[center][h2]Cold Calculations[/h2][/center]
[center][h3]New Melbourne[/h3][/center]
[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/jIEtemd.png[/img][/center]

Properly caffeinated thanks to Hook's brew, Cal entered a silent bridge, except for the whirring and ticking of one S.A.M.N.T.H.A.

"Hey Sam, how're our fuel reserves lookin'," Captain Strand asked the empty room as he sat in the pilot's chair.

"Hello Cal, our reserves have been topped off thanks to the crew that departed last evening. We're fueled up and ready to 'break atmo' as you put it," there were hints of a smile forming on the digital lips of the speaker--the slight, black box that sat on the flight console.

"Now, that's great news to hear. Penelope been treating you right? Not riddling you with questions, is she?"

"Whatever do you mean, Cal?"

"I guess you're just as inquisitive as she is," Strand chuckled.

"Why do you ask?" Sam replied, unfazed by Cal's pronouncement.

"Well, see, Marisol, or General Chavez, alluded to you being part of some larger Alliance conspiracy to control people's minds. Sounds a bit far fetched to me..." the man was picking lint off the arm of his shirt.

"She was correct."

"Come again?" Cal said, looking up as if he could make eye contact with the black box.

"Through neural links."

"Neural what?" Cal paused, chewing on the direction this conversation was headed.

"A microchip embedded in human hosts allows me to suggest actions based on micro haptic feedback in the chip itself," Sam's Bostonian accent lilted from word to word, matter-of-factually.

Cal stroked his chin, listening. So Marisol was telling the truth, and there were more secrets here to be plumbed. "You mention any of this to the pilot?"

"It hasn't come up," Sam replied, "would you like me to?"

"No, not right now. Let's keep mum on all things to do with the Alliance," Cal shook his head, "Don't need any more Purple Bellies showin' up on my boat."

"Purple Bellies?" Sam asked, intoning the word 'bellies.'

Captain Strand laughed aloud. "You had to be there, sister." Changing the subject, he asked, "How's the weather fairin' for launch day?"

"Skies are clear here, but there's a category four hurricane about five-hundred miles North East of us. They're calling it Hurricane Daniel."

"Movin' this way?" Cal brows knit together.

"No, satellite reports read it's moving at about ten miles per hour, North Westerly."

"[i]Jao Gao[/i] (not good)," Strand muttered; the China Doll was due in that direction tomorrow for cargo pickup. "Well, let's hope it clears up."

"Unlikely, as historical almanacs indicate--" Sam began.

"--I don't need the details, just a little hope is all," Cal interrupted. "We're about to be heavy with cargo, fish, for a leg to Greenleaf..." He started, then hesitated.  "How cold would the passenger and crew areas get during a sixteen hour flight in the black?"

The black box on the console was silent for a moment as whirring and ticking filled the void of Sam's response. "At sixteen hours without atmospheric temperature systems, the external hull temperature in the shade would be near negative one-hundred degrees Celsius, and in direct light from the suns, as hot as two-hundred and sixty Celsius," Sam began, "As an average, there is more shade on our route to Greenleaf with enough light from local suns for the China Doll to maintain an internal temperature of negative five degrees Celsius without atmospheric systems for that amount of time."

"That ought to do the trick," Cal said, considering it would freeze their four-thousand-pound haul of illegally fished tuna for his buyer on Greenleaf. Given that the season had just officially opened in New Melbourne, any ship caught with cargo prior to yesterday would face serious charges and impoundment.

"At that temperature, you may expose passengers and crew to suppressed immune systems. You may want to ask Alana if she has any preventative means to stave off illness," Sam implored.

"Good thinkin', I'll be sure to have a chat with her before we launch." Beyond bundling up and those couple space heaters he had in storage, Cal couldn't think of any other 'preventative means' aside from gritting teeth. "Now, let's get you set in the avionics bay, that way inquisitive eyes needn't go snoopin' about." With one hand on the Epsilon adapter, he carefully snapped loose the black box from the console and made his way down into the avionics bay.