Beyond Sol

Chapter 2B

Mars, HMO. May 31st, 2120.

Nothing. Nothing as far as the eye could see. It was empty. The harsh reality of space. Except for a star ahead, yet it wasn't a star. A planet. Mars. The first of two stops to Alpha Centauri, and we were only a day out.
The Spectrum had flipped directions weeks earlier, burning the ions for an orbit. I sat on the bridge alone, feet up on the dash. Although they kept trying to float away. The sun shined brightly, almost covering up the shine of a blue planet. The Earth. Muhammed glided in.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Waiting," I sigh.
"You're waiting for a day doing nothing?"
"I have my music and the instruments."
"So you're just gonna watch the gauges for a day?" Muhammed slid into the chair beside.
"Sounds about right." I say, rubbing my eyes.
"You obviously didn't sleep...so what's bugging you?"
"Y'know, its funny. We leave eighteen billion people behind on Earth and Mars, combined. As if we're trying to find some shelter, some...refuge in a place forty trillion kilometres away, just saving ourselves. Leaving our daughters, our sons, our families to die? We just seem...cruel." I rub my eyes, again.
"No. We're not cruel if the place we're trying to find refuge is for everyone else. You and I know that. Everyone else on the ship knows that," he pat my shoulder, "better get moving."
"Yeah," I sigh, standing up, stretching, or, lunging myself up? You know this whole zero-gravity thing is still a pain in my ass, even though I've been on countless training and other space related activities. Pain in my ass!
"Emma, Braeden, I want a full report of our core and engineering bay in my quarters by the end of the day, not tomorrow or the next, today! I want us ready for when the inspection crew comes aboard. Abroad? I-I think it would be abroad for them–aboard for us? I'm not the best at grammar–anywho I need the report." I radioed over the P.A, placing back on the ceiling. 

A glow from the red dusty planet glared on the tips of the front windows. "And so, what was our maximum speed for an orbit?" Muhammed asks.
"4.30 KM/S for safety. 5-7 if you wanna rely on gravity." James thought.
"And our c-" I was cut off.
"Before you ask, we're currently at 7.91."
"I thought you were a physicist. Not an astro one." Amelia looked behind to him.
"I'm gonna let you in on a secret. Physics and Physics in space are quite the same thing."
"Mhm. Whatever you say." Eliza laughed and chuckled.
"Kay children. You guys know what time it is?" I ask, looking back at the other five.
"Time for you to shut up?" Braeden shouted over the entirety of the bridge.
"Time for an orbital burn, I meant."
"Ah well you're no fun at all!"
"Be grateful he isn't sending your ass back to Earth." Emma typed on a keyboard that slid out from the monitor.
"AETHER, align us retrograde to planned Martian orbit. Input orbital burn of 6.682 minutes in thirty seconds,"  I announce to the A.I, the Spectrum shifting starboard a few degrees for an alignment.
"You know, AETHER doesn't need such specific commands. Just tell him to burn for an orbit." Amelia locked down most modulus with small bulkhead doors.
"Makes me feel like a captain."
"Carter, you are a captain...commander." Muhammed sighed.
"Makes me feel more of one."
"This is why I don't trust you." The most eastern points of Mars came into view, orange city lights barely outshining the planet. The screens switched to a Mars-based programming. Something that happens to all crafts entering the Martian airspace.
WELCOME TO MARS LONE TRAVELLERS! IF YOU HAVE NOT BEEN SHOT DOWN YET YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN A CLEARANCE TO LAND IN YOUR DESIGNATED SECTOR.
"Well that's a comforting message ain't it?" Muhammed strapped in.
"We weren't shot down, stop complaining." I to, strapped in.
"T-10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1," AETHER announced, the four nuclear engines firing, slamming our heads back into our seats.
"The ship couldn't have been built in any more of an elegant way?" James gripped the seat.
"There's a reason the ship is rough! So it keeps your ass alive! Go touch the EWSS and OGS and see how hot it is!" Amelia called back.

As the engines sputtered and shut down the last bits of the fuel were ejected. An orbital flight path showed an elliptical circle around a diagram of Mars chiming green from what was just red parted lines. ORBIT ACHIEVED. It read over the diagram.
"Everyone ready to see a star?" I gripped the sidestick, gently nudging it to the left, my right hand on the main stick. The RCS fired small jets of frozen nitrogen out, spinning us 'to port' gently.
