God it's a miserable old world outside, isn't it? War. Death. Pestilence. People who chew too loud. Sometimes, you need something to remind you it doesn't have to be that way.
----
It’d been described to her as the Fenspace Convention for aviation. Watching a gaggle of single-prop private aircraft land near-simultaneously on a series of multicouloured spots painted at regular intervals along a runway, Jet found it hard to disagree.
All made it without incident. After three days, there’d been no major accidents, and only a few minor incidents. A DC-3 blasted something called a Mooney off the runway while doing an engine runup, and someone got themselves a cockpit full of mashed goose-guts at the seaplane pier.
In the back of her mind, her muse monitored the traffic control - if only to see if anything interesting decided to show up. Fenspace relied on handwaved AI’s for traffic control at Con’ time. Competent professionals managed the traffic around Wittman field. Jet couldn’t tell what she preferred.
Antares loomed behind her, parked among the centerpieces of the corporately-sponsored Boeing Pavillion, with the flight-test 3-707 tucked safely beneath its wing. Perched on the back of the jumbo-jet stood the scorched form of the space shuttle Discovery - proudly watching over the milling crowd. An mirror-polished B-17 bomber - the Aluminium Overcast - kept an eye on the young ones.
“So, how does it feel being a capitalist stooge?”
The question came K.J. DuPree, down from Korelev, still dressed in his adapted X-Com flightsuit.
“Like being a cuckoo in a gold-plated nest,” Jet answered, quickly. “It’s like this thing is a whole ecosystem on its own, like one of those whales with the fishes following it.”
The fish got fed. The whale got cleaned. Everyone somehow won something out of it.
Antares fished for charter work to keep its fuel tanks filled. An eighty-ton space-shuttle orbiter on its back made a statement about it’s carrying capacity. From any welcoming airport, to any planet. Talk to Jet if you’re interested.
Artemis showed off one of its Three Grace’s, soliciting subscriptions, donations and missions, trading on the publicity and romance of the old Shuttle program to pave the way to the future of space exploration.
Boeing got to show off their work on Antares itself, decked out inside with a hagiography of the original 747 program. Discovery watched from above, having joined the Boeing family the moment Rockwell had been Borged. Illuminated by the halo of Boeing’s past accomplishments, the arrow-like 3-707 pointed to the future.
“But it really doesn’t really fit the whole Cyperpunk lowlife ethos, does it?”
K.J. said it with a smirk.
Jet gave a shrug, doing her best to hide how much it prickled under her armour. “Sylia Stingray owned a ten story building in the centre of Megatokyo.”
It wasn’t about finances, it was about attitude after all.
“Maybe. But I’m glad someone picked her up,” said K.J., still wearing a smile. “The idea of the last 747 ever built being left to rot unwanted in an Alaska boneyard because its Russian owners got sanctioned just stuck in some people’s craw, you know what I mean?”
Nobody realised how obsolete the 747 had truly become, until nobody put their hands up to buy the final one.
Jet looked at him, then over at a chromed Mustang making its way down to the runway, it’s engine popping and backfiring as the throttle was closed.
“Beautiful machine,” she said. It’s thrumming engine syncopated deep inside her chest, speaking to something primal in her soul. Flame-spitting open exhausts satisfied in the way few things ever could. The heavy scent of burnt tetraethyl lead, dioxanes and xylidene drifted on the wind in its wake - the smell of raw speed.
K.J. clasped his hands behind its back, watching the pilot feather at the brakes as she worked to get it stopped before the tarmac ran out. A beaming passenger squeezed into the space the auxiliary fuel tank had once been waved to the crowd with one hand, the other proudly holding a very full brown paper bag
“They’re offering rides,” he said.
A little thrill sparked inside her heart, before reality quenched it.
She forced a rueful smile. “Do I look like I’d fit?”
K.J. smirked. “No. But I will….”
Jet pursed her lips, swallowing a simmering sense of envy.
