Corporate psychometric tests. Test after test. Endless badgering about her life. "Who is Frank and why should we hire her?" Frank has endured a full day of jumping through hoops and listening to her employer fill her head with soulless jargon. She is at least hopeful that her job as a till attendant will allow her to scrape enough money to leave the spaceport. There is nothing but a three-hour examination between her and a steady income. After an hours' rest at her hotel, she makes her way back to the shops she hopes to get her job at. She begins her examination in a room on the upper floor of the shops that is devoid of features, besides herself, her desk, and her employer. The walls are white, clinical. No clock, no window. The minutes melt into a hazy blur. The absolute silence gives way to a noise she never gave mind to before; The spaceport groans and creaks around her. Rattling as ships are elevated downward into the centrifuge. A sound like pebbles hitting a metallic hull - is the spaceport flying through debris? Frank thinks to herself: are we safe here? Her breathing escalates. Her examiner stares at her, perhaps more intensely than they have done the entire time.
Ding
The test has concluded. The examiner takes her paper from in front of her, and dons his glasses. Frank undulates her leg with increasing rapidity. She clenches her hands. Beads of sweat form on her forehead. Before long, a calmness washes over her. This should be it. She can start her job tomorrow. Save herself money. Escape the Ulysses-Yar spaceport. She tries to picture the endless green forests of Earth and its many historical cities, but her imagination is halted abruptly when her employer speaks up.
"Firstly, can I congratulate you on completing this test? It means a lot to us that you've applied here."
Frank's heart skips a beat. Her employer continues, his voice monotone and uninspiring.
"Though, I am sorry to say, we cannot take aboard someone who was born more than 161 billion nautical miles from Sol. We wish you luck in your future endeavours. If you like, we can offer you a feedback form for future employment opportunities."
He offers his hand for a handshake. Frank takes it, reciprocating his soullessness. They both say their thanks and part ways.
A loud, booming voice emits from the station intercom.
"The time is 7 P.M. The crew of Ulysses-Yar wishes you all a good night."
Frank has exhausted most of the listings posted on the spaceport's bulletin board. The phrase "161 Billion" is burned into her mind. Hesitation lingers in her head; she can recall no less than eight times her pattern of eye movements during eye contact were analysed for reasons left vague. Only a few opportunities remain, but one catches her eyes in particular:
FLIGHT ENGINEER WANTED
STRAUSS-BOEING A3707-R
REGISTRATION FB-4747
LOCATE ME IN PARKING BAY FIVE
NO PRIOR EXPERIENCE REQUIRED
LEARN ON THE JOB
FLIGHTS FROM ULYSSES-YAR TO INNER ORIGO SYSTEM
£47/HR
It is much too tempting for Frank, the offer of pay and passage to elsewhere. Entering bay five, she walks towards a large spaceplane. The cavernous parking bay almost looks tiny around the vessel. This must be it - the registration code is worn out to hell against the dark grey hull, but it is nevertheless the only vessel in the bay. Despite its fuselage being much shorter than its length, it nevertheless looms over her. It amazes her that such a thing can take flight in spite of its incredible mass. A stairway connects the ground to a door left ajar near the nose of the vessel. She makes her way up the staircase and knocks on the door.
"Hello? FB-4747? Flight engineer wanted?"
She sticks her head through the door. To her right, the upper deck seems to stretch on forever, lit by a seemingly endless row of incandescent lights. There are a group of seats in front of her, behind which the deck narrows - doors are spaced out across the left and right sides of the far side of this deck. In front of her, a spiral staircase leads downwards. To her left, the door to the flight deck. It opens, and reveals a familiar face.
"It is you."
The labourer.
Frank rubs her eyes. "Fancy seeing you here - who do I speak to about this job?"
They clear their throat.
She inquires: "You're the captain of this?"
They nod.
"Before I can take you, you just need to complete this paper certifying that you've got the theoretical knowledge to take this role. Shouldn't take you more than an hour."
Another test. Frank sighs. Fortunately, it is not nearly as long as her earlier test.
"Hey... I don't suppose it's customary for an employer and apprentice to know each others' names."
The labourer sighs. "Alita. You?"
Frank thinks.
"I know my last name is Frank. I still don't remember my first name...?"
