The Sky City

By Robin Flett

Krylltic is a maverick. Independant, intelligent and brash, she has upset many people in her life and doesn't care. But this time she has gone too far.

Frightening the life out of a Senator's son perhaps wasn't wise. Her employers are being leaned on to dispose of her, so she has become expendable. And, as it happens, the Navy has a use for an expendable person.

Hijacked into what appears to be a simple job, things quickly start to go very wrong. Krylltic finds herself lost in the far reaches of the galaxy, thousands of light years from home.

And the only refuge she can find...is a flying city!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robin Flett
• Release date: Mar 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005948511

Robin Flett

Robin Flett was born in Scotland more years ago than he cares to remember. Early retirement released him from the daily drudgery and sent him on the path to becoming an author. A rocky and painful path, as many will know!His first love has always been science fiction, but now he has embarked on new voyages with a contemporary thriller entitled The Purple Contract. Other projects are pending.Robin resides in northern Scotland with his two cats.

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Copyright © 2022 Robin Flett

Smashwords Edition

The right of Robin Flett to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Sky City

Robin Flett

Krylltic is a maverick. Insubordinate and arrogant, but a damned good starship pilot. However, this time she has gone too far and her boss has had more than enough. The military has need of a freighter and pilot for a mission in deep space. Rumour says they have found a new wormhole – and ships are disappearing. But no-one will tell Krylltic why they need her particular skills. Everything is obscure, most is secret.

Flying alone across the galaxy, Krylltic begins to suspect that this has been set up to be a one-way trip…

1

Krylltic

When we emerged from behind Torfun, the smaller moon, he was nearly lined up in the approach corridor. Ahead, framed in the cockpit window, Ganaway grew larger, fast. I waited to see whether he would notice the small discrepancy in our track. It wasn’t much, but it would matter a great deal a few minutes from now when I hit him with the first systems failure.

The sharp line of the terminator crawled across the planet’s face, the night side already twinkling with lights. I was counting down the seconds in my head when he finally got it.

‘Frack! We’re off line!’ He nudged the thruster controller gently with his left hand. I felt a slight tremor through the ship’s structure as we slewed sideways. The computer was off-line of course: this was his final flight check and a pass-or-fail situation. Manual input, hands and brain, all the way down, and that’s why he was sweating inside his flight suit.

Well, maybe not entirely that. I had purposely worn the shortest skirt I could find in the wardrobe and a sheer blouse. He had been perspiring since his first sight of me jiggling into the crew room. Men are so easy to stress out. I didn’t even have to do any bending or stretching! My flight tunic, of course, concealed things a bit when we were kitted out, which was why it was open down the front, in blatant breach of regulations.

There was more stress coming, but he didn’t know about that yet.

‘That’s better,' I said. 'We’re back in the window. Why did you let it slip?’ The best pilot in the world couldn’t hit the line every time on manual, of course, that’s why we have computers flying these damned things. It’s not bloody easy.

‘Uh,’ he muttered, ‘must have been a bit heavy on the stick.’

I said nothing. Let him think about it. Time passed while he checked and rechecked every screen, switch, and button. He knew I was missing nothing. Ganaway was filling the view now, coloured in blues and whites where daylight still ruled, deep black elsewhere. We would be sweeping down into that dark side, into the night.

Another half-hour and we heard the first tendrils of air molecules rippling on the hull. An eerie, almost subliminal sound. He ran through the first checklist right on time, everything was fine, and he let out a long breath. Not the sort of thing to impress his instructor, but I doubt if he was aware it had happened. I wasn’t worried; it showed he was relaxing at last.

But we couldn’t have that.

I hit a key on the console in front of me, a panel of pre-set faults and cut-outs fitted specially for training purposes. ‘Power plant monitors are all down!’

‘Oh, for f….!’ He jerked up straight and looked at me wildly.

‘You’ve flown this type often enough. You should have a feel for it by now. If you haven’t––’ I stared him out.

‘But…’ He stopped. This was the worst place to lose thruster feedback, but it was just a missing tab on an instrument screen, he still had the seat of his pants. And of course, there were other instruments he could use instead; inclinometer, accelerometer, attitude indicators, engine temperature, and the rest.

He went for the rate-of-descent screen first and got full marks for adjusting our angle of attack back to where it should be, muttering to himself all the while.

Air screaming outside now. He was fully occupied jockeying the controls to keep us in the groove, concentrating hard. So I hit another key and the turbulence increased tenfold.

‘Swing-wing is jammed at 25 degrees!’

He looked across at me with his jaw hanging loose, couldn’t believe it. We were going to need those wings in seconds now. He had that amount of time to reason it out.

Look, this wasn’t some silly game; in a real situation, that’s precisely how long he would have to save himself and any passengers. Seconds. If he couldn’t handle it in a training exercise, there was no way he was flying for a living. Not with any company I worked for.

So failure was staring him in the face now and he knew that.

‘Landing thrusters! Max them!’ There was a warble in his voice; the poor sod was terrified. Bloody lunatic instructor with legs up to her armpits and a death wish.

‘Fifty per cent will do.’ I reached up to the board above our heads and started them up. They would replace the lift we had lost with the wings at 25 per cent deployment. Things steadied and the air-friction whistle evened out to a point where it wasn’t actually hurting my ears. He should be listening for that, too; you don’t just fly with your eyes.

I brought the engine monitors back on line, which got me a grateful look. But only until I said, ‘The GPS has died, do you know your way home?’

This time he wasn’t shaken. ‘Second list, then call up the beacon chart.’

I read through the second checklist while he pressed buttons and flicked switches.

‘Beacon chart on the main display.’ Much more confident now – I hadn’t actually killed him yet.

I put it up and watched him set up the transponders. We were still too far away to get a signal, but it was just a matter of basic geography to navigate across the planet’s surface. We were still high and fast, and the night-black coastlines passed rapidly below, outlined by slight phosphorescence where the water met the land. On the IR display, the landmass was speckled with bright white dots and splodges of light showing larger conurbations. The unmistakable signs of what we like to call civilization.

I brought the GPS back on-line just to see if he would use it. He didn’t; plus points for that.

He moved the joystick under his right hand to guide us round in a gentle turn. Credit where it’s due: he was a good pilot when I gave him peace. In a few minutes, the first of the expected nav beacons began to chirp on the receiver. He made a slight adjustment to our course and rate of descent. Another beacon came to life. Home was calling.

There was just one more hurdle to cross. I was pretty sure he was expecting me to give him back full wing alignment for landing. Which was a pity, because I wasn’t. It would be hard and fast therefore, a one-time deal, and he would need to advise the spaceport controller of that fact.

Another adjustment to the rate of descent. He was flying the bird competently enough, riding the controls through the occasional weather turbulence. Ahead,