Post by Cryn on Jan 19, 2018 13:02:55 GMT -5
The transport tube stops at the last station in Gemenicius. Cryn disembarks, still in his dress shirt and pants, along with two other people. On the other side of the stop, a crowd of people pack onto the cars heading away from Tauricius Sector. It was like that the whole trip down; an empty tube going down to Tauricius passing cars going the other direction, packed to overflowing.
After a few moments looking around, Cryn spots a portable rack with standard softsuits hanging from pegs. A Naval NCO is busy stacking respirator masks into duffel bags. As Cryn approaches, he looks up. “Civilian access is restricted here, sir. These suits are for R & R operations in Tauricius.”
“So I guessed, Petty Officer. I’m here to aid in the operation.” Cryn hands over his ident card. “I did ten years in the Merchies doing EVA. I thought you could use someone who’s comfortable in a vacc suit.” The crew chief grunts in assent and hands the card back. “Speak here. You know you undertake this operation at your risk?” “Yes,” says Cryn. “Ok. Suit up, set comm to channel three-two, grab a light and some respirators, and we’ll pair you up.”
The softsuit hangs loosely around his arms and legs, but otherwise fits. His practiced hands smooth the seals over his chest and around his neck. He drops the faceplate with one hand while he snaps a tank into place with other. A touch to his wristpad brings up a HUD on the glass. He runs through the checklist, rattling off items: “Nitro, O2, Argon, CO2, all green. CO at trace. Internal pressure one-oh-one-point-three tank reading six hours battery reading nine-three.” He touches some buttons on his wrist control. “Scrubber on headlight on comm channel three-two. Glewhand, Cryn in suit AY5692.” Another touch brings the HUD down.
Cryn grabs a handlight and the nearest duffel from the ground, which he quickly puts down again. A little fumbling and half its masks are on the ground. “Sorry, this is about all I can handle,” Cryn says to the crew chief as he picks up the duffel again.
The crew chief points Cryn to a woman in her twenties donning a Naval suit. The stencil on her suit reads Betru, M., A.S. “At least she’s not totally green,” he thinks to himself. Out loud he says, “Spacehand Betru, I’m Cryn Glewhand. I assume you’ll be point of contact for the rescue operation? Yes? Then let’s get going.”
“So, what does the M. stand for?” “Marvel,” she answers. “I normally do M-drive maintenance but they’ve put out an all-hands call for rescue and recovery.” “Well,” says Cryn, “we hope it’s more rescue, right?”
At this point they reach the cargo lock between Gemenicius and Tauricius. It opens to disgorge about thirty people, evacuees on foot, some supported by others. All of them take deep breaths of the fresh Gemenicius air. Normally that phrase is an oxymoron. Cryn and A.S. Betru step through the open cargo doors into the empty garage-sized airlock.
“By the way, Marvel, could we head to Eff Town first? I have a friend there…”
After a few moments looking around, Cryn spots a portable rack with standard softsuits hanging from pegs. A Naval NCO is busy stacking respirator masks into duffel bags. As Cryn approaches, he looks up. “Civilian access is restricted here, sir. These suits are for R & R operations in Tauricius.”
“So I guessed, Petty Officer. I’m here to aid in the operation.” Cryn hands over his ident card. “I did ten years in the Merchies doing EVA. I thought you could use someone who’s comfortable in a vacc suit.” The crew chief grunts in assent and hands the card back. “Speak here. You know you undertake this operation at your risk?” “Yes,” says Cryn. “Ok. Suit up, set comm to channel three-two, grab a light and some respirators, and we’ll pair you up.”
The softsuit hangs loosely around his arms and legs, but otherwise fits. His practiced hands smooth the seals over his chest and around his neck. He drops the faceplate with one hand while he snaps a tank into place with other. A touch to his wristpad brings up a HUD on the glass. He runs through the checklist, rattling off items: “Nitro, O2, Argon, CO2, all green. CO at trace. Internal pressure one-oh-one-point-three tank reading six hours battery reading nine-three.” He touches some buttons on his wrist control. “Scrubber on headlight on comm channel three-two. Glewhand, Cryn in suit AY5692.” Another touch brings the HUD down.
Cryn grabs a handlight and the nearest duffel from the ground, which he quickly puts down again. A little fumbling and half its masks are on the ground. “Sorry, this is about all I can handle,” Cryn says to the crew chief as he picks up the duffel again.
The crew chief points Cryn to a woman in her twenties donning a Naval suit. The stencil on her suit reads Betru, M., A.S. “At least she’s not totally green,” he thinks to himself. Out loud he says, “Spacehand Betru, I’m Cryn Glewhand. I assume you’ll be point of contact for the rescue operation? Yes? Then let’s get going.”
“So, what does the M. stand for?” “Marvel,” she answers. “I normally do M-drive maintenance but they’ve put out an all-hands call for rescue and recovery.” “Well,” says Cryn, “we hope it’s more rescue, right?”
At this point they reach the cargo lock between Gemenicius and Tauricius. It opens to disgorge about thirty people, evacuees on foot, some supported by others. All of them take deep breaths of the fresh Gemenicius air. Normally that phrase is an oxymoron. Cryn and A.S. Betru step through the open cargo doors into the empty garage-sized airlock.
“By the way, Marvel, could we head to Eff Town first? I have a friend there…”