Milk Run Raymond Daley Copyright 23/5/12 by Raymond Daley Smashwords Edition The steward looked bored. He'd made this stupid trip thousands of times, of course he was bored. Time for the litany. Rephrase the lore and pass the mic. The P.A. crackled, with a whine of feedback as he moved the mic too close to the speaker for at least the millionth time, promising yet again to never make that mistake. He tapped the mic to make sure, the familiar "thud-thud" confirming it was indeed live. Show time! "Ladies and Gentlemen, please ensure your seat-belts are securely fastened like so." He demonstrated the motion with the dummy seat-belt used as a visual aid for those passengers too stupid to follow the verbal instructions. "Our journey will take slightly less than five minutes so please remain in your seat with your belt secured." The Coulter drive had made the Earth--Mars run affordable to everyone, it was cheap, it was reliable and it had been running for over fifty years now with an unblemished record. From the corner of his eye the steward could see that man in 3F again, no doubt asking for a drink for what would now be the ninth time. "Yes sir, how may I be of service during your trip?" said the steward, his smile set to dazzle, mood set to bored. "Is there any chance of getting a drink on this piece of crap only fit for a museum?" asked Mr 3F. That particular jibe might have been low but it was accurate, Miss Flick, as she affectionately was known to the crew was the oldest craft in the Laker Spaceways fleet. If it had been any other outfit she would have been retired for at least twenty years by now but her engines worked perfectly, she retained a full atmosphere with no loss and she was still half as fast as the newest ships available. Not that Laker had any new ships. They ran on the margins, they made a profit but only just. Old man Laker bought cheap and ran 'til they stopped working. Which so far was never, hence Miss Flick. The passenger currently sitting in seat 3F already stank of alcohol, no doubt he'd been availing himself of the Earthside bars at McNair Spaceport of which there were many. Everywhere served you the first time, if you could order and pay then they didn't care. Likewise for the fourth or fifth time until they decided to throw you out and make you someone else's problem. And so on around every hostelry. Until check-in time. Then you were the space-line's problem. No doubt he'd purchased and consumed several packets of breath-mints to get him past the check-in desk, there at least he'd have been far enough away for them to not smell the reek of booze. He'd been standing upright, able to sustain personal locomotion, ergo - fit to fly. Right now he didn't look in a fit state to be doing anything, not even sitting down. The steward had a private bet with himself how many times this guy had tried to sit in his seat before he finally hit it. Odds were good on ten tries at least. "I'm terribly sorry sir, this is a hop trip, no refreshments are served aboard." He shot the lush that dazzling smile again, mostly designed to distract and confuse, taught in all good (and bad) flight attendant schools. As a Laker employee he'd attended the latter, thinking it was the former, not knowing better. "No, a real drink! A gin, a vodka, a whiskey, heck, I'd even settle for a beer!" The man in 3F was starting to shout now, attracting the attention of the other passengers. "Sir!" The steward turned on his firm but fair tone of voice, intended to calm and placate otherwise scare and intimidate. He did the crazy eyes, letting this passenger know he was getting the "shut up please" speech. "There is no alcohol aboard this craft. Now please settle down, you are upsetting the other passengers." That was an outright lie and he knew it. Not about upsetting the other passengers, several of the families with younger children had already complained about him, about the fact that there was no alcohol on board. There was, in the medical supply case, supposedly for emergencies only but the steward knew from past experience many pilots liked a tot or three before, after or even during a hop. Medical case, item #12. Medicinal alcohol, not for consumption. Not only did it clearly state as such on the label of the bottle, it was also printed in the inside of the case lid in large red letters several inches tall: CAUTION! DO NOT INGEST, MEDICAL ALCOHOL! STRICTLY FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY! The steward could still recall that first time, he'd been on his fifth flight, still green around the gills, unused to the Coulter drive. The pilot had called him to the cabin and asked for item #12 from the medical case. Being young and eager to please he'd grabbed it without question and hurried back to the cockpit expecting to treat a cut or