Alita interjects. "Yeah, yeah. Look, a day or so of amnesia is typical for someone who has been suspended for as long as you. I'll just put John Smith for now. You've two hours to hand the paper in."
Frank takes a seat, a dozen or so feet from the door to the flight deck. The glint of a plaque catches her eye; it is mounted next to the flight deck door.
"FROM THE 15TH OF DECEMBER 2500 ONWARD THIS VESSEL TYPE 'STRAUSS-BOEING A3707 REFIT' DESIGNATED 'FB-4747' IS CERTIFIED TO BE FLIGHT WORTHY UNDER REGULATIONS AS DESCRIBED BY UPF CODE C-25 AND IS REGISTERED UNDER ITS OWNER ALITA A. AND HER AGENCY. THIS VESSEL IS TO BE RETESTED EVERY FIVE YEARS."
Alita makes her way to the flight deck and shuts the door.
Nearly an hour has passed. Frank takes her paper to Alita. She doesn't feel as easy as last time, but she also doesn't feel as anxious in her presence. Alita interrogates the paper with her eyes; she is laser-focused on Frank's paper. Frank takes this time to soak her surroundings in. Countless switches and levers adorn the leather-brown walls and panels of the flight deck. Analog gauges and instruments litter the view dead-ahead. The space between the captain and second officers' chairs is occupied by a pedestal, stood on which is a set of throttle levers and an array of switches and knobs. Perpendicular to the front panel and behind the second officers' chair is the flight engineers' station, littered with its own array of instruments and gauges and switches. It's almost overstimulating to Frank, so she turns towards Alita herself. She stands in a way that asserts herself, but doesn't make her feel too imposing. Her black hair drapes over her head, beckoning Frank's eyes to her face. Her rich-brown eyes scan the lines of the paper with great speed, and sparkle in a way that contrasts against the duller brown of the surrounding interior... Frank's fixation on Alita is brought to a stop when her eyes lock onto Frank. She looks away, hoping Alita will think she was just examining the flight deck.
"...You spelled 'throttle' with an A."
The colour and emotion drains from Frank's face. She clenches her head, sweeping her hair back.
"Where will I go from here?"
Alita rests her hand on the captains' chair.
"This system is full of opportunities. I should know, I've been doing this for 35 years. Good luck."
"Thanks..."
Frank walks away from the spaceplane. It's massive, yet there is no room for her. She saunters off. As Frank watches from the observation deck, a tug pushes Alita's spaceplane backwards and into a smaller bay that conveys vessels between the parking bay and the center column of the station. She turns away, and begins a slow walk up the street. Frank feels the bay escalate the spaceplane up and through the bowels of the station, the street she stands on rattling and heaving. Distant klaxons blare. Her walk falters, uneasy as if the station is about to fall apart. During her walk, she notices a familiar location. Her mouth is dry and her head is foggy; her senses draw her to the old bar.
"Just water, please."
The bartender takes her request, and returns with the water in short time. The bar is eerily silent. Just herself and the bartender.
"Quiet hour."
The bartender shakes her head.
"This is one of the busiest stations in the known galaxy, and this is one of the calmest bars."
Frank sips her water. "I take it there aren't any vacancies here", she enquires.
The bartender looks at Frank in silent agreement.
"I'm packing this business in. I leave tomorrow. Bars just don't sell without alcohol. Independent outposts are nicer to businesses like this one."
Frank stares into space, despondent. The bartender pours a liquid into two glasses.
"A whiskey. The good stuff. It's on the house. There's nobody else here to kick a stink over this. You can keep a secret, can't you?"
Frank takes one. They both raise their glasses and take a shot.
She remarks: "That's the closest to home I've felt since waking up."
The bartender pats Frank's shoulder.
"It's closing time. The last closing time. It's been fun meeting people like you. See you around."
The bartender turns the lights out, and Frank heads her way.
She bursts into her room and leaps onto her bed. A pounding fills her head and her mind turns grey, blurred by her weariness. She needs something to take her mind off her anxiety; she looks out of her window at Jupiter. She looks at it, fixates on it, but something feels wrong. The red giant looks dull, lifeless, like an old marble left behind a sofa. The permeability of her choice to leave Tethys sinks in. It dawns on her that, even if she began a return trip immediately, she would return to a planet over a century older than when she left it. She shuts her blinds and hides herself under her covers. In almost complete darkness, she toys with an old radio she brought from Tethys to distract herself. Most of the frequencies are occupied by dull, repetitive music. Listening it nurtures her frustration. She sweeps the frequencies for something worth listening to, and comes across a strange transmission.
