Haladras

The ruddy sandstone raced by in a blur as he navigated the
sinuous ravine at breakneck speed. Never before had he flown through the Devil’s
Throat with such speed. Around every bend, fierce outcroppings lashed out at
him. He knew he should slow down. But he couldn’t risk it.

Just two more turns
...

He sailed around the next bend, banking left, his boot
grazing the rock face.

One more...

Like a flash of lightning he banked right and shot around
the last bend. Before him the flat wasteland of Haladras unfurled like an ocean
of sand and rock. Skylar torqued the throttle and brought his arms closer to
his sides. The narrowed coupling field formed by the two hand-held thrusters
made him fly like a rocket.

He ripped straight through the sunbaked desert air, straight
for the place he ought to have been at a full hour ago. Cloud Harbor, the
planet’s main space port. It seemed to be taunting him, drawing closer at an
agonizingly slow rate.

Within a few minutes, however, Skylar could see the dock
clearly. The crew was busier than usual, hurrying this way and that as they
endeavored to follow the stream of orders spewing from Rasbus’ mouth. The port
master was evidently in one of his moods. Skylar was not surprised. He had
never known Rasbus not to be more irritable than normal on days like this.

With some relief, Skylar alighted onto the deck, just a
short distance from Rasbus.

“You’re late,” said Rasbus roughly, not bothering to look up
from his docking plans. He hollered out another order to one of his
lieutenants. “Is this how you thank me for letting you have this assignment?”

“I was—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses—”

“Jurvic, have you double-checked those tow cables?” Rasbus
bellowed to one of the crew on the lower deck.

“Aye!”

“Good. Check them again.”

Skylar stood there, anxiously wondering if Rasbus was
finished with him. Had he missed his one chance? There would be no arguing with
Rasbus if he said no. After several more moments in which Rasbus berated a
junior dockhand for not being at his assigned post, Rasbus again spoke to
Skylar.

“I have half a mind to send you to clean the latrines during
this docking. But fortunately for you several of the crew have taken ill or are
injured. I need you out there. Suit up and report to Kindor. You have exactly
five minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” Skylar replied, already turning to make a dash
for the armory.

“And, Skylar,” Rasbus added, turning to Skylar for the first
time and pointing his massive finger at him, “be careful out there.”

Skylar nodded, then bolted out of sight.

Within a few minutes, Skylar had re-emerged from the armory
clad in his deck suit. The suit was fabricated from layers of dense flame-retardant
material within and thick armor plating without. Skylar lumbered along as
quickly as he could under the cumbersome weight of the suit. Despite the
climate-controlled interior, Skylar felt like his body was inside a furnace.

His metal boots clanked loudly on the steel-grated platform
as he navigated his way along the bustling deck. Soon he spotted the tall
figure he was looking for. He was glad Rasbus had assigned him to work with
Kindor. The amiable deck officer had always watched out for Skylar, and treated
him like a younger brother.

“There he is,” said Kindor when he noticed Skylar
approaching. “I was wondering when you’d decide to show up.”

“I lost track of time,” Skylar confessed. “I was playing a
game of Orb Scram.”

Kindor chuckled. “Sounds like a good excuse to me, but I
hope you didn’t tell that to Rasbus.”

“He said he didn’t want to hear any of my excuses.”

Kindor nodded. “Sounds about right. Well, you’re here.
That’s all that matters. Now, listen,” he continued, his tone shifting to business,
“I’ve posted you at station 47. You’ll man the winch. You can handle that,
can’t you?”

Before Skylar could respond, Kindor had slapped him on the
back and strode off to check on the rest of his team.
Man the winch?
He
certainly hadn’t expected such an important assignment. Rasbus would not have
authorized it. That was Kindor, though—always excessively confident. No doubt
Rasbus had intended Skylar to be a monitor, or something equally less critical.
There was no time to discuss the matter, though. Already the initial warning
siren was announcing the approaching convoy. The docking procedure would begin
within minutes.

