Chapter Text
Dear Captain,
We in Pony Express would like to extend our gratitude for your recommendation of one Mr. Zane to the position of co-Captain for the Tulpar’s expedition. However, further consideration of the vessel’s minimum crew capacity and budgetary allotment has made the idea of a co-captain superfluous for this delivery.
We here at Pony Express offer our sincerest condolences for the disappointment, but we hope that you will continue offering our family the quality of your services in spite of this setback.
Attached to this e-mail is the manifest for the Tulpar’s next delivery, starting tomorrow at 16:00. Be at the spaceport at the allotted time.
Sincerely,
The HR Team.
Well, that was that. Clint Curly leaned back on his chair, in front of the computer screen in his minimally decorated flat, eyes crawling over the plain black text on a bright white digital background. He couldn’t say he hadn’t tried. God knows he tried to help his best friend, put in all the documents, made all calls possible, cajoled, pleaded, and waited. He ran a hand over the scratchy wheat-gold stubble of his face, squinting at the screen again.
Click. Click. Click.
He moved the mouse and clicked the attached link with the cursor, pulling up the crew manifest to check it over carefully. He waited for the computer’s whirr and for the page to load properly. The tab buffered into existence with a mighty struggle, almost daring to freeze on him.
Ah, come on. Pony Express’ goddamn garbage servers. Curly released a sharp sniff from his strong nose, tapping his ring finger against the wooden surface of his desk, as if he were tapping on some invisible telegraph’s knob and sending a hurried message to parts unknown. The window finally revealed itself to him. He checked the columns.
His name, Captain. Of course.
Chief Mechanic, Howard Swansea . Curly blinked, a smile growing on his face. I’ve heard of him. He’s a good worker - that’s one less worry for this guy.
Engineering Intern, Daisuke Juarez . His beetling, flaxen brows furrowed, trying to pull the name from his memories. But nothing came up. Zilch. Intern hints that he’s young. Ah… well, I’ll make sure he and Swansea settle in right.
Nurse, Anya Misko . Nothing on this one either. Well, I’ll get to meet them all and get a read on who they are properly when I get to the spaceport.
Pony Express hadn’t even bothered sending pictures, just names and positions. These people were nothing but black text in a series of columns on his computer to him, faceless suggestions of other human beings, but they were his crew - or were going to be.
He hesitated in switching off his computer, worrying his lower lip, thinking about Jimmy. He wanted to send an e-mail, offer his condolences to his friend. Curly was sure that Pony Express didn’t waste time denying Jimmy’s application for this flight. Even now, the idea of reaching out wasn’t exactly appealing. Goddamnit, why couldn’t have they just said yes? He groaned, running his long fingers through the blonde curls that suited his surname. What to say? “Hey, bud, sorry you got denied a job opportunity I was hyping up for you.”?
His cursor lingered over the hyperlink to Jimmy’s account. He licked his dry lips, hands tapping away on his keyboard.
Hey, Jim, I hope you’re doing alright, bud! I know this sucks, but there’s always another voyage, and they hire on a case-by-case basis - so I know you’re definitely on the list. I hope to hear from you before I go, but I understand if our schedules don’t quite mesh right now. Take care of yourself, Jimbo!
Much love,
Curly.
The ‘send’ button taunted him. His finger hovered tremulously over the key. He grit his jaw, pressing it down before he could convince himself otherwise. He switched off his computer, a low hum slowly fizzled out in his dark room.
He got up, slippered feet patting against the hardwood floor. His brown suitcase was at the foot of the bed; his mother had screwed it into his and his siblings' minds as children with her stern and mildly shrill English voice: “Never put a suitcase on the bed. They’re filthy!”
Even past thirty, as he was now by just a year, that reprimand played in his mind like an old recording, always in the back of his psyche when he needed to pack. He knew the sitch: Smuggle in some candy and snacks for personal consumption (a trick learned during orientation), have enough shirts and underclothing to wear under the company jumpsuit to avoid hygiene issues, a toiletries bag (Pony Express couldn’t be asked to offer more than the basics), and some personal entertainment (books from home worked best).
He did an inventory check, finding nothing missing. Now, he needed to shower and shave - look his best for the new crewmates he was meant to watch over for nearly a year in the vast void of space.
The drive from Park City, his chosen domicile in the pine-strewn Wasatch mountains of north-eastern Utah, to the spaceport in Colorado wasn’t too much of a hassle. He had grown up in Utah - more specifically Ogden - with his family; but Park City’s ski slopes, mountain air, and bucolic sights were near and dear to his heart (and the winter sports scene wasn’t too bad).
His blue jalopy wound and weaved down the mountain roads, a tarmac snake coiled around the snowy promontories. Pine forests become sandy vistas and shrubbery after a while of driving. The spaceport was just outside of Denver, so West he went. The drive would take just shy of eight hours to complete at a comfortable pace, so he had left early in the morning, around 7AM.
The sun was a bright white dot in the mauve, cloudless sky. His lonely blue car zipped down the road. There was dewy morning calm, but Curly’s mind was buzzing with activity. He thought of Jimmy, who had sent back no response that morning. That was that. Then came the thought of his crew. Features, eye colours, and faces morphed in his mind, trying to put amorphous faces to the cold text sent to his computer.
His skis jostled in his trunk. He had forgotten to put them away, having enjoyed as much powder up in the mountains before his assignment. Ah, well, they wouldn’t be going anywhere. His sister, Julia, lived in Denver with her family. She could come with her husband and grab his car, store it in their garage while he was away; they had an arrangement.
The sun crawled across the sky as the journey continued, brightening the day, reaching an apex during the midpoint of his voyage. Then it oozed down the orange horizon like a trickle of molasses by the end.
He saw the spaceport on the top of a solitary, russet mountain, a building with a hanger jutting out over the peak like a lip and shuttles both landing and departing from it like bees around their hive. It was a square building mostly made of glass and steel, a singular road leading up to the entrance and car park, the latter carved inside the mountain like a mole’s burrow.
He sent Julia a text after grabbing his suitcase and shutting the trunk. Telling her which floor and spot in the parking garage she could find the car between the rows of concrete pillars:
Thanks, Jules!
He smiled, but it quickly withered as he saw no reply from Jimmy. A hum reverberated in his throat, tightening the leather jacket over his jumpsuit and tilting his shades above his brow, shrugging to himself. I guess it’s his problem.
The Tulpar was surely getting checked up in its hangar bar, ready for him to take over inside. Everything was routine, security scans, checking documentation - mostly automatic by this point - and viewing the digital notice board to find where the reliable (arguable) rustbucket would be. But it looked like he had some time to grab a cup of coffee. His shoes squeaked against the polished concrete, travellers like him flowing around the various locales inside.