"I'm pretty sure it's a planet Carter, not a star!" Braeden toyed with the controls on the monitor.
"Planet Carter? Sounds like a nice name." I nudged the side stick back as the ship floated towards the planet. Amelia and Eliza banged heads trying to get a better view of the planet.
"Ow! Don't be so dumb Eliza!" Amelia and Eliza bickered.
"Don't fight...again." I reached for the radio, punching in a frequency on the monitor
81017MRSINTL '
"Spectrum0010 in HMO contacting Sector 72 for a quad-jet re-supply. Spectrum0010 in HMO contacting Sector 72 ATC for a quad-jet resupply." I held the radio close to my mouth.
"Anything?" Eliza mouthed behind.
"Nada." I shook my head, a static blasting over the bridge, with blotches of voice interruptions in between. "AETHER, align our comm's dish to Sector 72." I deactivated the dish lock above.
"And It wasn't aligned before?" James shook his head.
"AETHER automatically aligns it with the capital, so no. It wasn't," Muhammed gazed at the planet as a crank and groan of wheels and hinges aligned the dish.
The voice went from blotches to clear speech. A man sounded confused, perhaps of the radio silence. "E-Spe-M otaen co-frim sagneel."
"AETHER clear out the audio for us." Amelia called out. A replay of the audio played over again.
"Spectrum 0010 confirmed signal...Welcome to Mars. Your landing has been confirmed and cleared. See ya in a bit."
"That's a lot better." Emma sighed, not raising her head from the monitor.
"Mmm," I grabbed the radio again which was floating in the air, only bound by the spun up wire which fed into the control panel above, "Spectrum 0010 confirmed signal. Got six other grumpy crew eager to land." I chuckled.
"We're not grumpy!" Eliza yelled out.
"What do you call that then?" Muhammed turned around in his seat, eyebrows raised.
Eliza thought for a moment, before opening her mouth, closing it again. "Dang you're good."  The planet filled our view with ease, sometimes space isn't a bitch. The "satellite" dish that sat above the bridge still cranked and twisted–apparently AETHER can't cancel out our pin completely. Mars drifted in and out of our vision.
Ah–good old Sub-Sec 2. The system had been divided into two sectors and six sub sectors. Sector one was the inner planets–Mars, Earth, and the Moon. Earth was for the super-lower class civilians and/or important people for business (Us!) The Moon was for middle-low civilians. You wouldn't see anything special there, even though it's the primary population count. And Mars is for the richfucks. Especially richfucks.
Mars is advertised as a haven–and whilst it is true, the crime, suicide and homicide rates were off the charts. The cost to travel is cheap–very cheap. Just 1200 CAD. However the cost of living was outrageous. Most people can go there once in their life, and that's it.
Sector two had the outer planets, well, the moon's at least. They sort of mix but Titan usually is where all the workers and energy maintenance–anything that gets your hands dirty and keeps the system running, you live on Titan. Europa, think of a space resort, a massive one. That's Europa. Triton and Titania were sort of the same sub-sector, although they were apparently "Separate colonies in a confined place."
I'm paraphrasing.
They were both as if they were Canadian territories in the sixteenth century. Or–first nations. Canada didn't exist back then. The higher up officials were able to heat the two poor moons to somewhat liveable, they both now range from -11 to -42 Celsius. The people who live on the moons are what everyone else calls "Homeless."
Probably because they transport with canoes, use beaver pelts, etc. They're slowly but surely becoming disconnected from the rest of the system. A liner from Europa visits once to twice a year. Those liners are fast man. Did I forget to mention Mars isn't the red dust bowl you might think it still is?
Probably not.
Wait.
Did I?
No.
I didn't.
Whilst Earth had descended into a dystopian toxic-government wasteland, Mars had flourished with green life and trees, NASA's main base of operations is at Blackcrow, similar to KSC at Cape Canaveral. A VAB, standard industrial launch pad, and a bigass runway.
Not ironically, it was named BSC. BSC, just like KSC lied next to an ocean. Whilst KSC bordered the Atlantic, BSC bordered the Crissco sea. Think of the sea as something similar to the Gulf of Mexico. Yeah. Like that. Fun thing about BSC, it's an island. It's about three kilometres from shore. A sea train connects them.
