You’ll make it in five days, boosting six points past emergency max the whole way. If the engineer’s been doing his job, the engines won’t blow until you hit eight. Quite safe.
Plasma from Hyperspace leaked with every ship that travelled through a wormhole. And when it reached a certain density, or a one-way wormhole ‘popped’ into a two way passage, electrons discharged through it in a pattern that still baffled mathematicians everywhere.
And for those caught in Crossroads Station, on the inside of Hyperspace, where two shipping paths met and someone set up a place to serve a multitude of needs… the storms had them all itching to be elsewhere.
“My knee’s still aching. It’s going to be another Hour, still.”
“Do us a favour and tell us when your knee’s not aching, okay?”
On the public address, a friendly voice told all those who cared to listen that all flights were delayed another five minutes while the storms continued. It had been making this announcement for three days.
And someone, somewhere, was trying to wheedle passage the heck out of Crossroads and towards Hitizzy.
“Look,” said the human. He had a mop of strawberry-blonde curls and a complexion best described as ‘swarthy’. Any other piratical leanings were completely obliterated by the generic Services Orange outfit he wore. “I’m not saying ‘go now’. That’s be suicide. Just wait until there’s a lull and floor it to Hitizzy.”
“It’s still a week-long journey.”
“Aw, don’t give me that. You can make it in five days if you boost six points past emergency max the whole way.”
“But my engines!”
“Your engines’ll be fine if your engineer’s done his job. They won’t blow ‘till ye get to eight points. Safe as houses.”
The saurian glared at the human. “You and I have entirely different definitions of ‘safe’.”
“You’re broke. I have cargo. I can’t pay ye a deposit, but if we get it to Hitizzy before the end of the storms, we’ll be insanely rich! What’s not ta love?”
“You. Your definition of ‘safe’ and the fact that your cargo is alive…”
“Check the numbers. You’ll see.”
The saurian grumbled and ran data through his info-viewer. Then he boggled. “And how are you planning to know when a lull’s coming?”
“Old Joe and hir knee is the most reliable storm predictor in the Galactic alliance. Been payin’ fer hir drinks.”
The saurian reluctantly offered a hand. “Ax’and’l.”
“Hwell Barrow. Very pleased to be doin’ business with ye sir!”
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