open wound when the pilot had looked at him, asked where the tonic water was then preceded to consume half the bottle during his pre-flight checks. This had shocked him greatly and he had reported the infringement as the rules insisted. At the end of that working day he'd been called in to see his supervisor who then chewed him out for tattling on such a well respected pilot, telling him he didn't want to hear of any such occurrences ever again. He'd learnt you didn't grass, you ordered replacements which were off the records. No logs were kept of refills, so it appeared that the medical case was always fully stocked, no matter what. The man seemed to take the news as calmly as he'd expected, griping loudly to himself as the steward returned to his monitoring station. On the wall panel near the exit he saw the familiar red LED light up, indicating they were now over half way, passing the point of no-return with ease as always. This ship was now going to Mars. Or nowhere. Nowhere never happened. It was always Mars. Sometimes without a bump, other times with a few filled barf bags thanks to atmospheric turbulence and once without wheels thanks to a near-miss with Phobos. Lots of pilots almost hit Phobos, it was considered a rite of passage, you weren't a fully fledged Mars pilot until you'd at least clipped Phobos. No-one ever even came close to Deimos. It was the ginger stepchild of Martian moons. Right now the steward had his eyes on the recessed panel to his left. Passengers walked past it every day and almost none of them ever noticed it, rarely was he ever asked about. The official explanation, it was nothing more than an extra storage locker. Stewards and flight crew knew differently. Inside were a rack of stun-guns, intended for the passengers who got that far out of hand that extreme measures were called for. Right now the steward was beginning to think he might need to slide that panel open before they touched down at Viking Base. Then it happened. He saw the fourth LED. The dreaded blue LED, not just on but flashing. Bad things were happening. These craft were designed to be able to alert cabin crew without the passengers knowledge. Strips of LED’s were set into the ceiling, above the doors, at each exit point. No matter where a steward was, they would see all the markers. They were designed in such a way as to be only visible to someone standing, seated passengers never saw them thanks to tactically placed bulkheads and storage lockers. White for take-off, red for point of no-return. Green which rarely flashed was a summons to the cockpit. Blue for danger. He moved to the single seat designed for him or dead-headers, but that function was almost never used. These journeys were so short there was no point in ever sitting down unless it was on the last few hops of a very long day. Above the seat was the comm-phone, connecting him directly to the cockpit. He picked it up and waited. No answer. Clearly whatever danger the pilot and co-pilot were coping with was keeping them both from answering. This was rare but not entirely unheard of, there had been instances in the initial prototype tests of the Coulter drive where ships had lost power, bad motivator units or fused fuzzy logic units were later found to have been the cause. These ships had drifted into Mars orbit where local shuttles had eventually rescued them. The steward pressed the attraction buzzer switch, right then inside the cockpit an alarm would be sounding and a series of attention grabbing lights would flash on panels in front of both the pilot and co-pilot, alerting them to the comm-phone. This was always answered immediately. Thirty more seconds ticked painfully by. No answer. The steward slowly removed his finger from the switch and walked over to the main cabin door, this was normally left open to allow easy monitoring of the passengers and for the stewards to have free and easy passage about the craft. He quietly slid it shut, hoping none of the passengers had noticed. He now had a soundproof shield between him and them, they would not hear any of the potential alarms going off in the cockpit when he opened the cockpit door. He placed his RFID ring on the sensor and the cockpit door unlocked, as he turned the handle he was aware of the deathly silence. No alarms. He wasn't sure if that was good or not. Probably not. Blue lights flashed on every instrument panel. He closed the cockpit door behind him, neither the pilot nor co-pilot were moving. After doing the standard medical checks, neither man had a pulse. It appeared they were both dead, probably the same thing had killed both of them at the exact same time. Right now the ship was in autopilot mode, the pilot was only really necessary for landing and take-off. Everything else was done by a computer, but in just over 