The "Ether Strider II"

     A man stares at the shell of what had been his Father, now sitting in the Command Chair of the Old Packet ship being readied for its final ride. Sightless eyes fixed towards a dark viewscreen. The "Ether Strider II" had been a fine ship when it had been new, but that was many centuries ago. She was past her prime, exterior sensors mostly blinded from micrometeors impacts and the paint blasted from her pitted Hull. Once bright markings had faded to dull grey tones. A tired ship- no longer to span the strong gravity well between the many moons of Arkroon IV, a large class 17 Gas Giant. She was wore out, scarred by one too many pirate and imperial incursions. "Great thrusters - the best Grav-impulse Drives ever made by SharkStone Corp", said the ship breakers where it was picked up for little more than it worth in scrap mass.
     Outside, a replacement astrocompasses and sensoreyes were emplaced. Inside, GuildWorkers still wore the pressure suits while fusing in the badly needed plasteel support beams, as the Life Support systems were only operable at 27%, after repairs that sealed the breached hull. LS systems weren't to be needed. Besides, the husk of dead flesh wouldn't be needing it. His Spirit, however, had other needs. Needs that were to be fulfilled- Even if it took his whole hoard to pull this off. Honor has made its own demands. The warrior he had been required no less. He scowled at the thought.
     He stared into the face now free from pain. Small favor, that- considering the hell he had been thru. enough heavy metals, chem toxins and radiation to have killed a lesser man. In a way, it had. In his mind. Never recovered from the experience, just mumbled, "the dead were the lucky ones" at odd times. Losing most of a Clans best fighters that way could do that to a man. Damn waste, that. Didn't make _his_ growing up years any easier, either.
     Outside the ship, new additions were forming up. Odd things, for an inter-system 20 man fast transport ship to be equipped with. A huge external ventralmounted reactionmass fuel tank, making the arrowhead shape of the ship look like it sprouted a goiter. An IronBear Systems ramscoop, the largest that could be retrofitted to the hull, jutted from the nose. Level 6 shields with extra duty regenerators, in the forward Arc only. No Weapons. Ceramite ArmorCladding. Latest upgrades for the Series 43 Organic computer. Null Field. What use for these on a funeral ship? The Guildmaster himself thought he was mad in his grief- throwing gold around.
     But who's to argue with all the gold that was transferred into the Lodge vault? Good for business.. "Bloodsuckers. Too bad I had to work for them that long" said the man. The corpse did not answer his lament. "Hell. Im going to need the Gold to pay my boys. Looks like another Merc contract is in my future. Maybe two more jobs"
     He was alone. The Guilders had left the ship. The work must be nearly complete. Only then did he notice his WristCom beeping, pushing ill thoughts of his time as a contracted mercenary aside. "Morgan here. Report" He smiles, as he recognizes the Voice of one of the few who understood his dream. A Friend.
     "Skiff, I nearly have made my final peace with him. Ill be out shortly. Did the AstroData tape check? Great! Ill start the downlink from here. Send a Shuttle for me. Morgan out"
     Walking over to a panel, using a touchpad for the init commands, the bridge came to life.
     "Computer! ID my voiceprint and Report" /Welcome to the bridge, Captain Morgan. Awaiting command./
     One of the old series43. Always used a really hot sounding female voice. SharkStone Corp. always figured that extra cheerful voice would keep the pilot calm when the computer reported catastrophic damage like /Hullbreach/ or worse, /total coolant loss in reactor/ He grinned, the thought of a 250 year old 300 pound grandmother lending her too sweet voice to imprint to the computers voice I/O subsystem, greatly amusing him.
     "Lock onto my WristCom and remote load datatape 12 into Navigation database"
     /Working- download complete/
     "Command level 10, Security lock- respond by my voice or WristCom only"
     /task finished- Security lock enabled/
     Morgan looked over the bridge- the repaired consoles, his father in the final sleep, and the few meager possessions he had going with him on this most final of trips. He walked over, popped the faceplate, the sudden low pressure shocking him, leaned over and kissed him on the head. Saying very quietly " Goodbye, Graf Arthur FourSlayer of Hold Heim- your, Our Honor will be restored. This I swear."
     He walked to the exit, resealing his helmet. Before sealing the airlock, a surprising event.
     The computer spoke- /Goodbye Morgan. I am ..glad, of your retrieval of this ship from the breakers yard and for the upgrades. I will not fail you. The plan will succeed. This is a pleasing, right way for a ship to end./
     He croaked out "Uhh, thanks." And repressed a shiver as he dogged the airlock closed. He had heard of Organics becoming aware but like most others, it was a science-fiction story, a fable. But when computers start using pronouns, you have to wonder.
     He quickened his steps away from the ship down the boarding tube to the waiting shuttle.
     Later , at the Control tower, There were only three at the upper deck in launch bay. Skiff, Slight of build and immensely proud of his huge red mustachios, Morgan and one other. Small for a funeral sending. Pathetic even. His Father was a reminder of events few wanted to think of.
     "Well" sighed Morgan, "Its time. My heart Swells with your presence, Honored Sir."
     The Ancient One smiled, and spoke. " Arthur deserved better. A good man. I counted him as my friend. Besides, this isnt a regular sending into the sun, is it? I do not like missing history in the making"
     Morgan swallowed, hard. And nodded.
     "Good. Its good to see that the last two of your hold doing this. You may call on me for assistance in the future. It is hard being among the few survivors of an imperial orbital bombardment, but you have thrived on it. You may begin."
     Morgan spoke the commands into the WristCom, and the ship slowly lifted into the night the freshly painted symbol of his clan, the Opal Eagle, talons outstretched, covering the bottom of the ship. The Ship slowly cleared the spacedock. Suddenly, the boosters kicked into full power and the ship jumped towards the Gas Giant that filled the sky.
     The Ancient One asked, "How many gravity well slingshots did you plan? 3?"
     "yes"
     "Thought so. Thats about how many it would take to get were you want it to go. With full burn, you should be able to get close to .99C That should blast thru the warpstorms. About a 3 year trip "
     "yes again, but Lord, but how did you..?"
     The old man boomed "Hah! I guessed what you were planned months ago! And I liked it! I want to see Revenge for your Clan"
     Morgans WristCom crackled- and the ships voice came thru- /Goodbye Morgan/ then silent. As the dot got smaller and smaller, farther and farther away, only her bluewhite exhaust visible.
     The Gnarled Old man said" Yep, a Series 43. They always got emotional in the end"
     Skiff said, "I need a whiskey. Bad."
     The other two agreed, and walked away.
End.

The "Ether Strider II"

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