The bridge of the Spectrum sat empty, all seven of us buggers were in the hangar. Dang. These jets really were massive. Like–atleast three times bigger than a normal F/A-18. Yes, I'm using a hundred year old jet to describe something nowadays. Call me out, I don't care.
I assisted Muhammed with his EVA, I mean, it's possible to equip and take it off yourself, but it's one hell of a pain in the ass to do it. Call it tradition. Technically they're called exoskeletons, but, the fuck NASA know? How to put a spaceship together? Yes...they do.
"Pressurizing." I slid a button to the left on the bottom of his helmet at the back. The condensed air hissed into his helmet, before calming. I looked down–up–down? I wish I had some gravity right now. I was at the top of the ceiling in the hanger, and Amelia plus Eliza were on the floor. Put it that way.
"Ooh-aah, cold, cold, cold!" Muhammed flailed like a schoolgirl in the Eva, although he just spun. "What is this? Earth atmo?"
"Mmm. Mars has ten percent nitrogen–they want adaptations." I locked the helmet, followed by the gloves. Ooh! Brings me to my next point. Any colony such as Titan, Europa or such (P.S, Mars is considered a "Main civilization planet" or in other words, its fully colonised and safe, so, not a colony.)
The colonies, any spaceliners or spacecraft, and Mars's atmosphere had an exact pressure of just 21% of Earths, yet the twenty one percent was pure oxygen. I guess it's to relieve tension and stress on hulls? I don't know why Mars did it, easier to do I guess? I mean. Would you rather give an atmosphere the same as Earths or make it five times easier and three times less elements–and it works! We don't breath nitrogen, carbon dioxide or anything else, we just ignore it. "It's super good for your health!" -some random medical official that works out of his moms basement.
It had been an hour, maybe two since we captured orbit. Mars had gone from a small circle in our view from a few thousand kilometres away, to 128. Even the buildings were distinct in the thinner atmosphere. Most of the cities had green for hundreds of miles outwards, but generally in between most cities it was bare Martian rock. You still need EVA's or respirators out there, you do not want to breathe in that shit. Good and efficient way to destroy your throat and lungs. It's all jagged rock if you get small enough.
Take that out of context I dare you.
As I finished equipping my EVA with Braeden's help I floated down to JET A. I gripped onto the handles just below the cockpit. The jet was a twin-seater. "I call shotgun!" I called over the radio, using my hands to lower myself into the front seat.
"Ass." Muhammed just slowly floated down into the seat from above, legs criss crossed.
"Are you Jesus or are you just pretending to be in first grade?" I looked back, or as far as the EVA would let me.
"Criss cross applesauce!" Eliza giggled from the other side of the hangar.
"Yeah, Yeah." Muhammed unfolded his legs and pulled himself in. All four jets had two people except for JET D, James was alone. "AETHER, take good care of the ship until the inspec team comes."
"Affirmative. Have a nice trip." The lights shut down in most modules, exceptioning the hangar.
"Woah. He kinda sounds human all of a sudden. Like–his speech is usually so robot-y with basic words. He get a software update or something?" Emma pointed out, looking up at the speakers.
"He only gets software updates when no one is onboard, it shuts down all the life support for a few hours. So most likely when we get back–or maybe during our stasis he did. The cryo's are their own independent system." I closed the canopy on the jet, a crank of gears forced the canopy shut over the two of us, followed by a click as it locked.
"Maybe." The other canopies were audibly shutting.
"Leader to group, begin pre-launch protocols. Hardlight going down in three," I placed the tiny radio above, "'kay Muhammed, we're racing to the pad."
"Some action!"
"You go over the checklist, I'll get us airborne...spaceborne."
"Got it!" He responded. He sounded like a little kid. I love making this trip fun. It's like a big road trip, and every cryo is just sleeping in the night. Every planet a gas station.
"Greenlight for battery, APU and engine start," he called out.
"Affirm!" I flicked the battery, the screens firing up, a quick NASA, ESA, and CSA logo appearing before showing whatever the hell screens show. The APU whirred, a screen on the bottom left in my frontal view displayed both engine heats and RPM.
"Is this a race I see? You're on!" Amelia and Braeden agreed over the mic. The whole process took three minutes, perfect.