“Enjoy,” she said, pursing her lips tight.
The Mustang hurried from the runway, taxiing towards the warbird pavillion. A trio of V-tailed single-engined private aircraft in matching paintwork made their final approach - livery identifying them as being members of the Flying Physicians of Pasadena aero club.
They all survived the landing.
“Why didn’t yous pick her up?” Jet asked.
After all, Federation money and influence could open many doors. They were, after all, Good People. Arguably better than Jet. Everybody liked Star Trek.
“We’d have to deal with Boeing and Uncle Sam.” K.J. gave a shrug of his shoulders. “And of-course there’s the whole capitalist-imperialist agenda.”
“I know,” said Jet, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Never make a deal with a dragon.” The old Shadowrun adage applied to Governments as much as anything. She looked back at the Boeing, the airliner happily basking in the attention of the crowds. “I’ve already seen what the barkers are saying.”
KJ’s lips tightened into a thin. He took a breath.
“Save our children from the horrors of people who let them express who they really are.”
“And Boeing did business anyway.” said Jet. “Capital doesn’t give a shit who you are, so long as you have it. Corps don’t give a shit who you are, so long as the cost of the outrage from dealing with you, isn’t outweighed by the money they make in deal. They may be loud, but they’re not winning.”
“I don’t expect you to really understand.” he said. “You’re not from here. You don’t come from the same places they do ”
K.J’s eyes focused on a spot, just beyond the airport fence. Jet wondered for a moment if he could maybe see anything she couldn’t beyond the ring of trees surrounding the airport and aircraft holding at altitude over the lake.
“When they see they’re being left out and start playing the political interference card, or the great replacement card, or the space-paedos card or whatever.” He took a breath. “When they see what they’re missing out on, these are the sort of people who’ll come up and take it. Or destroy it, just to keep someone else from having it.” he paused a moment. “And even if they’re a minority, they're only an election away from setting the agenda.”
To provide context, Jet’s own muse merrily offered up a selection of local news stories, categorised and summarised according to their social consequences, election results and recently passed laws.
It didn’t take cybernetic assistance to understand why KJ had come, and not Kali.
Four thrumming radial engines of Douglas DC-6 ran up at the threshold of the runway, shaking the very earth beneath, exhausts beating against the inside of her breastplate. The airliner charged skyward, blowing hot flame from its exhaust.
Jet and KJ gleaned at each other, sharing a smile followed by a giddy giggle, momentarily forgetting the weight of the world beyond the airport fence.
“Ten thousand horsepower,”
“Easily,” Jet nodded.
Following it, a shining silver single-seater special with a silently spinning propeller. The cockpit had been set back into the tail, with a long nose reaching forward. A razor-thin pair of scimitar wings seemed almost too small to carry it skyward.
Everything between the pilot and the propeller had been given over to housing the powercells that’d propelled it to first place at the National Championships. The old warbirds had been shocked by the electric newcomer.
It launched with a whisper from a silenced propeller. The Experimental Aircraft Association had to live up to its name. Wave-derived technology had begun to trickle down to reality and become normal.
The world changed, but people remained the same.
“How do you even begin to deal with that?” Jet said.
“I was speaking to Mal about that,” said KJ, a knowing smirk crawling across his lips “After watching the news reports, we decided get our own heavy-lift capability.”
“Your own Seven Four?” Jet made the natural assumption. “I heard Artemis ordered two for the Graces, and O’Neill got his name down before Noah Scott could.”
A waiting list had begun to form.
KJ answered with a dismissive shrug. “Like I said, dealing with Boeing, Uncle Sam and the Capitalist agenda.”
“It’s a pain in the arse,” Jet admitted, taking along breath. “If not a Seven-Four?” she glanced around the airfield, as if looking for inspiration for the collection of parked aircraft. “I know there’s a stranded Antonov or two.”
“Those ones are still Russian-owned,” said KJ, killing the idea quick. “With liens on them.”
