[center][b][u][color=white][h2] The Arcadian - 24 September 2190 - Main Engineering Deck [/h2][/color][/u][/b][/center]

[center][b][u][color=white][h2] Douglas 'Hobby' Hobbs [/h2][/color][/u][/b][/center]

The main engineering deck of the Arcadian was a cavernous space, or at least it would have been if the naval architects hadn’t been afflicted by a genetic predisposition to try to  cram every cubic centimeter with as much plant and tech as they could fit. Six massive steel drums, each one the size of a cement mixer's barrel, were laid out against the bulkheads. They were painted the surplus navy off white which was always used for the purpose, giving them a banal appearance that belied the fact that each one contained a self-sustaining fusion reaction hotter than a class-M star. The fusion bottles were connected to the ships subsidiary system by a complex network of pipes and cable junctions which sprang off them like capillaries from major veins.  Douglas Hobbs was old enough to remember the bad old days when a tramp freighter might have a single fusion bottle. These days freighters almost always sailed with an integrated duplex to provide redundancy. The most powerful modern warships boasted four, as much a hedge against battle damage as for power generation, but six… well it was a thing to see. Two of those bottles were dedicated entirely to the FTL drive, a vast installation which dominated the back wall of the bay.  Even that visible section, larger than a suburban home, was only the tip of an electro mechanical web that networked the ship from prow to stern. The power drain was immense. And it was slowly rising.


“Chalkin, where are we with that power drain?” Hobby demanded, turning to glare at the tech. Lev Chalkin was a rangy youth with dirty blonde hair and an innocent looking face which always surprised his superiors when they were forced to bail him out on whatever station was foolish enough to grant him liberty. Chalkin was tossing the jacket he had been wearing for the inspection and pulling a number of non standard tools from various hiding places. Similar scenes were being replicated by the other members of the engineering team, as they ditched their pretense of military parade readiness for what might be generously described work place casual. Power tools whined and welders sizzled as everyone went back to work, tending to the constant labor of keeping a giant steel box hurtling through the void of space.


“No closer than we were when that jackass interrupted us,” Chalkin gripped, pulling on some heavy gloves.

“Addressing an officer that way is insubordination, I think they hang you for that,” Hobby observed as he leaned over and began punching a holographic keyboard with unnecessary enthusiasm.

“You going to report me chief?” Chalkin asked, arching an eyebrow.

“You are going to report to medbay to have my boot surgically removed from your ass if you don’t get in there and figure out whatever is causing our power drop off,” Hobby replied in a tone of perfect reasonableness. Chalkin groaned and levered himself into an access hatch.

“Can you pass me..” Hobby picked up a palm sized multi-spec and tossed it into the hatch after the kid. Chalkin cursed a blue streak as the analyzer struck him but went to work without further comment. Convinced that no one was watching Hobby allowed himself a smile. He had received a mountain of applications for this gig since being appointed chief. Many of them came from the most prestigious universities and technical schools in the USF, some of them were the kids or clients of politicians with considerable pull, he had even been offered bribes for the opportunity to burnish a glittering career or two. He had rejected every single one. Each and every member of the engineering team were men and women whom Hobby had worked with or, more frequently, vouched for by people he had worked with. For the most part they weren’t career navy, they were void prospectors, tramp freighter men, asteroid miners, and even, Hobby believed, the occasional pirate. The resulting crew was a little scruffy, a little insubordinate, but they had more experience in making do and working with what they had than any crew in the USF. Chalkin might have a smart mouth, but when the engine room on the Lizze May had caught fire, Lev had charged in with nothing more than a plasma cutter and a pair of boxer shorts to cut the vacuum seals before she burned up. Every crewman had a similar story, they were a fractious bunch, but there wasn’t one Hobby wouldn’t trust with his life when the excrement hit the rotary impeller.


Hobby laid his hand on the number too junction line and judged the vibration through his calloused hand. Every ship he had ever crewed had a certain… nature to them. Some ships were sweethearts who gave you no trouble no matter what happened. Some were cantankerous bastards which tried to fuck you at ever turn, there were lucky ships, jinxed ships, ships that leaked no matter how much you patched, ships that would take you to rich ore loads ninety nine times out of a hundred. All could be worked with once you got to know them. The Arcadian was different. It was too new, no history to it yet. That bothered Hobby. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the familiar mingled scents of hot electronics, lubricant, steam, nitrogen coolant, and the burned ozone smell the FTL kicked off.

“Relax Caddy darlin’” he murmured to the ship, “we got a long way to go.”