"Engine ignition," I called out. Two jets of flames fired out, but diminished immediately in the vacuum. "See ya, losers." The engine clamps released off the wheels and the jet wished out.
The other jets had only just fired their engines as we were halfway to the atmosphere. "Carter, I'm taking on the entry angle."
"Affirm." The jet's engine shutdown, switching to the vertical ones. The sight of the Spectrum, still large, was spectacular, especially with the other three jets launching, at an interval of 15 seconds for safety, of course.
You'd expect it to be an easy trip down, but navigating an aircraft in a vacuum is once again a pain in the ass! Ass is starting to lose its integrity. I'll have to start using another one. To cut down costs, because of how expensive the Spectrum, along with every landing, takeoff bookings, fuel, etc, the jets were essentially all manuals. I had to even set the fuel-to-air ratio from the O2 tanks. In other words, I had to set it perfectly for distance and breathing time.
"Brissbrook gave us the final greenlight for landing. Does this call for badass music?" Muhammed nudged his head against the canopy to see ahead.
"I thought there was a rule for no stupidity, hit it," I gripped the stick, "VOID, takeover systems." I was able to look outside at the gripling plasma that covered the windows in a thick, orange slob. Oh yeah, void. AETHER didn't stand for anything, but it meant something. Void is the opposite of something. But VOID had a acronym, which was weird. Vehicle Onboard Interchangeable Device. Or in English, mobile AETHER. VOID commanded any rovers, jets, or small/short range vehicles. He would also help poor AETHER out in the case of a smaller reboot and/or overheating or other server related issues. We have a small hard drive of him onboard the Speccy Spectrum...Yeah...That's a good name for him. Speccy.
Canopy glass would have to be replaced before launch. Don't wamt to put glass through a bunch of fiery hell and then send it back into the cold soon after. It's one of the most efficient way to destroy glass, thermodynamic stress. Did it once as a kid. Put a glass of milk into the microwave and the next time I tried it the cup shattered–I spent an hour cleaning that mess!
The glass was burnt, except for a line above with jagged lines, four small orange dots above.
"Okayyyy, we're about to hit upper atmo. The pads are occupied, which means we're landing the old fashioned way. Your worst nightmare, a non VTOL landing." Braeden in JET C called out over the radio. The shake of the jet, as if a bear was tumbling us around, had gone to a slick whisper of air sliding off the crisped wings. A cloud level lie below, clouds puffing upwards. It was almost scary, Mars was a richfuck place, but it also had one hell of a military, especially in Special Operations.
The landing zone would be decked out with military personnel, despite being a NASA base. Helicopters patrolling, tens of highly trained NAVSOC waiting to kill some drunkie that runs in, hell, happened before. Fun fact is that we were the loot. Something–or someone from the Beyond Sol program could be sold for millions on the darkweb, even if it was a nail.
The three others had caught up, the four jets taking on a sky diving formation, because, y'know, it's always the dumb ones hired. Our noses touched, creating a small triangle in between. "Break off before we kill each other. Imagine that. Incident: Crew were playing with multi-million dollar equipment in the sky." I pushed my RCS sidestick back, pushing me away from the triangle of death.
"News reporters would be laughing their asses off live. People would make some edits about us with some sad song about how we died, when we were being dickheads." Muhammed laughed audibly over the main channel.
"Pay attention to the clouds–James, Eliza, Braeden. Don't kill your backseater. VOID, don't be a Sci-Fi AI now, I want my control back." I gripped the stick once again, unlocking. The LEDS outlining the keys and switches on all the panels illuminated from a bright orange to green. We dipped below the cloud level, skyscrapers really scraping the sky. The triangle of death had reformed into an attack position, for the ease of landing all four at the same time.
Sunlight still sparkled through the white clouds. This had been my first trip to Mars since I was twelve, atleast. Mars is a place where you take a once-in-a-lifetime vacay for a week, gazing at the military spaceports, large jets and liners launching and landing. Never thought I'd be in one of the buggers, especially leading them. The main engines had ignited again, pushing forward to the runway. To our left were massive skyscraper apartment buildings, to our right the Crissco sea. Underneath us massive Martian parks which stretched for kilometres.
"Gear deploy." I twisted a knob on my right-hand panel, the crank of the gears forcing the wheel out was much more quiet than you'd expect, I'll explain in idiocy, a common language in the human race.
Lower Atmosphere = Sound has less atoms to travel to.