And they’re on the international shitlist. In the political boo-box. Bad Karma to openly deal with. At least as long as the cost of accepting public outrage, outweighed the profit to be made.
“Are you going to leave me in suspense?” Jet placed a hand on her hips.
“Ptichka had an old friend,” he answered.
Jet blinked owlishly. It took far too long for the penny to drop. “You’re shittin’ me?” she said, her eyes widening as the realisation finally took hold. “I know O’Neill asked but the door got slammed in his face.”
“A personal plea from Ptichka carries a surprising amount of weight.” KJ Chuckled. “Actually having a plan to rebuild her and put her to work in a way that benefited all parties, rather than using someone’s national treasure and symbol of reconstruction as a personal statement of obscene wealth helps”
Not being an arsehole opened far more doors than half a billion dollars.
“So when’s she going to be finished?”
“Do not mistake me for some Republic serial villain….” K.J. quoted, with a villainous flourish “She took off six hours ago.”
After three months, Antares had just become yesterday’s news. In the back of her mind, Jet privately had hoped those few moments in the sun might’ve lasted a little bit longer. The sense of being overshadowed and deposed stirred a simmering pot of jealous resentment
Jet pursed her lips for a moment, long enough to let the feeling come of the boil. That wasn’t how real people were supposed to feel or think.
She glanced back at the suits proudly talking up Antares as the next big thing, completely unaware of what was about to hit them.
“Boeing’s going to pissed at their carefully managed corporate event being upstaged,” she said, after a few seconds.
KJ smirked. “Mal’s idea.”
Jet raised an eyebrow
“Have to stick it to the capitalists and all that.” K.J explained.
“Ah….”
Jet took a breath.
The AI in her muse selected one transmission from the ordered chaos of AirVenture ATC as worthy of her interest, filtering by recent conversations and known interests.
“Wittman Approach, Alpha-November-225. Good afternoon We have information Foxtrot. Expect Visual Approach, Runway 36-Left.”
It couldn’t be. In a heartbeat, Jet’s misgiving vapurised. A ripple of excitement rolled across the crowd, chased by a heartbeat of disbelief.
“Alpha November-225. Latest information is information Foxtrot. Cleared Visual approach to 36-Left” The approach controller paused, to give space for comprehension. . “Welcome Back Mirya”
Even the sputtering engines went silent as thousands of heads craned upwards in unison, like meerkats on the serengeti, each one craving that first look.
Jet bit down on the urge to launch herself skyward, and be the one to claim it. One wandering video-drone had been enough to ground the entire show for an hour - nobody would appreciate an over-eager combat cyborg doing the same thing.
“Cleared Visual Approach 36 Left, Alpha November 225. Thank you very much,” answered the Antonov. Jet thought she recognised the voice, but couldn’t quite place it. “It is good to be back”
Anyone who could, had already started to either run to the best vantage points. Even with Mirya still more than 20 miles out, and several arrivals back in the queue, anything and everything which had happened, and which was due to happen over the course of the week of the show would be forgotten the moment she landed.
Unless someone made an unholy Kandorcon-level mess.
“People need things that inspire the best in them. Rather than things that just reflect how unhappy they are.” said KJ. “Sometimes that’s a story. Sometimes it’s an action. Sometimes it makes the world better. Sometimes it’s just something awesome.”
“Maybe…” Jet began, before realising she had no idea how she intended to finish that sentence. She stood, watching the skies, overcome by the sense that something uniquely important had been missing from her life for longer than she could remember. "Everybody needs some sort of dream, I guess."
Made a change from the nightmares
-----
I've been banding around this for a few months. Went a few darker places, a few rantier places. I suppose it ended up here. Thought I'd try right a nicer, upbeat story rather than something that reflected how I feel about things. I dunno. People are long gone. Silence answers. Such is life.
