Through Silent Skies

Chapter One

I didn't want to take this flight, but I had little choice. Had I declined the scheduler's offer, as I was within my rights to do, there were no doubt numerous other eager pilots ready to be called in my place; the seniority and experience requirements for aircrew can be waived under certain extenuating circumstances. I'd have been perfectly entitled to say no; but my employability would have plummeted like a skyjammer with an empty wing.

So I find myself on the all too familiar maglev to Cardington, still fatigued after my last trip; but by the time I reach the terminal enough time will have elapsed and I'll be legally allowed to fly again. Yes, it's stretching aviation law to its limits, but it happens all the time. The rear seat meats neither know nor care about we crew, and in any case the dridges can fly themselves; we're merely along for the ride to provide the supervisory 'Human Response Factor' required by the United Nations Air Traffic Authority.

The high wall of the Cardington Skyport aerobaffle appears to swell closer at an astonishing but decelerating speed as the the train approaches the terminal. Once it glides to a smooth halt I can separate myself from the passengers and go through the staff portal. For a change it works; there are no false alarms; no 'unexplained objects' detected in my flight bag which need to be accounted for to a scanning system which ought to be able to recognise the innocent and innocuous but seemingly can't, or questions as to what I am doing here as it appears I have no flight assigned.

Once airside I can go to Dispatch; be allocated my cradle and get flying. Flight crew, as everyone these days, aren't employed in the sense someone living in the early part of this century would understand it. We can be allocated any task within our competence by any organisation we're contracted with; though I already know I'll be dipping to New York LaGuardia on board an Eurair L252 currently chartered by SkyBus; yet another of the many resurgent 'virtual' airlines.

It's possible for much of the flying and administration of modern air travel to be run by Artificial Intelligence, but UNATA insists some aspects are still conducted under human oversight; hence my check in, handover, and briefing is conducted by one of the airport staff. I quickly scan the details on the scroll before I thumb my signature. All is well; the arrowhead - EU63390 Albatross - is in excellent condition, having no ongoing issues to contend with as it has only been three years since she floated out of the giant Eurair hanger at Toulon. A full load of pressurised supercooled liquid hydrogen has been pumped aboard, and the trim is within acceptable parameters. I also find I'm acquainted with two of the flight crew; I know Gloria Brock from flight academy; she's getting back into the air again after taking extended leave to give birth to her daughter. I've also flown with Bryan Lewis a few times. He's already aboard; no doubt he'll have given our bird a quick look over just to be sure before claiming his favourite tiny bunk aft of the flight deck. Our fourth pilot - Romas Maartens - has only recently qualified, but I've no reason to believe he's anything but competent. As for the four cabin stewards, divided into two shifts of two people, I've never seen them before.

We're fully victualled and only waiting for our two hundred passengers and their minimal luggage to board. There are no names flagged as Potentially Problematic Passengers on the manifest so it looks as if it will be a routine flight, winds permitting. I thumb my acceptance, assuming full responsibility for the Albatross and everyone aboard, then take a ground level autopod over to the cradle.

Seen from below the launch cradle resembles a giant table, or one of the old style oil rigs, its chunky legs constructed from a diamond lattice of thick, bright orange tubes. Taking the analogy further, where the table top or rig platform should be is where my ship is now, clamped solidly in place, joined further by access tubes and umbilical cords. At rest she looks like a slim, metallic silver streamlined bomb of a gondola about the size of a small passenger jet attached to a large pair of folded insectile wings.