That thing's *huge*. That's big enough to be a cruiser..... and oddly light. (It's the Size of an SR-71 - and about a fifth of the weight). It might be a bit too big for a Zig replacement..... like the Bellecom entries. Brilliant, but just not the right size.... it could *carry* a zig fighter or two it's that big.
--------
"Oh this is a bad idea."
Daryl couldn't help but look up. Even the Virtual image of the wing above her was too close for comfort.
"Two meters," reported Anika.
Flying through space, 2 meters apart, at .15c
Fifty-five tons of Waved-Steel Mig, within touching distance of her carbon-shelled egg. The missile hardpoint was a knife-edge.
"Autopilot steady. Locked on course," Mackie added calmly, from the cockpit of the Mig. "Autotrim programmed."
Easy for him to be so calm, thought Daryl. If they collided, the Mig wouldn't even feel it.
"Go for docking maneuver," Anika concluded.
"Roger. Commencing Dock,"
Daryl focused on the heads-up display on front of her, guiding her forward a few centimetres at a time. Gentle chidings on the throttle nudged the light fighter forwards, keeping the green indicators on her visor between a pair of projected lines. To far to the left, and the field vortex coming off the wing-tip would pick the little fighter up and throw it into the bottom of the Mig if it didn't just tear it apart outright. Too far to the right, and she'd hit steel. This was threading the needle, at fifteen percent lightspeed.
"This is a bad idea," she repeated, nudging closer.
One metre, reported the radar.
"One metre," Anika concurred.
The red line for her course slipped between the parrallel yellow lines of the target. A horizontal bar for the approach slope encouraged her to pitch up, keeping the pipper of her targetting retical on the correct approach.
Daryl held her breath. If they could dock with this, she assured herself, they could dock with anything. It'd be so much easier on a Blackbird or B-36, which was actually designed for the stunt with automatic guidance hardware. Not a reconnassance cruiser with a few bits bolted onto an underwing missile hardpoint.
Another nudge on the throttles pushed the docking pylon over her head. One, two, three lights on her HUD counted down to the correct alignment, a crosshairs in the corner of her vision zeroing showing the final fine adjustments to be made. RCS thrusters cannoned, shaking the lightweight spacecframe, nudging it perfectly into alignment. A click on the trimmer switch set the controls, allowing her to relax a moment, saving some headspace for the final dock.
Deep breath.
Another burst from the RCS slowly nudged her up, closing the distance further. A electronic chirp warned her that the wingtips were getting dangerously close to turbulent flow. Daryl swallowed.
"Retracting Wings."
She felt the bolts unlock, servomotors whining as both wings rolled backwards until they pointed vertical. A trim adjustment on the tail kept the fighter flying straight and level. Both carbon wings swept forwards, closing in around her like blinkers on a horse. The sensation of being partially blinded twisted another knot into her stomach, even as her HUD still showed her extact position. Two more jolts announced that both wings had locked in their stowed position, answered by red lights shining on the panel in front of her.
A quick glance at her HUD showed she was still bang on course. With the wings retracted, she'd lost most of her roll authority, and some of her yaw control. She hoped she wouldn't need too much of either.
"Wings locked." she reported. "Commencing Final."
A final, gentle nudge on the thrusters pressed her up, a wave of turbulence sending a sudden judder through the carbon spaceframe around her. She could feel the etherflow catching on the nacelle above her. Instinctively, she nosed down on the control-stick to compensate. For one heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Visions of the nose rearing up and smashing her into the bottom of the wing danced through her mind as she fought with the urge to slam the column forward.
She felt the nose droop, and released the pressure. Just enough to compensate for the etherflow coming off the leading edge of the wing in front. Not too much.
"Easy," she mumbled to heself. "Easy...."
"Fifty centimetres," Anika's voice tickled her ear. "All indicators green."
Daryl scanned her HUD. No warning lights. All her indicators shimmying around the centres of exactly where they should be. A tap on the rudder her, a nudge of elevator there. Daryl held her breath and fired the thrusters for the final time.
"40," Anika announed.
The canopy around her roared as it passed throw the etherflow, the pressure on the spaceframe easing momentarily, before reversing direction. Daryl compensated. Too much, and the nose would catch the flow and slam her up into the wing. Have both wings folded didn't help. It was a war between her judgement, and what the indicators on her HUD told her she had to do, skimming against the thresholds of the approach slope.
"30,"
Left. Steady. Up, Steady.
"20,"
Stay on target. Stay on target.
"10,"
Just a few seconds..."
She felt the jolt, rattling her whole body. Metal scrapped against carbon, buzzing through her fingertips and her flightsuit anchors as docking-pins searched for their home. Every fibre of her body revolted against the sensation, feeling more like her bones were grinding together.
Everything stopped.
An alarm sounded in her ear.
"Hard dock," Anika reported. "Engaging clamps."
"Zeroing controls. Preparing for engine shut down,"
Darly allowed herself to breath for the first time in over a minute, resting her head back against the seat. She closed her eyes and listened to the engine spool down behind her, to be replaced by the whine of the inertial gyroscopes behind her. A few moment's peace allowed her to finally let go of the controls.
"That was fun," Mackies voice intruded.
"Never again," she answered.
But, with a little luck, maybe this quick and dangerous demonstration of being able to dock with *anything*, might at least encourage the bean-counters to throw a few their way to cover development costs. It wasn't about winning, not for them - the win was always going to go to someone like BAT, or maybe Damogran if they made the deadline.