----
It’d been described to her as the Fenspace Convention for aviation. Watching a gaggle of single-prop private aircraft land near-simultaneously on a series of multicouloured spots painted at regular intervals along a runway, Jet found it hard to disagree.
All made it without incident. After three days, there’d been no major accidents, and only a few minor incidents. A DC-3 blasted something called a Mooney off the runway while doing an engine runup, and someone got themselves a cockpit full of mashed goose-guts at the seaplane pier.
In the back of her mind, her muse monitored the traffic control - if only to see if anything interesting decided to show up. Fenspace relied on handwaved AI’s for traffic control at Con’ time. Competent professionals managed the traffic around Wittman field. Jet couldn’t tell what she preferred.
Antares loomed behind her, parked among the centerpieces of the corporately-sponsored Boeing Pavillion, with the flight-test 3-707 tucked safely beneath its wing. Perched on the back of the jumbo-jet stood the scorched form of the space shuttle Discovery - proudly watching over the milling crowd. An mirror-polished B-17 bomber - the Aluminium Overcast - kept an eye on the young ones.
“So, how does it feel being a capitalist stooge?”
The question came K.J. DuPree, down from Korelev, still dressed in his adapted X-Com flightsuit.
“Like being a cuckoo in a gold-plated nest,” Jet answered, quickly. “It’s like this thing is a whole ecosystem on its own, like one of those whales with the fishes following it.”
The fish got fed. The whale got cleaned. Everyone somehow won something out of it.
Antares fished for charter work to keep its fuel tanks filled. An eighty-ton space-shuttle orbiter on its back made a statement about it’s carrying capacity. From any welcoming airport, to any planet. Talk to Jet if you’re interested.
Artemis showed off one of its Three Grace’s, soliciting subscriptions, donations and missions, trading on the publicity and romance of the old Shuttle program to pave the way to the future of space exploration.
Boeing got to show off their work on Antares itself, decked out inside with a hagiography of the original 747 program. Discovery watched from above, having joined the Boeing family the moment Rockwell had been Borged. Illuminated by the halo of Boeing’s past accomplishments, the arrow-like 3-707 pointed to the future.
“But it really doesn’t really fit the whole Cyperpunk lowlife ethos, does it?”
K.J. said it with a smirk.
Jet gave a shrug, doing her best to hide how much it prickled under her armour. “Sylia Stingray owned a ten story building in the centre of Megatokyo.”
It wasn’t about finances, it was about attitude after all.
“Maybe. But I’m glad someone picked her up,” said K.J., still wearing a smile. “The idea of the last 747 ever built being left to rot unwanted in an Alaska boneyard because its Russian owners got sanctioned just stuck in some people’s craw, you know what I mean?”
Nobody realised how obsolete the 747 had truly become, until nobody put their hands up to buy the final one.
Jet looked at him, then over at a chromed Mustang making its way down to the runway, it’s engine popping and backfiring as the throttle was closed.
“Beautiful machine,” she said. It’s thrumming engine syncopated deep inside her chest, speaking to something primal in her soul. Flame-spitting open exhausts satisfied in the way few things ever could. The heavy scent of burnt tetraethyl lead, dioxanes and xylidene drifted on the wind in its wake - the smell of raw speed.
K.J. clasped his hands behind its back, watching the pilot feather at the brakes as she worked to get it stopped before the tarmac ran out. A beaming passenger squeezed into the space the auxiliary fuel tank had once been waved to the crowd with one hand, the other proudly holding a very full brown paper bag
“They’re offering rides,” he said.
A little thrill sparked inside her heart, before reality quenched it.
She forced a rueful smile. “Do I look like I’d fit?”
K.J. smirked. “No. But I will….”
Jet pursed her lips, swallowing a simmering sense of envy.
“Enjoy,” she said, pursing her lips tight.
The Mustang hurried from the runway, taxiing towards the warbird pavillion. A trio of V-tailed single-engined private aircraft in matching paintwork made their final approach - livery identifying them as being members of the Flying Physicians of Pasadena aero club.