Skylar glanced up at the sky. High above him he descried the
blurry, gray shapes of the three convoy ships and their entourage of frigates.
He wished to watch their descent.
Not today
. He had things to do before
they arrived.

Hurriedly, he found his post—station 47. Taking a deep
breath, he stuffed his head into his helmet. Skylar studied the station’s
control panel, with its intimidating array of gauges, dials, buttons and
levers. It looked exactly like the ones in the simulations he had done a
hundred times before. But, somehow, now that it wasn’t just a simulation, the
panel seemed infinitely more complex.

With a trembling hand, he located and checked the most
important components of the panel. The winch lever, tension gauge, and
emergency release. Those checked out fine. He continued his inspection of the
other gauges and components, just as he’d been taught. Everything checked out.

The second siren cried out, signaling lock-down of the deck.
Skylar’s heart began beating more rapidly.

“Station 47, status check,” a voice hissed and crackled in
his helmet. Skylar hesitated.

“47, status check,” repeated the voice.

“Clear...all clear,” he stammered.

“Copy.”

His helmet went silent again.

Looking up, Skylar saw the convoy nearly upon them. The
ships were no longer fuzzy blots against the washed-out sky. The distinct forms
of their massive hulls were now visible. Skylar smiled unconsciously. One day
he would be a crew member on one of those ships—captain, even. That was his
dream. Working as a dockhand was only a means to that end. Most ship crewmen
start out just like Skylar—as apprentice dockhands. Captain Arturo, who was at
that moment commanding the foremost ship, the Supernova, always recruited his
crew from among the best dockhands.

After every successful docking, Captain Arturo shook hands
with each of the two hundred dock-crew members working the dock before
receiving a report from Rasbus. This time Skylar would be among those with whom
Arturo would shake hands. No doubt he would notice Skylar’s comparatively young
age. Arturo would be impressed. And, thus, Skylar would win a positive place in
the mental logs of the illustrious captain.

His plan couldn’t fail.

A sudden darkness roused Skylar from his day dreaming. The
Supernova hovered ominously overhead, its immense shadow engulfing the entire
deck, its engines roaring like thunder and sending down a gale of jet-hot air.
Sweat instantly began pouring down Skylar’s forehead, stinging his eyes. Were
it not for his protective suit he would have been roasted alive.

Skylar glanced around at the rest of the dock. He
represented just one of a hundred dockhands stationed at the winch stations surrounding
the enormous elliptical-shaped dock. The hitchers were already floating in the
air, hefting the great tow cables that would pull the convoy ships safely into
port. Each cable was capable of sustaining a multiple terapascals of load. Each
was thicker than his arms.

The indicator light on his control panel suddenly glowed
yellow; the ship was now in position to commence the docking.

He watched as the company of hitchers slowly rose to meet
the ship, their tow cables swaying rhythmically in the torrent created by the
ship’s thrusters. It was a slow process. Each of the hundred cables had to be
secured to one of the hundred anchor points lining the ship’s hull, all the
while the ship rocked and swayed in the air. The hitchers had the most
dangerous job. Many careless ones had gotten themselves smashed by a swaying
ship. An improperly connected cable could also lead to disaster. Skylar felt
grateful Kindor was not crazy enough to give him that assignment.

After what felt like an hour, the hitchers began descending
back to the deck, leaving the tethered convoy ship swaying above with its
cables dangling like the tentacles of a terrible monster. It would soon be
Skylar’s job, along with the hundred other winch operators, to slowly reel in
the convoy ship.

The indicator light on his panel changed to green. Skylar
took a deep breath and switched the winch into first gear. Even above the din
from the ship’s engines, Skylar could hear the grinding of the winch’s motor as
it came to life and the slow, methodical clank of its gears turning.

With steady progress, the slack in the cables diminished
until they were all taut. Skylar watched his tension gauge intently. As soon as
it indicated any substantive tension on the cable, he halted the winch, then
waited.