Less atoms to travel to = Quiet sound.
Quiet sound = We ask why the fuck is it so quiet?
Tourists always have that first question immediately, then ask why the coffee is disgustingly cold. (Water boils somewhere around sixty degrees here.)
The jets passed over the blast pads, before hovering over the runway travelling a hundred something knots. The wheels spun smoothly slightly against the streamlined air. As the rear gear touched down it threw up a cloud of smoke from the friction of the touchdown. I heard the three behind hit the ground, one considerably harder than the rest.
"James was that you? I swear to god." Muhammed attempted to look behind the three other jets. The air brakes were pushed up, brake pads rubbing against the tire, the engines pushing against the air to slow down.
"Maybe, maybe not."
"You're not in the Navy anymore!"
"Once a pilot, always a pilot."
"We're all pilots here, all certified. Stop trying to be nostalgic." Eliza calmed the two. The four vehicles yawed left to the taxiway. Four pads sat empty on the tarmac, soldiers surrounding. I guess that's our parking spot. I don't see our blue handicap tag but alright. The four jets navigated in the tight brigade of soldiers, unphased. Damn. Trained well.
I flipped the engine shutdown switch above twice back and forth, the engines whirring down, the buzz of the engines slowly sank into a whistle of air.
"Muhammed and I won the race, suckers." Clunks came from somewhere behind us, landing gear? I looked over to my left to Jet C, Amelia and Eliza's jet. Technicians–no...military maybe? The MFFP really holds true to its stereotypes.
Oh! MFFP Stands for like, Mars Final Frontier Project I think. Basically it's just a government body that controls anything space related within Mars's sphere of influence. Or how far Mars's gravity extends out to. Go study some astronomy children.
The figures attached lines half a metre up the landing gear on both sides of all three, before securing them down to the tarmac. No, straps. Ones that you would use on a trailer with tightening mechanisms, bright orange straps.
Once they were hooked in the technichans tightened them to the ground. Muhammed and I were suddenly pushed up by the jet lowering below us. Christ.
"Doesn't matter if you won, want a cracker or something?" Braeden called over the radio.
"For how crammed these cockpits are I'll take a cracker sure." Muhammed leaned back in the hard seats. A clunk near my left side, a step of a ladder slightly protruding from below. A face, caucasian. Your typical Martian, caucasian male, clean shaven, head decked out in hearing and eye protection. He waved his flat hands up and down.
"James, what's that mean? You lived on Mars for half your life, you should know," Muhammed asked over the radio.
"Open your canopy dummy."
"Oh." I called back, pushing down two button sliders on my left panel.
OPEN CANOPY and DEPRESSURIZE read over them. Hissing of air echoed in the crammed box, the latches on the canopy clicked, before gears shoving it back over the rear hull. The ground crew unlatched both our helmets, disconnecting them from the suits. Both our heads were covered in head-socks.
Stop laughing. It's so we don't shatter our neck or if our jets decide "hey man, I really wanna blow up right now."
That was also paraphrasing. Idiots.
"Hey hey, I couldn't care less what you're about to say, get out." The man slid back down.
"Some people are assholes man." Muhammed stretched his arms, about to climb down the ladder parallel to the other.
"No, some people just don't give two flying fucks...about...anything." That sentence came out weird. I fumbled it around in my mouth before shrugging to myself. I looked up into the sky, man, it's been a while since I've seen a blue sky, 17 maybe? I threw my legs over the sharp edge of the cockpit, son of a bitch.
Sucks to suck–anddd the world keeps throwing problems at me. Who thought it was a good idea that the TFA's should be this high?
Oh yeah. TFA's. I'm doing a lot of explaining here. Stands for...uh. "Muhammed, what does TFA mean again?" I rested my head sideways on the seat, even in Martian gravity it was a pain in the ass to haul an EVA around.
"Transport, Fighter, Attack, ends with a 75 for seventy five designs. You should know this." Muhammed was already waiting on the tarmac, fast bugger. Right, TFA–75. Designed just for the mission. All four have a big shiny mission patch. I pushed myself over the raised wall, tripping and tumbling down the ladder. I fell faster than I expected.
I've been to the moon several times before in my life, lived and worked there in Sector 4 once. I expected the gravity to be similar here, but nope! It's double. I landed like an idiot on my head. Ass.