They all survived the landing.
“Why didn’t yous pick her up?” Jet asked.
After all, Federation money and influence could open many doors. They were, after all, Good People. Arguably better than Jet. Everybody liked Star Trek.
“We’d have to deal with Boeing and Uncle Sam.” K.J. gave a shrug of his shoulders. “And of-course there’s the whole capitalist-imperialist agenda.”
“I know,” said Jet, with a shrug of her shoulders. “Never make a deal with a dragon.” The old Shadowrun adage applied to Governments as much as anything. She looked back at the Boeing, the airliner happily basking in the attention of the crowds. “I’ve already seen what the barkers are saying.”
KJ’s lips tightened into a thin. He took a breath.
“Save our children from the horrors of people who let them express who they really are.”
“And Boeing did business anyway.” said Jet. “Capital doesn’t give a shit who you are, so long as you have it. Corps don’t give a shit who you are, so long as the cost of the outrage from dealing with you, isn’t outweighed by the money they make in deal. They may be loud, but they’re not winning.”
“I don’t expect you to really understand.” he said. “You’re not from here. You don’t come from the same places they do ”
K.J’s eyes focused on a spot, just beyond the airport fence. Jet wondered for a moment if he could maybe see anything she couldn’t beyond the ring of trees surrounding the airport and aircraft holding at altitude over the lake.
“When they see they’re being left out and start playing the political interference card, or the great replacement card, or the space-paedos card or whatever.” He took a breath. “When they see what they’re missing out on, these are the sort of people who’ll come up and take it. Or destroy it, just to keep someone else from having it.” he paused a moment. “And even if they’re a minority, they're only an election away from setting the agenda.”
To provide context, Jet’s own muse merrily offered up a selection of local news stories, categorised and summarised according to their social consequences, election results and recently passed laws.
It didn’t take cybernetic assistance to understand why KJ had come, and not Kali.
Four thrumming radial engines of Douglas DC-6 ran up at the threshold of the runway, shaking the very earth beneath, exhausts beating against the inside of her breastplate. The airliner charged skyward, blowing hot flame from its exhaust.
Jet and KJ gleaned at each other, sharing a smile followed by a giddy giggle, momentarily forgetting the weight of the world beyond the airport fence.
“Ten thousand horsepower,”
“Easily,” Jet nodded.
Following it, a shining silver single-seater special with a silently spinning propeller. The cockpit had been set back into the tail, with a long nose reaching forward. A razor-thin pair of scimitar wings seemed almost too small to carry it skyward.
Everything between the pilot and the propeller had been given over to housing the powercells that’d propelled it to first place at the National Championships. The old warbirds had been shocked by the electric newcomer.
It launched with a whisper from a silenced propeller. The Experimental Aircraft Association had to live up to its name. Wave-derived technology had begun to trickle down to reality and become normal.
The world changed, but people remained the same.
“How do you even begin to deal with that?” Jet said.
“I was speaking to Mal about that,” said KJ, a knowing smirk crawling across his lips “After watching the news reports, we decided get our own heavy-lift capability.”
“Your own Seven Four?” Jet made the natural assumption. “I heard Artemis ordered two for the Graces, and O’Neill got his name down before Noah Scott could.”
A waiting list had begun to form.
KJ answered with a dismissive shrug. “Like I said, dealing with Boeing, Uncle Sam and the Capitalist agenda.”
“It’s a pain in the arse,” Jet admitted, taking along breath. “If not a Seven-Four?” she glanced around the airfield, as if looking for inspiration for the collection of parked aircraft. “I know there’s a stranded Antonov or two.”
“Those ones are still Russian-owned,” said KJ, killing the idea quick. “With liens on them.”
And they’re on the international shitlist. In the political boo-box. Bad Karma to openly deal with. At least as long as the cost of accepting public outrage, outweighed the profit to be made.