Now began the coordinated process of pulling the ship toward
the dock. A non-trivial task, for the ship would continue to pitch and
sway—despite its pilot’s best efforts to keep it steady—putting
disproportionate strain on the tow cables. Each winch operator had to ensure
that the tension on his own cable did not exceed its maximum tensile capacity.
Skylar had to constantly monitor his gauge, slowing down, speeding up, or
backing off the winch as necessary. Depending on the ship, this could be a
challenging task, sometimes requiring multiple attempts.

The stage-two light on his panel flashed yellow, then
signaled green. Skylar pulled his winch’s lever and started the arduous
process.

At first, his nerves made him tense and reactive. He
struggled to keep the needle of his gauge from oscillating excessively. Within
a few minutes, however, his confidence grew, and he began to handle the winch
with considerable ease.

Things were going well. The let-out gauge indicated just
seventy meters remaining. The ship would be docked in no time. At fifty meters,
the roar of the ship grew to a deafening intensity. The sheer strength of the
thruster’s vibrations made Skylar’s teeth chatter. Still, he managed to keep a
steady hand on the control lever, and the ship continued to descend smoothly.

Forty meters remaining.

Skylar began to breathe easier. He felt as calm as if this
were simply another simulation.

Suddenly, an unexpected red light burst to life on his
control panel. “Abort” flashed a red sign.

Abort!
Why are they aborting?
At that same
moment a siren pierced through the roar of the ship’s thrusters.

Skylar glanced around the deck. Cables everywhere were being
released. Grasping the full import of the situation, Skylar reached for his emergency
release switch, flipped up its safety cover, and pressed it forcefully. He
expected to hear the rapid clinking of gears as the winch unwound as fast as
the ship could pull it. Nothing happened. The tension gauge read high—climbing
higher every second.

Again, he tried the release trigger.

Nothing.

Again.

Still nothing.

Bringing his fist down, he slammed it as hard as he could.

No use.

The tension gauge continued to climb.

Frantically, he threw the winch into full reverse. Nothing
moved. It was stuck.

The tension was rapidly approaching a critical level.

Just then his helmet crackled and hissed, and an urgent
voice shouted in his ear. “Station 47, abort operation! Abort operation. Do you
copy?”

“My winch is jammed!” yelled Skylar. “We’ll have to activate
the emergency release from the ship’s anchor.”

“Station 47, I repeat, abort immediately!”

“I can’t,” cried Skylar.

Out of the corner of his visor he saw a group of technicians
running toward him. He took another glance at the gauge.

“We don’t have time for this,” he growled to himself.

Almost without thinking, he reached for his jetwing hanging
from his utility belt, stretched out his arms like a falcon, and blasted off
the deck, straight toward the ship.

How much time remained before the overburdened cable ripped
a crater in the deck, he didn’t know. Precious little, of that he felt certain.
If only he could reach the ship’s anchor point in time, he could avert the
imminent tragedy. He’d heard of it happening before. Several dockhands were
killed.

Not today!

He raced upward, following the swaying cable, taking care to
stay out of its way. In just a moment he reached the underbelly of the ship.
The ship seemed to be straining against the stubborn cable with all its might.
The ship’s anchor swayed tauntingly just a meter in front of him. How could he
activate the emergency release? He needed his arms and hands to operate the
jetwing. There was no other option; he would have to use his foot. It was a
dangerous maneuver while hovering with a jetwing.

Cautiously, he moved closer to the ship and waited for the
anchor to cross in front of him. Everything moved in slow motion.

“Come on...a little closer...”

Now.

With great effort he thrust his booted foot straight at the
red button.

Missed.

The kick had thrown him off balance, causing him to fall
backwards. He managed, however, to stay in the air. Heart beating painfully,
Skylar positioned himself for another attempt. This time he couldn’t miss. In
his mind he imagined the groan of the dock under that tremendous strain.

Here it comes.

Taking aim, he swung his boot at the emergency release.
Something gave way beneath his foot. Instantly, he felt himself hurled
backwards, feet flipping over his head, jetwing thruster jolted loose from his
left hand. The deck below raced toward him.

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