"Flying Battery four-seven-four-seven, cleared for takeoff, caution the Grasshopper shuttle on approach."
A traffic controller?
"Cleared for takeoff, caution the grasshopper shuttle on approach, Flying Battery four-seven-four-seven"
Alita's voice.
Frank shoots upwards through her covers to gaze out. Alita's spaceplane emerges from the center column of the station, rotating synchronously in a hypnotic dance. Near the column is a tiny shuttle, appearing to circle Alita's spaceplane.
"Flying Battery four-seven-four-seven, follow the docking corridor for niner decimal five kilometres, contact approach one one six decimal tree four."
"Follow docking corridor niner decimal five kilometres, contact approach one one six decimal tree four, Flying Battery four-seven-four-seven."
Frank switches the radio off. She holds herself with great restraint to prevent it from being thrown across her room. Retreating back under her covers, her heartbeat serves as her only reference of time.
Beat-beat. Beat-beat.
The world sublimates as Frank descends into an emotional sleep. Her dreams are cloudy and vague, but the feelings they convey are as real as anything. She feels herself descending and spiralling. Her despair grows louder and heavier. Everything feels sour.
Knock-Knock
The fog dissipates. Frank finds herself rising back into lucidity.
Knock-Knock-Knock-Knock
Someone's at her door. Did she do something wrong? Frank's chest becomes tight. Anxiety grows heavy in her heart.
...
Minutes pass. The knocking has stopped. Frank descends back into sleep once again.
A familiar voice breaks Frank's slumber. A robotic voice announces the time. 11 A.M. She has well overslept, and does not feel inspired to wake up any further. Her mind is cloudy, but she knows she must make an effort to get up today, even if just to avoid creating a habit of sleeping in. She once again leaves her room.
The lobby of the hotel makes itself a refreshing contrast to the clinical appearance of the rest of the spaceport. A largely red and maroon interior, decorated with a spot of blue; soft jazz resonates and reverberates across the walls. Star-shaped emblems cover the walls. People chatter over various casino games and drinks, unceasing noise occasionally turning into cheers. A glum Frank drives herself in a beeline across the lobby to the exit, paying no mind to the other visitors.
No new opportunities. The bulletin board is nearly identical to yesterday. She continues walking the ten-kilometre circumference of the street. She never focused on her surroundings before, but today, it is eerily quiet. Everyone else has jobs to go to and places to be. All she can do is walk. She forgets the time. On her right, she passes entrances to salons, schools, restaurants, nothing useful to her. On her left, windows overlooking parking bays. Vessels belonging to people who clearly have the means to leave the spaceport. She walks. And walks. And walks. She walks until her numbness gives way to the ache of her feet. The artificial lighting of the spaceport begins to grind against her mind, harsh white tiles driving themselves into her eyes. Mechanical whirring echoes around her head as machines perform their functions within the walls of the spaceport. Unable to walk any further, she slumps by a window overlooking parking bay four. She hangs her head. Her eyes fix on the floor.
Footsteps. The sound of footsteps approaches her. Frank thinks to herself, any second now, the stranger will toss pennies at her. The footsteps grow louder, the shadow darker. Her eyes remain fixed on the floor. The shadow eventually comes to a pause. She feels tense. It continues to loom over her. The sound of fabric rubbing against fabric catches Frank's ears. A hand is presented to her. She follows the arm up its dark-haired user.
"This isn't a good way for you to start the decade."
Frank is caught in a trance. She can't look away. It's Alita.
"You're not from around here, and that makes you no more hireable than a convict."
Frank maintains her startled look.
"This doesn't mean anything... I'm only here to give you a fair chance. My next flight will be a week-long cruise to another station. Help me move some things when we get there, and I'll give you a letter of recommendation and the week's pay."
A tear descends Frank's cheek. She promptly wipes it away.
"You came back for me..."
Their hands lock. They both pull until Frank is back on her feet. The pair begin a slow and tired walk back to Alita's spaceplane, the former hobbling through her ache.
