PmWiki | Waylight / ZeroPlayers

Number of players: Zero

A Waylights ficlet.

They say it's lonely at the top. Then again they also say that the Slipstream is flat and that there's a lovers' tunnel under the wastes between Selenis and Thracion, so take that for what it's worth.

This is my thing. It is mine. There used to be quite a few like it, manned insertion pods are pretty standard issue after all. But I worked on it, made it mine. And now it's a manned insertion pod with a ridiculously huge handmade solid rocket booster strapped to it, or is it the other way around?

This was supposed to fly to Kerbia with me for the next race into space. But I messed up; I spent all my copper on this and didn't save for the trip - every other year I'd visited by myself, and didn't think of needing to have this thing freighted over. Or rather didn't think of the simple fact that just because you work a million-a-year job it doesn't mean you will actually get the whole of the money unless you're willing to run around and play repo man for... well, roughly the time I spent building this instead.

The wind has died down enough; the canvas of my home's walls is still. No time like the present. I read the small speech I was going to deliver in bombastic tones to the referees, as is traditional, and decide against speaking it out loud.

Strap my helmet on -- that's actually the nosecone of the whole thing; it has an altimeter and cameras on it. If everything else fails, including me, it'll take snapshots at the top of the arc; it's a simple sychro to do, and hopefully someone'll be able to retrieve the film plates. The tricky part was to make the whole thing small enough to be a hat... When I wanted to make a business of this I had planned to call this the corporate hat. Not that there's any business in this sort of thing, honestly it wouldn't even be useful for mapping.

Climb into the thing -- it's about as narrow as a normal MIP, which "seats" two, but that's all the padding. It has to be light; the whole thing isn't even pressurized. I hope that my breathing exercises pay off... the lighter I am, the further up I go. Regrets are heavy, so are professional quality air tanks. I can't make my own, and the money earmarked for those is elsewhere.

Check control surfaces. This thing of foam and leather looks a bit like a movie prop. King of the Rocket Men or something. I suppose I even have the right crown for that sort of title. But there are no reel cameras, no director shouting. There's a color camera and a piece of string to catch the launch, though. OK, vertical rudders good, horizontal rudders good, chute release good I hope. I have to wriggle to steer. Make that a prop for a saucy movie maybe, but it'd have to be more transparent, and have someone else in it. Little point in a countdown; go.

It's a kick from a mule that lasts for a minute. Focus. Eyes on the horizon. Keep it stable. Okay, now ready for nausea: roll it, spin it, quick! It sounds louder than midafternoon in Reme, even with the ear muffs. OK, spin slowly, easy there whhooooo! Easy there. OK, stable. Looks like I wasted a shot.

The sky's getting darker. Silence. Did I go deaf? No, out of boost already -- drop the booster, just to be that bit more aerodynamic. Sweaty. Cold. Harder to breathe already. That's good. that's good. Click teeth, the sudden silence is unnerving. Rudders are still responsive. Deep breath. I think this actually may break the record, altimeter is still spinning, although I can see it's slowed down a bit. Gotta turn the whole thing to look around, but can't look down without going into a tumble. Deep breath. I'm not worried about dying; if it's a good design it'll take me home, if not not. I love it when it's that simple. I wish it was always that simple. Deep breath. I should've slept more before this, but there's always work to do. Deep breath. Things to worry about, friends to be there for. Deep breath. Shit, wasted a shot. Deep breath. I'm tired. Deep breath...

I come to, check the altimeter, and quickly yank the chute. It hurts. The camera rig stays on my head, which hurts a little less than the straps tugging on me. Years of working all the time I could spare fall in the mists, but that was the plan anyway.

There's a small land roughly under me, right off the coast. I think in a few hours someone'll wonder where I went enough to find me, especially if they read the sign. That's not too bad; I haven't gone in a camping trip in forever. And I have flares. Coming in for a landing should be trivial; doesn't look like anyone is down there, but I see a pond, and I can skip a few meals.

I'm just sorry I passed out at apex, is all; didn't know the air would get so thin. I missed the moment.

They say it's lonely at the top. Sometimes it's so lonely that not even you are there.

But... I have pictures.

No welcoming party for me, not today. Who knows if I broke the record or not; the landing will be as private as the launch.

But we have tomorrow. we'll always have all the tomorrows left in our lives.