90 seconds they were definitely going to need a pilot. The autopilot was already braking in preparation to achieve insertion into Mars orbit for landing but they were going to need someone to fire final stage retros. The steward opened the main cabin door and picked up the mic. "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a slight problem. Are there any pilots on board?" He tried to sound as calm as possible. "If anyone has any piloting experience can they please make themselves known to me, our Captain needs you." He threw that in, to hopefully calm anyone, fooling them into thinking they still had at least one person flying would make them less afraid. From the announcement area he could see that the drunk was struggling his way out of his seat-belt, trying (and failing miserably) to get up. 3F, trouble again. The steward walked down the aisle towards him. "Sir, please retake your seat." 3F looked him squarely in the eyes. "You want someone who can fly, right? That's me. Barnard Murchison, at your service." The steward didn't know exactly why the name Murchison was ringing bells in his memory but right now it either didn't matter or he didn't care. He led Murchison toward the cockpit, closing the cabin door behind them. Considering how drunk the steward assumed he actually was, Murchison took in the situation not only very well but very quickly too. The Captain and co-pilot were unceremoniously dumped from their seats with Murchison taking the helm and directing the steward into the co-pilots position. "Listen," said Murchison. "When I say do something, do it right away. We might still make Mars today. If we miss, this isn't going to be pretty." Murchison was already flicking switches and then started to pull one panel away from the dashboard. Behind the panel several sets of differently coloured wires hung, loose and unconnected. Murchison carefully twisted several pairs together at fingertip, whatever he was doing, he seemed to be fully in control, drunk or not. All the displays suddenly went dark, no longer flashing blue. Several sets of lights flashed both red and white. This wasn't a sequence the steward had seen before, these were probably cockpit only indicators. Seeing the puzzled look on his face Murchison explained "Approaching the terminator, we'll be firing retros shortly." Murchison looked at the steward. "You trust me boy?" The steward just nodded. "I can't do this straight, it's been too long. You need to get me item #12. You understand?" It was clear then to the steward that Murchison clearly was or had previously been a pilot, only flight and cabin crew were aware what was designated item #12. The ground crew who did the restock referred to it by an obscure alphanumeric part number. It took the steward thirty seconds from leaving to returning. Murchison half turned his head to see the bottle in the stewards left hand. "Beware Greeks bearing gifts, eh?" he said, grinning. The top was quickly unscrewed and the contents up-ended down an anxious and eager throat, almost all gone bar one finger. Murchison offered it to the steward, "Here lad, why don't you join me? Calms the nerves! If it doesn't kill you the crashing will!" Murchison made that last comment over a half smirk, he didn't want the young man to know how close to death they truly were right now. He'd had to activate Adey-Jackson circuits, long since disconnected in this old Coulter mark II. The men flying this tub had been little more than button pushers with less control than the early Mercury mission chimps. With the A-J circuits kicked in, a dead monitor sparked into life, it probably hadn't seen power for a good decade but it still fired up right away. These crates may have been old but they were built at a time when workmanship was still held in high regard, Murchison had seen the chalked handwriting on the circuit board as he'd rewired the A-J back into life. Back then every man personally signed his work, it was traceable right back to individuals on the factory floor. People who were proud their work served a useful purpose. Murchison said a silent thanks to D. Smith, probably now long dead but sure his name would be added to a list of the heroes who saved Miss Flick. The red and white lights blinked out and Murchison threw three toggle switches with his left hand, watching the read-out on the A-J monitor. It was nothing more than an advanced oscilloscope, Murchison adjusted a knob with his right hand, manually correcting for error, watching the curved waveform gradually grow squarer. A square wave gave him the advance notice, as it became sine he flicked two of the three toggle switches back to their original positions. "Tap the red button on that centre panel." Murchison called over to the steward, the button was obvious enough, no more reds on