"What possessed you to leave for the Solar System?"
Frank, anxious and in little condition for difficult questions, is thrown for a loop.
"We call it Origo, back at Tethys... I guess a life here sounded fun."
Such impulsivity, Alita thinks to herself. She's glad Frank isn't a flight engineer.
Creak.
Light floods into a small room. The far wall follows the curvature of the hull and is adorned with small ovular windows. The bed, besides this wall, is equipped with straps. A desk at the foot of the bed holds equipment and paper. A chair is bolted to the floor next to it and is furnished with a seatbelt. The forward side of the room holds a display, showing the current orbit of the spaceplane: within the orbit of Io, travelling at Mach 60. Above the display is a seatbelt sign, currently cold and dark. The back side of the room holds a door, one adorned with a painting of the spaceplane, flying up from a runway. The spaceplane as depicted in the painting is far more saturated, presented with an inky black hull and yellow text and accents.
"This is your room for now. The desk there has magnetic strips inside so your things don't float away. The bed there has some equipment so you don't get hurt in flight-"
Alita is stunned when Frank swiftly clings to her in an embrace. She looks down on her, not sure how to react. She would not have hugged Frank on her own accord, but the feeling is more refreshing than she would have anticipated. Their heartbeats transmit between their chests, unceasingly.
Beat-beat. Beat-beat.
Alita lowers her arms, closing them behind Frank's back. Their heat bleeds into each other; It never before occurred to Alita how cold the interior of the spaceplane is. Her hair becomes trapped under Frank's arms.
"I... have to complete our takeoff checklist."
Frank doesn't budge.
"Vi..."
"Hm?"
"My name is Vi. Vivienna Frank."
Vivienna looks up at Alita; her face is warm, at ease. Alita looks back down at Vivienna; she is inclined to say that Vivienna feels safe with her.
"You just stay here and get unpacked for takeoff. Strap yourself into the chair or bed when the seatbelt sign lights up. There is a toilet and shower behind the door with the painting. I'll be on the flight deck, just take a right, go past the passenger seats, I'll be through the door at the end."
...
"You can let go of me now" Alita says, softly. "You've caught my hair."
Viviennna stares her in the face, and remarks "You look a bit red", before letting go.
Alita steps back slowly, and makes a hasty walk to the flight deck. Vivienna makes quick work of her suitcase, unpacking her few belongings and a few borrowed sheets from the hotel within a few minutes. Klaxons again blare, muffled through the hull. In the middle of her settling, Alita's voice blares over the ship's intercom.
"Get yourself ready, we're about to experience Zero-G. Join me on the flight deck."
CAPTAIN'S LOG
11:30 P.M.
2nd January, 2530 O.S., Day 61B90 N.S.
FB-4747
A3707-R
Extending our layover at Ulysses-Yar spaceport has given me additional time to test starboard flaperon two, which often has a tendency to act up during subsonic flight. It is operational and functioning with flying colours. Our destination, provided nothing further extends our stay, is a station named 'Hepburn-Kirk' following Jupiter at the Jovian L2 point. The flight should take no longer than six days, beginning with a three-hour burn bringing us up to 106km/s, and a second retrograde burn to decelerate. Cargo to be delivered is as follows:
5 tonnes: assorted Synthehol products
1.5 tonnes: the belongings of Erin Fort and her business
At my discretion, I am bringing aboard a passenger by the name of Vivienna Frank. Having trouble settling into life in the Solar System, I feel her only way forward is here on the Flying Battery.
The ship creaks and groans. A deep howl, emitted from the fusion engines of the ship, resonates throughout the bulkheads. Ulysses-Yar spaceport grows distant in the rear-view display as a beam several kilometres long pierces the starscape. Vivienna sits alongside Alita in the copilots' seat.
"So..."
Alita hushes her. They both wait. A brief moment of static opens a transmission.
"Flying Battery four-seven-four-seven, continue own navigation, tune Jovian STIS. Good night."
"Continue own navigation, tune Jovian STIS, Flying Battery four-seven-four-seven. Goodnight."
