I gauged the distance. Point eight-seven-five kibmeters. Too far to begin with a side approach - I'd end up having to shift gas to the side tanks in order to get enough braking at the end - or come in like a snail, which wasn't the best approach, either.
The 'main' stern gasjets got a tweak. On a standard bug all jets had equal power, but the starbug's jets had been adjusted so that the power proportions were equal to those of a needle ship. And needle ships did not have side jets anywhere near as strong as the fore and aft ionjets. That was a matter of safety for stations and those around them.
The distance between the bug and the 'station' dwindled. Point seven-one... point six-eight... point five-four... point four-nine ...
I kept running the brake-power calculations.
At point three, I offered a quick blast on the forward jets. The rate of closure dropped. Point three ... point two-eight...
But I was drifting down, below a direct line to the target passenger 'lock' outlined in black, rather than a real lock with the massive dampers that protruded and formed a cradle of sorts. I offered a slight burst to the bottom jets, and the starbug rose back toward dead even with the lock before I gave the exact same burst of power to the top jets.
Closure was slower, but continuing. Point one-nine ... point one-five ... Suddenly the simulacrum seemed to loom over the bug, and I could sense again that the starbug was below the lock. I had to turn the bug sideways to match locks, and that took a right forward jet and a left rear one. Then before the bug dropped too low, I sent another minute pulse to the bottom jets and then an even smaller one to stabilize my relative vertical position.
My closure accelerated - point zero nine ... point zero six ... - and the bug was still swinging.
I reversed the turn thrusts, and the inputs indicated that the bug was parallel to the 'station.'
But I was still closing far too quickly. Point zero four.
The power burst needed to stop closure was too much - point zero three - and too close by the time it stopped.
Two angular rents slashed across the dull gray sheet of the simulacrum, effectively bracketing the 'lock.'
Still I had stopped short of the 'station' - if close enough almost to have touched it from the hatch, were it open.
'Tyndel... your passengers and your third officer would be happy. A quick approach, relatively gentle, and you would have barely bumped the dampers. The station's maintenance officer would be screaming to the station commander about how you roasted the dampers and shortened their life by half.'
'Yes, ser. I understand.'
'Do you?'
'I had to replace dampers, ser. It took days for one lock.'
'They're complex enough that they're lifted from earth. If the dampers on the lock were already worn, you just rendered that lock useless for a year unless the station had a spare on hand. That doesn't make station commanders happy. It doesn't make the Authority happy. It might have you running cargoes through the Trough. That won't make you happy - or anyone you might know, because the dilation's worse there.'
Even with all my background information, I didn't understand all the references, such as the Trough, but the message was clear enough. Yes, ser.'
'Tyndel... you're making too many corrections. Each jet correction adds another vector to the bug - or to your needle ship. You do it too often, and even your nervous system won't be able to judge the correction you need because it'll have more components than you can execute.'
Unless I broke off the approach and started all over. I had the feeling that was wasteful of power and definitely frowned upon.
'Take us up a good kilo and out two. Try to stabilize us there before you start the approach.'
'Yes, ser.' I blotted my too-damp forehead with the side of the suit's forearm, keeping my sweat from the shiny control lines, even if they were supposed to be impervious to anything as mundane as sweat.
Up one and out two - an angled approach, and I hadn't even managed a direct approach right. After moistening my lips and swallowing, I pulsed the jets.
Erelya's presence overhung the pseudonet, almost as enigmatic as the dreams of golden-red fire and pinwheel spirals of stars that loomed over my sleep and dreams.
I added another pulse to the jets, then forced myself to wait, to follow her advice about not piling on vector after vector, to work through another long session in the starbug ... and no end in sight.
65
Never mistake a pilot for a guide. The former travels to a goal, taking passengers whether they truly wish to accompany him or not; the latter helps others see both the journey and the destination.
Nearly six months of struggling - half the time in orbit with Erelya, or occasionally other pilots, and the other half of the time struggling back in Runswi with Tomas - followed my introduction to the starbug. Cerrelle and I linked, and even less frequently met and talked, gingerly, like two people balancing on a narrow beam in darkness, uncertain of which direction might lead into deeper night and which toward dawn. That was mostly me, combatting the internal demons of exhaustion and doubt, and fearing success or failure, and still seeking greater apperception.
The starbug struggles came to an end when I found myself in the Orbit Two ready room with Erelya and another pilot, short, almost squat, and stocky, with muddy brown hair and gray-blue eyes with the piercing and washed-out irises that seemed common to all pilots I'd met.
'Captain Aragor is one of the captains of the Tailor' Erelya announced. 'He'll work with you. I'm just here to observe and to set up the simulacrum.'
'Pleased to meet you, ser.' I inclined my head to him and bowed slightly.
'It's always good to see another candidate, Tyndel. We never have enough pilots.' Aragor smiled warmly. His body posture and eyes confirmed the smile. 'Shall we go? You'll need almost two hours for the first fam.'
Two hours? Was I going to inspect every cranny of the needle ship?
'Just about,' he answered the unspoken question, or perhaps the question I'd felt so strongly that he'd picked it up through his own enhanced nervous system. Or every candidate felt the same way. 'Put on your outside suit.'
Intellectually and mentally, I knew the Taibr. The reality was different, different even from my recollections of what I had felt on my first trip out to Omega Eridani. Somehow, the needle ship was both larger and smaller as I followed Aragor on my broomstick along the Taibr's hull.
Although the jets incorporated variable geometry nozzles, from outside they appeared just as squat black spouts, the four set both fore and aft nearly three times the size of the side maneuvering jets. Outside of the jets' nozzles, the ship's exterior was without projections, a cylinder a hundred meters long, gently rounded at each end. The hull was dull, black, inert composite two thirds of a meter thick, capable of withstanding any man-made impact - even impacts where the shock would destroy the interior - capable of withstanding the enormous pressures and temperature fluctuations of overspace insertion and exit.
'Most needles have their hulls rebonded every five years.' Aragor's voice was soft in my ears, undistorted by the soft helmet. He turned his broomstick back toward cargo lock three. 'The abrasion from insertions.' He did not speak again until we had left the lock, helmets in hand, and were headed up to the passenger level to enter the Tailor.