that or any other panel in his current field of vision. Murchison felt the kick, the slight lurch to the right, the starboard attitude thrusters firing to drop them into the desired approach vector. A piezo speaker croaked out a duo-tone alarm, the steward was looking round in fear. Murchison punched in the autopilot again. "Just the ground computer letting us know we hit the sweet spot. The autopilot will do the rest. Now press that yellow button and I'll be on my way." Murchison rose and let himself out of the cockpit. Over the cabin speakers came the prerecorded voice of the now dead pilot, these recordings were made for times when the pilot was away from his seat for whatever reason, this occasion seemed perfect. The passengers would now never know how close to death they had been, Murchison had seen the vectors. They wouldn't have missed re-entry and skipped off into endless space. Their journey had Deimos at full speed at its end. Just another impact crater in the log of history. At Viking base Miss Flick docked and equalised, the ground crew ready to remove the evidence of the near fatality. As the pressure door opened they found a passenger sitting in the dead-header position. They knew they couldn't remove the bodies without him seeing them. Then the realisation. He'd already seen them. "If you want to pass into the processing area, a Laker Spaceways rep is there with a small token of our thanks for you sir." said the ground handler. Murchison walked out of the pressure door. The other passengers were disembarked with the cockpit remaining firmly closed and locked from inside, amid the confusion and bustle Murchison was able to walk slowly out of Viking base into the surrounding series of domed complexes. No-one saw him again. In the processing area the remaining passengers were gradually counted off the manifest. "One missing?" asked the ground rep. "Murchison. Our saviour." replied the steward. They both glanced over the list of names on the passenger manifest. No Murchison listed. "3F! Barnard Murchison, he told me himself sir!" said the steward to the ground rep. "Do you believe in ghosts son?" asked the ground rep. The list showed seat 3F occupied by A. Coulter Jr. "Why did he tell me his name was Barnard Murchison?" asked the steward. "Perhaps you're a little young to remember the Alpha test of the first Coulter drive. Two men flew that day. Alfred Coulter and Barnard Murchison. Less than three minutes into the flight a motivator unit burnt out leaving the ship drifting into space. Coulter claimed Murchison was drunk and had fired a thruster too early causing the burn out. Murchison claimed Coulter passed out from the G-forces in the opening seconds of take-off and that the motivator was already burnt out when he tried to fire it. He said he had to rewire the instrument panel by hand to manually fire the thruster to push them back into normal shipping lanes where they were later picked up by a passing asteroid tramper. Murchison was blamed for the whole thing and blacklisted forever, his name went down in infamy. He never forgave Murchison to his dying day. Coulter died the following year, a broken man without his lifelong friend and colleague. He left behind his wife and one son, Alfred Junior. It looks like sonny boy finally dragged himself out the of the gutter to redeem a wronged man." When the media were finally allowed access to the news the steward knew what he had to do. "Sir, did the man who saved the craft give his name?" "Yes ladies and gentlemen of the Universal press. Our lives and eternal gratitude belong to Barnard Murchison." THE END. ____________ Authors Notes:- I'm fairly sure the basic idea of this story was inspired by the Robert Heinlein short "The Green Hills Of Earth". I was pleased to discover I managed to spell Deimos right without having to resort to Google (which I did to check I HAD got it right). The craft was named Miss Flick after Jane Felicity (call me Flick) Wilkinson, a WRAF friend from my Strike Command days. D. Smith was Darren Smith, a compatriot from my time in Air Staff Registry at Strike Command. Adey-Jackson circuits were named after two friends from secondary school, Phil Adey and Richard Jackson. Laker Spaceways will be obvious to those old enough to have heard of Freddie Lakers budget airline having had the idea long before Stelios ever thought of Easy Jet. Coulter was just made up, I believe I may have borrowed the name Murchison from Larry Niven, I have chosen to spell it a different way. Did you spot my little Star Wars reference? A bad motivator is how Luke Skywalker comes to meet R2D2. What's really scary is that I knew Viking was a Mars probe without even checking. I'm sorry if the ending is a bit weak, I was writing in a silly hot temperature when I was trying to complete this.