“Are you going to leave me in suspense?” Jet placed a hand on her hips.
“Ptichka had an old friend,” he answered.
Jet blinked owlishly. It took far too long for the penny to drop. “You’re shittin’ me?” she said, her eyes widening as the realisation finally took hold. “I know O’Neill asked but the door got slammed in his face.”
“A personal plea from Ptichka carries a surprising amount of weight.” KJ Chuckled. “Actually having a plan to rebuild her and put her to work in a way that benefited all parties, rather than using someone’s national treasure and symbol of reconstruction as a personal statement of obscene wealth helps”
Not being an arsehole opened far more doors than half a billion dollars.
“So when’s she going to be finished?”
“Do not mistake me for some Republic serial villain….” K.J. quoted, with a villainous flourish “She took off six hours ago.”
After three months, Antares had just become yesterday’s news. In the back of her mind, Jet privately had hoped those few moments in the sun might’ve lasted a little bit longer. The sense of being overshadowed and deposed stirred a simmering pot of jealous resentment
Jet pursed her lips for a moment, long enough to let the feeling come of the boil. That wasn’t how real people were supposed to feel or think.
She glanced back at the suits proudly talking up Antares as the next big thing, completely unaware of what was about to hit them.
“Boeing’s going to pissed at their carefully managed corporate event being upstaged,” she said, after a few seconds.
KJ smirked. “Mal’s idea.”
Jet raised an eyebrow
“Have to stick it to the capitalists and all that.” K.J explained.
“Ah….”
Jet took a breath.
The AI in her muse selected one transmission from the ordered chaos of AirVenture ATC as worthy of her interest, filtering by recent conversations and known interests.
“Wittman Approach, Alpha-November-225. Good afternoon We have information Foxtrot. Expect Visual Approach, Runway 36-Left.”
It couldn’t be. In a heartbeat, Jet’s misgiving vapurised. A ripple of excitement rolled across the crowd, chased by a heartbeat of disbelief.
“Alpha November-225. Latest information is information Foxtrot. Cleared Visual approach to 36-Left” The approach controller paused, to give space for comprehension. . “Welcome Back Mirya”
Even the sputtering engines went silent as thousands of heads craned upwards in unison, like meerkats on the serengeti, each one craving that first look.
Jet bit down on the urge to launch herself skyward, and be the one to claim it. One wandering video-drone had been enough to ground the entire show for an hour - nobody would appreciate an over-eager combat cyborg doing the same thing.
“Cleared Visual Approach 36 Left, Alpha November 225. Thank you very much,” answered the Antonov. Jet thought she recognised the voice, but couldn’t quite place it. “It is good to be back”
Anyone who could, had already started to either run to the best vantage points. Even with Mirya still more than 20 miles out, and several arrivals back in the queue, anything and everything which had happened, and which was due to happen over the course of the week of the show would be forgotten the moment she landed.
Unless someone made an unholy Kandorcon-level mess.
“People need things that inspire the best in them. Rather than things that just reflect how unhappy they are.” said KJ. “Sometimes that’s a story. Sometimes it’s an action. Sometimes it makes the world better. Sometimes it’s just something awesome.”
“Maybe…” Jet began, before realising she had no idea how she intended to finish that sentence. She stood, watching the skies, overcome by the sense that something uniquely important had been missing from her life for longer than she could remember. "Everybody needs some sort of dream, I guess."
Made a change from the nightmares
-----
I've been banding around this for a few months. Went a few darker places, a few rantier places. I suppose it ended up here. Thought I'd try right a nicer, upbeat story rather than something that reflected how I feel about things. I dunno. People are long gone. Silence answers. Such is life.
I love the smell of rotaries in the morning. You know one time, I got to work early, before the rush hour. I walked through the empty carpark, I didn't see one bloody Prius or Golf. And that smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole carpark, smelled like.... ....speed.
One day they're going to ban them.
