Eighteen months before the Fall
"Triton, Racetrack; I'm about to hit the cloud-tops and I'm gonna switch to the ground loop for further direction."
"Racetrack, Triton; go ahead, we'll catch you in a bit, ensign."
The Raptor cut into the clouds, shedding speed and altitude; the turbulence increased. She took and exhaled a measured breath and swallowed; a thousand times in the sim. A dozen and change for real.
"Still not comfortable with dese orbital descents, huh?"
"Yeah, oddly enough—no I'm not. But I'm more comfy when it's my hand on the stick. You wanna come up front?"
"No tanks, I trust you. Never livin' that one down, am I?"
"Nope. So you've never been back here?"
"'Back'? Not like I remember it or anytin'! I was, like, six monts old when we moved to Gemenon."
"You still sound—wait one. Athlone control, Raptor 429, inbound; my call-sign is Racetrack; ECO is Spitfire; descending through thirty thousand. Zero visibility but DRADIS is clear."
"Racetrack, control; we have you on DRADIS and in the glidepath. 0958 local, light rain and medium visibility under a 9.5-k cloud-deck. Wind is negligible. Maintain current vector and speed."
"Control, 429, wilco. Abigail, if it pleaseth thy royal majesty, my queen, might you prepare for landing?"
"I'm gettin' there! I've the checklist in front of me and the board's green. ILS is up if you want it."
"Ugh; I'd rather do it manually and get the practice in. That's the whole point of the year, right?"
"Year's near up; have you tought to where you want to be billeted when we're done on Triton?"
"Thought about it, yeah. Kinda pointless, though; fleet'll assign us wherever they like. Be nice if we get the same one; I'd miss you. Cheerleader."
"Aw! I'd miss you too, swot! I was thinkin', they say Tethys should be riggin' out any time now; brand-new Mercury-type, and she'll be goin' out for a shakedown right after we get our LT commissions. Never know your luck."
"Ehh; I still say they're ugly. Scorpian aesthetics. But if we're ever gonna get a tolerable galley, that's where we'll get it, I guess." She flicked her tongue through her lips, eyes hunting the horizon for the landing-pad lights. "Control, Racetrack, descending through nine thousand. Intend hands-on approach, but I don't, I say again do not have visual on the pads yet. I'm sorry, I've, um—I've not landed here before and visibility is crap; can you confirm I'm still in glidepath?"
"Racetrack, control, hands-on acknowledged; you are good, but flatten your approach by about five degrees. Pad lights are lit and you should see them any time now in these conditions."
"Roger."
"So where're you thinkin'?"
"Huh?"
"Billet."
"Oh. I guess—oh, tally, okay, there's the pad. I guess, heart of hearts, I'd like to get the Galactica."
"Oh for the gods' sakes; you would!"
"Well, I ant.. Amt… How the hell d'you say it?"
"Amn't."
"Amped. Frak! I'm not. I'm not saying it's a fast ticket to the top, but I guess I'm sentimental. Used to go see her when I was a kid; made me feel safe. And her skipper's legendary."
"It's a bucket, and if you like the commander, I'm bettin' he's a relic too."
"Yeah yeah. Control, Racetrack, sixty seconds out; request clearance to land. Abi, you secure?"
"Yep."
"Racetrack, control; clearance granted; land on pad six. Welcome to Aerilon."