"Carter, you look utterly stupid," Braeden spoke over the mic from behind, near his, along with Amelia.
"You really do." Amelia started to walk to a large hangar type building behind the taxiway and jets. A large sign read overtop.
SPACE CORPS AND MILITARY CENTRE, HIGH SECURITY AREA, TAKE CAUTION FOR CONFIDENTIAL FILES INSIDE.
Well, that was a lot. I guess that's where we go, all of us, out of instinct followed. Two large tinted window doors awaited. Dang, it was a long walk, hundred metres at least.
As we arrived, the doors slid open. Shit, place was big. Couches decked the walls, above massive plaques hung, I mean like twenty metre tall plaques, the place was 40 tall, atleast. The plaques held photos at the top of them–those photos of astronauts you see of them sitting down in the great EVA suits, holding their helmets.
The side walls held 3, the main front and back holding seven, and, oh. Oh, OH. The rear wall you see as you first walk in had seven new plaques. On the week of my visit as a child the place had a day open to the public, I remember distinctly.
The rear wall held new plaques, bearing a gold background from the silver most had. Us. Seven plaques listed from left to right in command order: Me, Muhammed, Eliza, Amelia, James, Emma, and Braeden.
"Muhammed, you see that back wall?" I whispered over.
"Sure as hell do, pretty awesome if you ask me." The side walls held plaques of the Apollo 11 and 13 missions, the front wall which you don't see as you walk in held Ares crew missions, the first to Mars, back in 2050 they landed. Left 2049 and came back 2051.
Pretty sure one of them burned up on Mars entry. Eight or nine, but it's kind of dumb, it's pretty hard to burn up here. Apollo 13 did it at Earth with ease, in the 20th century, wow.
I should visit the visitor site some time, they offer tours but they might as hell let me go out by myself. In the middle of the room stood a massive circular hologram projector, powering on as I approached it. Oh great, it's blue and messy, the others stood back a few steps. It towered over anything in the room, the projection. It was a 3D model of the Martian system, including Mars, Phobos and Deimos, and major satellite or orbital stations.
One of the largest that was marked with a beacon was the Spectrum, it had completed an orbit since arrival, its highly elliptical one. I zoomed in. A model of the ship took place, rings gently spinning around. The touchpad on the base of the projector displayed live system data, velocity, height, air, fuel, water consumption, you get the point. Anything NASA gives a shit about so we, y'know, don't die before we ever leave the system.
Also why NASA is gonna be shitting themselves for five years while we hang out like kids at Alpha Centauri, temporarily stop after four years when a singular message comes back, switch their pants and go back to shitting themselves for a year. Sounds about right?
Funny thing is, the mission is 3 and half years shorter for us rather than dinky Sollings.
That's what I'm calling people now, sollings, sol-lings. Sollings.
"Carter, catch." Eliza threw a little wrist watch over, I turned so fast to catch it I twisted my skin. Universe is really trying to piss me off right now, I'm probably gonna stub my boot on the way out. I caught the watch though.
She stepped up. The watch had the Spectrum's core stats, now normally the core has a rate of 2.5 thousand gigawatts per day, or a fuckton, and yet the only time we should run low is at the starts of using the warp drive, so two times only in the mission, and then NASA scraps the Spectrum.
The Spectrum was using around 6 thousand gigawatts...per 4 hours. Also known as a big fucking problem, the core produces 4.3 thousand a day, the solar panels adding a couple hundred megawatts. Which meant in the grand scheme of things, with every power making instrument onboard, we were using 19.5 thousand gigawatts more then we should ever use, including ions and the general engines, and those guzzle energy.
What was using the power was unclear. I turned back to the model of the Spectrum, everything looked normal, but the touchscreen read the same as the watch. I deactivated it. "When did you notice?" I asked her.
"A minute ago, not even, you know I'm one to check a minute. But the logs say half an hour it's been going." The others huddled around, wondering what happened.
"Carter, I don't like the face, what happened?" James asked.
"I'll tell you in the jets, right now, it's time to go." The others didn't ask, they knew from a few years with me that when I say it's time to go, it's time to go.
My watch buzzed to life. Nice. Scott. "Carter. I want your ass back on board within ten minutes of the receiving of the message if not sooner, your ship is about to blow my friend."
"Already on my way." I jogged out of the building.