--
“Finished with Engines.”
Garrets voice says the words and the action's automatic. I pull two levers, cutting the governers. Both diesels wind down, churning over one final time before shuddering to a halt.
Only the generators remain.
“Switch to shore power.”
“Shore power aye,”
Two more switches. The lights flicker as power transfers. The generators spool down and the silence closes in. That's it. Never again.
The silence hurts.
The catgirls have gone. Blank spaces fill the walls where we kept the little nik-naks that made the ship home.
The real final Voyage of the SS Ciara happens two days after all the last of the passengers, well-wishers and old friends left. Only the bones of the old crew remain aboard – just the three of us left from day one - enough to accompany on one final journey.
All the way from one side of Phobos to the museum on the other. No grand space voyage, no epic adventure. No hijacking on the Captain's birthday. No cylon invasion. It's a welcome whimper rather than a total bang
My last duty is to finalise the logbooks. Engine oil. Fuel consumption. Coolant. Wavemix. All normal. Ready for the return trip. Flakes of paint peeling off bulkhead remind me that she really isn't.
I'm the man who pronounced her death sentence six months ago when I found the cracks in her keel; an old war-wound from a Boskone ram-ship that finally caught up with her.
One last walk around brings back memories. Most good. Some not. The same as any home. The lights switch off and I pull the engine room hatch shut behind, leaving the keys for the curator. One more sweep below decks makes sure we haven't left any problems behinds.
Nazzadi biomods make for good night vision, so I don't carry a torch. I become part of the dark, part of her sleep, soaking in the smell of oil, polish, diesel fuel and last night's dinner.
Every hatch gets closed. Every light switch off as we power her down for the final time. I can almost hear her steel sigh, longing to sail again. She's live so much, but she knows this is it.
We meet up in the galley. Her cabinets and cuboards closed and empty, the emergency lights throwing harsh shadows across the room. Almost as bare as the day we bought her. Anne extinguishes the candle beside the memorial plaque.
Ray has that bottle of Redbreast distilled on our launch date. He pours three glasses.
“All good things,” says Ray, finishing his.
“And to more,” Anne downs her glass.
“I'll miss that,” I finish.
The whiskey bottle is left in our hiding place, with a note bequeathing it to whomever the lucky bastard is to find it. A few more artifacts are left. Hopefully they'll be found by someone curious enough to ignore the museum's warnings.
We linger, finding it hard to believe that we've really come this far. Maybe we should say a few words, but nobody knows quite what to say. Too many memories make anything short, meaningless and anything meaningful too long.
“Last one off, turn off the lights,” Anne finally says, breaking the deadlock.
Ray's the last one out, logbooks under arm.
A cool draught licks our our neck as we cross the gangway. We stop and look back into the darkness before the hatch is closed for the last time. Nobody has to ask. It's not just our home we're leaving behind.
We all see them.
Familiar shadows in the dark, waving farewell. The ones who would never leave.
Goodbye old friends.
–
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?
“Finished with Engines.”
Garrets voice says the words and the action's automatic. I pull two levers, cutting the governers. Both diesels wind down, churning over one final time before shuddering to a halt.
Only the generators remain.
“Switch to shore power.”
“Shore power aye,”
Two more switches. The lights flicker as power transfers. The generators spool down and the silence closes in. That's it. Never again.
The silence hurts.
The catgirls have gone. Blank spaces fill the walls where we kept the little nik-naks that made the ship home.
The real final Voyage of the SS Ciara happens two days after all the last of the passengers, well-wishers and old friends left. Only the bones of the old crew remain aboard – just the three of us left from day one - enough to accompany on one final journey.
All the way from one side of Phobos to the museum on the other. No grand space voyage, no epic adventure. No hijacking on the Captain's birthday. No cylon invasion. It's a welcome whimper rather than a total bang
My last duty is to finalise the logbooks. Engine oil. Fuel consumption. Coolant. Wavemix. All normal. Ready for the return trip. Flakes of paint peeling off bulkhead remind me that she really isn't.
I'm the man who pronounced her death sentence six months ago when I found the cracks in her keel; an old war-wound from a Boskone ram-ship that finally caught up with her.
One last walk around brings back memories. Most good. Some not. The same as any home. The lights switch off and I pull the engine room hatch shut behind, leaving the keys for the curator. One more sweep below decks makes sure we haven't left any problems behinds.
Nazzadi biomods make for good night vision, so I don't carry a torch. I become part of the dark, part of her sleep, soaking in the smell of oil, polish, diesel fuel and last night's dinner.
Every hatch gets closed. Every light switch off as we power her down for the final time. I can almost hear her steel sigh, longing to sail again. She's live so much, but she knows this is it.
We meet up in the galley. Her cabinets and cuboards closed and empty, the emergency lights throwing harsh shadows across the room. Almost as bare as the day we bought her. Anne extinguishes the candle beside the memorial plaque.
Ray has that bottle of Redbreast distilled on our launch date. He pours three glasses.
“All good things,” says Ray, finishing his.
“And to more,” Anne downs her glass.
“I'll miss that,” I finish.
The whiskey bottle is left in our hiding place, with a note bequeathing it to whomever the lucky bastard is to find it. A few more artifacts are left. Hopefully they'll be found by someone curious enough to ignore the museum's warnings.
We linger, finding it hard to believe that we've really come this far. Maybe we should say a few words, but nobody knows quite what to say. Too many memories make anything short, meaningless and anything meaningful too long.
“Last one off, turn off the lights,” Anne finally says, breaking the deadlock.
Ray's the last one out, logbooks under arm.
A cool draught licks our our neck as we cross the gangway. We stop and look back into the darkness before the hatch is closed for the last time. Nobody has to ask. It's not just our home we're leaving behind.
We all see them.
Familiar shadows in the dark, waving farewell. The ones who would never leave.
Goodbye old friends.
–
________________________________
--m(^0^)m-- Wot, no sig?