the 3rd Division of the Lotearan secret service, for a technology update.

See, Conlan liked the seats in their combat mechs. You know - the humanoid-shaped giants of steel that speed around and kill things with extreme precision? Those are also piloted by ace flyers - however, their seating of course needs to be much more dynamic. The seats are positioned so the pilot leans forward, as though on a motorbike, and the controls are positioned similarly so that every move made by the pilot moves the vehicle accordingly. Push the left steering rod down and lean left - that's where the vehicle moves. No steering wheel for these fine men.

Conlan liked the concept. Such a steering console would not fit in a standard airship. Airship controls are supposed to be stationary.

Supposed to be.

But Conlan had the money to improvise.

[1.2] Push

Camilla disconnected from the Camalus and dialed into the air control tower, turning and walking back up to the edge of the platform. The airship was going to be a mess. But if Conlan brought in the haul, money wasn't going to be an issue in getting the poor thing repaired. Really, he was too hard on his machines.

"Vincent, are you watching this?"

"Naturally, my dear. What do you need?"

The Purserosian was more or less in control of the whole airdock operation - overseeing the ships as they went out and returned from the storm, and having the lumia emptied from the turbines and finalized. The staff worshipped him because he had a knack for mending problems before they properly had a chance to break out.

"He's not going to be able to make it back on that amount of fuel-"

"Which is why I already have a recovery team getting into position. Not to worry - and I've sent a crew down to ready the processor. Or, 'processors' plural. Likely need more than one, for this haul. And Alpha dock is all cleared out and prepped for him."

Camilla smiled. "You're my favorite."

"Oh, you flatter me - but get back to him, now. I know you're worried sick."

She dialed back to the Camalus and hopped back onto the platform, getting behind the broad front desk. Embedded computer monitors gave her the same information that the screens suspended behind her did, and a lot more. Like satellite positioning that told her he was flying through a virtual mine field - a galaxy of bursts too unstable to capture in the turbines and likely to go off if they got the slightest whiff of the Camalus' energy exhaust.

"Conlan . . ."

"Piece of cake."

"Oh, if you say so."

"Doesn't he got a cockpit camera?" asked someone in the audience.

"It blew out last time," Camilla explained - Conlan did have a way of overworking his machines - but turned on a third overhead screen and uploaded the satellite feed. It was the closest to the action that they were going to get - Camilla wasn't about to key them into the on-board radio.

"He's gonna get himself killed, flying through that," someone else said, once they saw the feed.

"What? Haven't you seen him fly before? Be world famous, one day, this one will."

"He used to race . . ."

". . . saw him once in Ipsy . . ."

The outline of the burst field on the satellite feed grew jagged, like a sheet of ice cracking across a lake. The corridor Conlan flew through was hardly wide enough for his wingspan. Camilla traced her finger over the monitor.

"To your left, there's a break-"

"See it."

It was going to be close.

"Now!"

The Camalus shot out of the field, the exhaust igniting a series of bursts that propelled the ship straight through some thick cloud cover and into one of the jet streams that circulated through the storm. There wouldn't be any bursts in it, which was great for safety, and the stream would help his fuel situation, but he'd have to get out of it to capture any lumia.

The crowd before the platform was growing as word of the flight traveled through the fortress. Everyone wanted to see history being made. Camilla just hoped they wouldn't see more than they bargained for.

***

Conlan couldn't have told anyone why he was doing this. It was a suicide mission. Doomed to fail. Absolutely ridiculous. Something Graham would do. That kind of thing. 

Seriously - his ship was a wreck. He could feel it as well as he felt his own body and limbs. That it was still holding itself together was miraculous to say the least, and it would most likely fall apart once it was docked. And he didn't give a rat's ass about the record, so what was the point? The cash? No. He didn't really care about that either, except that money kept the fortress afloat and that made Camilla happy. And there was purchasing the Andrasta to think about, but that was a long ways off. 

So, why? If he really had to answer, it would be, "Because I can."

Because, conditions be damned, he knew it. He knew it was in his reach, and there was no reason to back down.

Luminescent tendrils of air swept up the windshield, fanning from side to side and rippling as they shot off the roof.

Now, all he had to do was find a burst of lumia big enough to take a chance on. If he got out of the jet stream at a crappy place, someplace dead or already mined, he would run out of fuel before he could do any more searching. Unfortunately, the view from the cockpit basically amounted to clouds, blurs, and what looked like another burst field to his right, glinting like it contained shards of broken glass. Too bad his dash cameras were shot. He shifted gears again, going as slowly as possible and putting minimum strain on the engine.

And then there it was, on the right, a ways ahead and a long way down. A burst of lumia big enough that he didn't need the radar to find it. An easy 70 nodes, flaring gold and orange and bright shivering pink, if he could just reach it. 

Think Star-Cropping 101: Between a jet stream and a burst field, there's going to be empty air. A calm. The jet stream carries off the excess lumia and whatever storm winds there are, and creates a pocket of flying space. In this case, probably a narrow pocket of flying space, probably too narrow to be, strictly speaking, safe - but the burst was approaching fast and his instincts screamed at him that this would be his only chance.

Time to do something insane.

[1.1] Limit Break

Silence in the lobby, and all the airships docked for the night, their cargo processed – all of them, save one. Outside, the sun set in a profusion of amber and gold.

Four dozen pilots, crew members, and mechanics crowded the status platform as Camilla Rosen uploaded the flight data of the Camalus to the two main screens. A digital array of graphs and wildly fluctuating percentages appeared, and an even greater hush blanketed the room. Even the service staff stopped their chores at the periphery of the hall, turning their attention to the usually lively spectator's lounge. Not only was this a possibly record-breaking flight, but also a possibly fatal one.

Camilla keyed herself into the Camalus’ onboard computers and touched the radio button on her headset.

“How are you on fuel?” she asked quietly, turning and walking unnoticed to a spot to the side of the platform.

“Why do you ask? You can see it, can’t you?”

Yes, she could. The fuel gauge was but one of the many ominous readouts flashing across the screens, along with real-time reports of particle-pressure, shield status, engine strength, full operating capacity, and of course, turbine capacity – the number the audience was certainly paying the most attention to as the Camalus sped through the Triskan Monument Storm in mind-boggling formations.

“I mean,” she said quietly, “what do you think? Can you do it?”

He had less than 20% fuel left.

Particle pressure to the airship’s body was at 35% and building.

The lumia shields were on their last legs.

And the sound of the engine firing when he gunned it nearly blew out her headset.

“Sure,” said Conlan Sterling, primary pilot of the Efferis Fortress fleet.

On screen, the operating capacity graph maxed out.

But turbine capacity was at 234, and the record was only 61 nodes of lumia away.