Like a Fox on the Run, стр. 17
It wasn’t complicated to fly; the cockpit wasn’t built to intimidate or impress. In fact, the pilot was only expected to do the most basic of functions. The ship would take care of the more complicated tasks. The NavCom calculated the flight path and the pilot simply kept the ship on it. Blastoff and landing sequences, usually the tasks requiring the most precision, were, most of the time, handled by the computer. If something out of the ordinary came up, say … catastrophic engine failure, a meteor strike or sudden depressurization, the computer would immediately take control, assess the situation and implement whatever human and self-preservation protocols needed to be carried out, usually in a span of thirty seconds to a minute. The pilot would then be apprised of the status and given instructions on what to do next.
A few pilots, like Tiger, known as the “A & B’ers,” which stood for “Above and Beyonders,” would not settle for being just a glorified passenger. They were determined to be the best pilots they could be, and by the time the Rush hit its peak, many did turn out to be as good as any astronaut NASA ever put into space. One reason for this was that they had a very uncomplicated, yet highly functional craft, which made it possible to hone your skills through experience and repetition.
Overall, the Charger was a basic, dependable ship, well built, rugged and user friendly. It was that special kind of machine that won a pilot’s affection and loyalty very quickly. Although never designed for deep space duty, when the Martian expeditions began, many pilots simply retrofitted their Chargers with an additional pair of aftermarket Cyclone M4 booster rockets for added thrust. Even when the first Super Chargers, which were designed for the long haul, came off the line, many pilots saw no need to change.
But most importantly, it had a certain mystique that no other ship ever came close to matching. While they were by no means a sentient entity, with the groundbreaking personality assimilation software programmed into a Charger’s onboard computer system, the ship could develop a persona all its own. Over time, it would customize itself to its pilot. It would learn their tendencies, their strengths and weakness, their dreams and fears. It would learn their emotional and psychological composition and form a personality best suited for that individual. It was like flying your best friend.
It also didn’t hurt that it was one of the best-looking ships ever built. NASA had always built ugly ships, purely for function and with little or no thought to styling or performance. James reached back into his childhood days, to the doodlings on his laptop and built a spacecraft that not only outperformed others, but actually looked cool doing it. With a nod to the early days of sci-fi art, he gave it a retro styling. It was a big, beefy ship, but he gave it sleek, clean lines, a big, bubble glass cockpit, and sweptback, rounded wings and tail fins. It looked like a cross between something out of a Jules Verne novel, an old vintage World War II bomber, and a twentieth century American muscle car. Spacers used to say “it looked like it was going fast just sittin’ still.”
Because each ship had a unique computerized personality, there were very few that didn’t have a name. The Charger encouraged individualization, and the people who flew them were usually the kind of men and women who delighted in just such expression. From unique paint jobs to sexy nose art to hot rod engine modifications, Custom Shop at Possum Works was always ready to help a pilot trick out his dream ride for a reasonable fee with easy financing and generous credit terms.
It had been both packhorse and stagecoach in those early days of expansion. Without it, man would still be blue-balled and playing in the minor leagues, goofing around with the likes of that old International Space Station. Through the decades, there would be other ships built to help in the effort to colonize space. Some were bigger, some faster, some even sleeker or more luxurious. Yet, never had there been a ship more loved or trusted by the men and women who flew them.
Growing up in a blue-collar family from a working-class neighborhood in Huntsville, Cap’n Reb had been Tiger’s idol from his racing days. That really came as no surprise. Tiger was no different from thousands of Southern boys who wanted to fly rockets, race off to exciting adventures, and then kiss all the girls and do TV commercials once you land.
What young hormonally unbalanced young lad wouldn’t want that?
It was about the time Tiger was turning eighteen and looking for some direction in life that James was forming the charter lodge of the Interplanetary and Orbital Pilot’s Guild. He not only wanted to prove that average men and women could safely pilot his ships, but he also wanted to make sure they were compensated fairly. At first, NASA and some of the larger contractors scoffed, but when he landed a lucrative contract to supply pilots for the Grand Orbital project, it wasn’t long before others fell right into place. James was the kind of man people