Alita reaches for the throttle pedestal and adjusts several knobs. Her slender hands make their way across the controls, guided by decades of experience. Hypnotised, Vivienna watches her. It's the only thing occupying her mind as the acceleration of the ship and the angle of her seat brings her stomach up her throat. The thought occurs to her that if she released her seatbelt and the flight deck door was left open, she would slide backwards and fall three-quarters of a hundred meters down to the back of the deck. The further thought occurs that no such door is located behind the thirty-odd passenger seats on the upper deck. She continues to fixate on Alita; it is the only way she will survive three more hours of acceleration.
The ship shudders as Alita throws the throttles back. The acceleration comes to an abrupt stop.
"I can tell you're about to be sick. This thing isn't easy to clean."
She flicks a lever mounted to the overhead panel. A latch clatters from within the frame of the flight deck door. Alita undoes her seatbelt, making her way out of the deck.
"By the way..." She turns to Vivienna. "I'll be having my lunch now. You can join me if you're feeling well enough. Starboard room closest to the back of the deck."
"I'm feeling... much better. Of course I am."
She squints at Vivienna; her faces shooting doubt across the deck.
The two sit across a metallic table. The sun shines through a row of small ovular windows. Alita's face is shrouded in darkness; Vivienna's face catches the sunlight. They both wait for the other to speak.
"You aren't allergic to ferromagnetic consumables, are you?"
"I... no. I'm fine."
"We wouldn't want foods and drinks to float around, would we?"
Feeling a wave of warmth wash over her face, Vivienna clenches her seat. Alita makes note of her flushed appearance.
"I can tell from the way you've been looking at me since we met, that there's something you want to tell."
The air grows heavy. The ever-present whirring of the ship's ventilation becomes the loudest sound in the room.
"Nothing gets past you, huh?" Vivienna crosses her arms, her hands cupping around her shoulders. She looks off to the side, through the windows and into the expanse of space. She catches a glimpse of the Sun as it disappears behind Jupiter, the limb of the planet glowing with vigour, its reflection glimmering on the starboard wing of the ship. The room begins a fall into darkness. A light above the table fades into life, flooding its dim orange glow over the pair, fluttering in brightness.
"Views like that are why I came out here, to Origo..."
They both pull themselves towards the windows. Cyclones fly high above the cloudscape of the planet. The atmosphere becomes a hazy shell around the inky black bulk of the planet. For the first time in decades of hauling, Alita isn't just navigating. She is experiencing. The pair are now huddled around one window, their breath tangling in the cold, artificial atmosphere. The shimmer of the Sun dies out as the gas giant hides it in totality, leaving the pale arc of the giants' atmosphere - the green navigation light of the wing pulses intermittently against the harsh darkness of space. With darkness left outside the windows, the pair face each other, locking eyes. The captain breaks the stare, heading for the exit.
"Alita... I can tell you have secrets of your own."
She looks back over her shoulder at Vivienna, not unlike a deer caught in headlights. Her eyes close as she inhales. Vivienna continues.
"Your mouth is shut, but your cheeks speak a thousand words."
"You're not the first to have feelings for me... It can't happen."
"Why not?" enquires Vivienna.
"I've always been told to 'give in to my impulses'... To fit a mold that is not my shape. I have fallen in love before... It hurts them as much as it hurts me."
The sound of the ship's vents fills the silence.
"You're only here for a week to help offload cargo. When we get to Hepburn-Kirk..."
"I get what you're saying."
"If only."
Diary entry 2. Time: 11 P.M. 2nd January, 2530
It's going to be a long week.
I mean, that's not all I have to say. Being around Alita makes me feel so warm inside - when I'm around her, I almost forget about the zero-G that has me floating about! She's cool, she flies a big spaceship... She's pretty! I wish she thought the same about me. I want to crack her shell, get her to lower her shields, but I don't know if we'll ever see each other again after this. I think she knows that, but something tells me she has deeper problems with me... Or the idea of being with me.
Oh, and flying on spaceships is SO MUCH WORSE than I could have imagined. I don't think I can stand a month of these vacuum-packed dinners. Just being on the ship during these "burns" threatens to undo my meals. It is like a never-ending rollercoaster ride. Sitting on those reclined seats while the spaceship flies forward will be the end of me. I always thought it'd be more like flying on a normal airplane. She does speak of a secondary flight deck at the front of the lower decks that is at a more sensible orientation for spaceflight, but says it needs refurbishing and that she is "used to it anyways."
But, her having my back does help with my own discomfort.