For Daryl, it was just about getting to the point where she got paid for the work she'd done to date. Meet the spec. Get the stamp. Get your cost-plus, then use that to roll into the next one.
---------------
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
--------
"Oh this is a bad idea."
Daryl couldn't help but look up. Even the Virtual image of the wing above her was too close for comfort.
"Two meters," reported Anika.
Flying through space, 2 meters apart, at .15c
Fifty-five tons of Waved-Steel Mig, within touching distance of her carbon-shelled egg. The missile hardpoint was a knife-edge.
"Autopilot steady. Locked on course," Mackie added calmly, from the cockpit of the Mig. "Autotrim programmed."
Easy for him to be so calm, thought Daryl. If they collided, the Mig wouldn't even feel it.
"Go for docking maneuver," Anika concluded.
"Roger. Commencing Dock,"
Daryl focused on the heads-up display on front of her, guiding her forward a few centimetres at a time. Gentle chidings on the throttle nudged the light fighter forwards, keeping the green indicators on her visor between a pair of projected lines. To far to the left, and the field vortex coming off the wing-tip would pick the little fighter up and throw it into the bottom of the Mig if it didn't just tear it apart outright. Too far to the right, and she'd hit steel. This was threading the needle, at fifteen percent lightspeed.
"This is a bad idea," she repeated, nudging closer.
One metre, reported the radar.
"One metre," Anika concurred.
The red line for her course slipped between the parrallel yellow lines of the target. A horizontal bar for the approach slope encouraged her to pitch up, keeping the pipper of her targetting retical on the correct approach.
Daryl held her breath. If they could dock with this, she assured herself, they could dock with anything. It'd be so much easier on a Blackbird or B-36, which was actually designed for the stunt with automatic guidance hardware. Not a reconnassance cruiser with a few bits bolted onto an underwing missile hardpoint.
Another nudge on the throttles pushed the docking pylon over her head. One, two, three lights on her HUD counted down to the correct alignment, a crosshairs in the corner of her vision zeroing showing the final fine adjustments to be made. RCS thrusters cannoned, shaking the lightweight spacecframe, nudging it perfectly into alignment. A click on the trimmer switch set the controls, allowing her to relax a moment, saving some headspace for the final dock.
Deep breath.
Another burst from the RCS slowly nudged her up, closing the distance further. A electronic chirp warned her that the wingtips were getting dangerously close to turbulent flow. Daryl swallowed.
"Retracting Wings."
She felt the bolts unlock, servomotors whining as both wings rolled backwards until they pointed vertical. A trim adjustment on the tail kept the fighter flying straight and level. Both carbon wings swept forwards, closing in around her like blinkers on a horse. The sensation of being partially blinded twisted another knot into her stomach, even as her HUD still showed her extact position. Two more jolts announced that both wings had locked in their stowed position, answered by red lights shining on the panel in front of her.
A quick glance at her HUD showed she was still bang on course. With the wings retracted, she'd lost most of her roll authority, and some of her yaw control. She hoped she wouldn't need too much of either.
"Wings locked." she reported. "Commencing Final."
A final, gentle nudge on the thrusters pressed her up, a wave of turbulence sending a sudden judder through the carbon spaceframe around her. She could feel the etherflow catching on the nacelle above her. Instinctively, she nosed down on the control-stick to compensate. For one heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Visions of the nose rearing up and smashing her into the bottom of the wing danced through her mind as she fought with the urge to slam the column forward.
She felt the nose droop, and released the pressure. Just enough to compensate for the etherflow coming off the leading edge of the wing in front. Not too much.
"Easy," she mumbled to heself. "Easy...."
"Fifty centimetres," Anika's voice tickled her ear. "All indicators green."
Daryl scanned her HUD. No warning lights. All her indicators shimmying around the centres of exactly where they should be. A tap on the rudder her, a nudge of elevator there. Daryl held her breath and fired the thrusters for the final time.
"40," Anika announed.
The canopy around her roared as it passed throw the etherflow, the pressure on the spaceframe easing momentarily, before reversing direction. Daryl compensated. Too much, and the nose would catch the flow and slam her up into the wing. Have both wings folded didn't help. It was a war between her judgement, and what the indicators on her HUD told her she had to do, skimming against the thresholds of the approach slope.
"30,"
Left. Steady. Up, Steady.
"20,"
Stay on target. Stay on target.
"10,"
Just a few seconds..."
She felt the jolt, rattling her whole body. Metal scrapped against carbon, buzzing through her fingertips and her flightsuit anchors as docking-pins searched for their home. Every fibre of her body revolted against the sensation, feeling more like her bones were grinding together.
Everything stopped.
An alarm sounded in her ear.
"Hard dock," Anika reported. "Engaging clamps."
"Zeroing controls. Preparing for engine shut down,"
Darly allowed herself to breath for the first time in over a minute, resting her head back against the seat. She closed her eyes and listened to the engine spool down behind her, to be replaced by the whine of the inertial gyroscopes behind her. A few moment's peace allowed her to finally let go of the controls.
"That was fun," Mackies voice intruded.
"Never again," she answered.
But, with a little luck, maybe this quick and dangerous demonstration of being able to dock with *anything*, might at least encourage the bean-counters to throw a few their way to cover development costs. It wasn't about winning, not for them - the win was always going to go to someone like BAT, or maybe Damogran if they made the deadline.
For Daryl, it was just about getting to the point where she got paid for the work she'd done to date. Meet the spec. Get the stamp. Get your cost-plus, then use that to roll into the next one.
---------------
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?