Space Bus: The Pilot

CHAPTER ONE

It's a Cupertino Yards T-5180 Trans-Galactic Sunliner. 

If you're unfamiliar with astronautical engineering, that's a really big spaceship. 

Enormous. The size of a mountain. And a rare sighting, too. The T-5180s are given only the most prestigious assignments. Each has a permanent garage at Grand Central Station, continuously staffed by a team of hundreds prepared to fix any problem, of any kind, at any moment. When the Chairman travels, they say he flies on a ship called Chariot—the only crimson-colored T-5180 ever made. They say you can live a lifetime aboard a T-5180 without meeting every passenger. An exaggeration, maybe, but not by much. 

Teddy knows the make-and-model of this ship by sight—although he's never, technically, been anywhere near one.

Until today. 

Teddy can tell, even from this distance, that the T-5180 in question is one of theirs. This ship bears the bone-white logo of the Grand Galactic Space Bus Company, positioned for maximum display. That logo is bigger than Teddy in every way.

It makes him proud.

Teddy guesses this particular T-5180 is the SBC Nightingale. If so, this is a rare sighting indeed. The Nightingale ferries only the most prestigious personalities around Capital Sector. Like Chariot, this ship is one of the most famous in the fleet.

"Monsieur," Teddy looks down, "is that the one you fly?" He's a wee kid and though he's got the corner of Teddy's cuff gripped tightly in hand, the boy isn't even looking at Teddy. He's looking at the Nightingale.

For the first time since their tram rounded the corner, Teddy's own attention drifts from the big spaceship. 

His blue uniform reflects gently in the tram's bubble window. Behind him are other creatures in the blue-and-brass getup of the Space Bus Company. Some are returning from long hauls on distant routes, others are like Teddy—starting their first tours today.

Teddy's round face betrays neither fear nor excitement. As Grand Central drifts by below, though, he wrestles with his feelings. 

Teddy's tall, taller than your average creature, but thin. His height reflects his simian ancestry. The uniform is starched, pressed, and polished in every way—but it does hang a little loose on him. Then again, a tin of button wax is cheaper than a tailor. 

An observer from an earlier epoch—say the 21st century—might have mistaken Teddy for a very well-dressed capuchin monkey.

A capuchin monkey presently trying not to vomit all over his little tram-mate. 

The child's mother frowns from her seat a row over, perhaps sensing the threat posed by Ted's nervous stomach. Teddy offers the lady a shaky smile and kneels down next to her pup. Cub? Whatever they are, they've got a little rabbit in their family tree. 

His gorgeous new shoes slide slightly, forcing his knee down hard enough to hurt. Ted grips the boy's shoulder as he tries not to wince.

"At graduation, they said you should keep a few of these in your bag for when you're walking 'round the terminal." He says, reaching into a knapsack at his feet. He rifles around, drawing out a set of brass-wings identical to the ones pinned to his own chest. Teddy didn't think the boy's eyes could get any bigger, and for a moment their shared excitement drowns out his anxiety.

Everyone knows spaceships are old machines. But they're also a little mysterious, a little unknowable. They're the product of a time and place so foreign and distant as to seem impossible.