Remembering the year...

[Bazza]

A member of the ubiquitous Border Worlds line of transport deftly slides out of the terminating ring of the tradelane link map-wise West of Freeport One.

Despite being externally no different to any of the other thousands upon thousands in her class, this particular vessel issued a resplendent gleam, reflecting the bright, unfiltered light of Omega-3's solitary sun off her meticulously polished stainless steel "streamliner" body shell. The vessel upon being returned to subliminal speed by the lanes' braking system diverted from the rings' terminus and closed in on the Freeport.

The station control of Freeport one, vigilant as always, intercepts the new arrival immediately. A younger female's voice breaks over the radio, piercing through the deathly silence of the ice-laden space surrounding the station.

This is Freeport One to Junker trade convoy. Identify yourselves.

The transport's captain, well versed in this most basic procedure of space flight, harps her well revised reply with an intentionally clear, businesslike compliance before firing off an automated data packet towards the communication tower of the freeport.

This is Junkers. Red. Six; submitting data.

A few seconds later the woman replies, the inhuman nature of the radio occasionally confusing the weary traveller into believing that the station itself is talking - a very alarming experience when one realises it.

Received your transmission Junkers. Red. Six. What is your destination?

A question that may strike some as being redundant, however, Freeport One stands at the junction of one of the busiest interstellar highways in Sirius - ships from all destinations within Bretonia and Rheinland - indeed beyond both - being funnelled through these same tradelane links.

We're from the Cambridge system. We're headed for Freeport One.

Before the station operator could even issue a reply, the transport's captain was well aware of what it would be. The myriad of large craft idling around the base meaning only one thing. Preparing for a deft and witty imitation, the captain takes a breath.

Understood. Pattern is full. You will be cleared to proceed when it's free.
Understood. Pattern is full. You will be cleared to proceed when it's free.

Of course, a stranger to this nonsense may not have yet realised the "woman" exchanging over the radio was, in fact, a computer voice recording run by a semi-intelligent communication program.

The captain sighs in mild disappointment and begrudgingly sets about aligning herself to the end of the queue of other cumbersome vessels waiting for their turn to squeeze in and out of the station. Although there were facilities for mooring many ships the size of In Silico, the space surrounding them was not quite as accommodating; demanding only one craft at a time manoeuvre around - to prevent the undesired "mating" of ships.

Just occurred to me. These guys won't know it's me until I show up at the front door. Hah! Sneak attack.

Minutes passed as the plethora of large craft shuffled about, some departing as others arrived, until it was the Silico's turn to dock.

Junkers. Red. Six. You are cleared for docking bay four.

And that would be us. About time too.

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