#barwriting going ok

[fayemouse]

Ferrying packages and people and the occasional bit of confidential information relies on the jump gates. It's the only way to get from point A to point ∝ in anything under a few dozen lifetimes.

You catch your ersatz copilot's mouth catching flies.

If it wasn't for going through literally thousands of them over the past -- gods, too long -- maybe you could put yourself in their shoes. It's just specifications to you. Il'theth Gate is 45 by 65 by 151,253 kilometers. It has a core reactor spread in a cylindrical mesh around the gate's walls, producing and recapturing enough power for 46 brave souls that process on average 127 ships a day.

A small, shitty little gate for a worthless one-port dive of a system. It's only proximity that this dead end connects directly to the Hub. You click your teeth at yourself. It's a fine system. Stop being so snooty. It's a one-port dive, but it's a great port for when the seas are too rough.

Then again, so's TPB-6. But you'd rather not get gutted right after setting foot on terra firma. Again.

As you weigh the relative merits of the systems you'd rather be in, it hit you.

"You ever been trans-system, shiprat?" Oh? Pet names already? You're laying it on far, far too thick.

They jump in their seat, making a small squeak. It's the first thing you've said in six hours. Your taciturn leathery ship captain act has apparently been doing a good job of hiding the dull ache of your empty canister and the less existential ache of dehydration and temporary vitamin B deficiency.

Your navcomp bloops. An unassuming noise for something so routine for you. It's your turn in the gate queue.

You look at their face. They look green. It's not routine for them.

The glow begins at the center: a nebulous purple and cyan oort cloud, three or four miracles of technology that you shrug at every day. The controlled birth of a star every eleven minutes or so overwhelms your passenger. A flash -- blinding to someone whose retinas haven't been burnt out by days of unshielded solar radiation. The ship starts to list forward into the gravity well. Even with the artificial you bought years ago to make life a bit more tied down, you can still feel the pull.

Their eyes are wide. They can feel their atoms stretching. The world outside - a languid symphony of departures and arrivals - blurs into a glissando. They struggle to turn their head towards you. They see you so different from the sad-sack in the bar, the seen-it-all ship jockey, the one person it looked like would actually take their job.

You're smiling. Not the sly smile of a wannabe con. The kind that means you're going to see your oldest friend, the one that won't leave you, the one that welcomes you with a cup of imported tea, the one that always has a place for you.

You've never put the visor shields down when you've been in hyperspace. You bask in the dimensionality of the universe. Your headache fades. You've forgotten there's anyone else in the ship. You lean back in your pilot's chair like you're in a hammock on the beach.

They, on the other hand, vomit up what little was in their stomach onto the floor.