Entra El Fénix

While Simonee Saran was busy running about the station, the Fénix orbited a hundred kilometers outside the Mercantile Ring, attempting to dock.

But the AI wasn’t having it. “I’m sorry, sir. The adapter on your airlock is incompatible with this docking module.”

“What do you mean? It’s the same class rig. I bought it from you people last year, and it worked just fine.” Captain Carlos Santiago growled through the bridge microphone and into the comm app on the console.

“I’m sorry, but your adapter is for a J-142a docking module. This ring requires a J-142b assembly for safe interlock.”

“But why!?”

“I’m sorry; that information was not part of my training data. If you would like, I can transfer you to fabrication to order the correct adapter.”

“I don’t want another fucking adapter!” Carlos shouted, and ran his hand over his face. “Transfer me to a human being who can tell me why I need one.”

“Transferring.”

A queue timer ticked away an expected wait time of ten minutes on the screen in front of Carlos as he drummed his fingers on the console.

It hit nearly zero by the time the overhead speakers warbled to life. “Enceladus Command, this is Jessup. How can I help you today, Fee-nix?”

Carlos puffed his cheeks and blew it out slow before tapping the microphone button again. “It’s Feh-nix, and the AI on your Mercantile Ring tells me my airlock adapter is no bueno. What it can’t tell me is why, because I just bought the thing from you last year.”

“Oh, yeah, well let’s see here... yep, yep, you have a J-142a adapter in place. It’s gotta be a J-1-4-2-b. According to the docking protocols I have here, they’re not compatible.”

“Yes, that’s what your AI said. Can you tell me how we docked here a year ago? I gave you people two-thousand scrip-credits for that thing, and now I need another one?” Carlos mash-tapped the send button.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Fee-nix, it’s been J-142b as long as I’ve worked here.”

Carlos hissed sharp and hit the mic button. “And how long has that been, cabrón?”

“Almost six months, sir!”

“Que chingados...” Carlos muttered to himself. Into the microphone: “So, you and the AI have the same training data. Is there someone else there who can explain this mystery to me?”

“Let me check…” The wait indicator spun at the bottom of the app for about two minutes.

“Fay-nix,” a new voice rattled through the speakers, “This is the engineering liaison. - We upgraded the rings eight months ago for the Zentari-Neys waste system, which added a new hole for the solid-waste port. So the older J-14X clamps don’t fit.”

“Te daré un nuevo agujero! It’s FEH-nix, not FEE-nix or FAY-nix, FEH-NIX, puto!” Carlos deleted that recording and breathed.

He hit the mic button again. “So, do you have an adapter for the adapter, or do I need a whole new module? I’m running out of storage for all these adapters; soon I’ll have no room for cargo!”

“I got you, I got you. Just tell me the model of your docking rig, and I’ll find you the right fit.”

Carlos sighed. Here it comes. “It’s a C-814z rig with manual locking.”

The wait indicator spun. It spun for five minutes, then ten minutes.

“Enceladus Station, did you get my last message?”

“Um… whoa. It says here the C-class reached end-of-life ten years ago.”

“And?”

Carlos put his face in his hands and whispered a colorful prayer to the god of futility.

“Well, we don’t carry anything older than an E-class; you must’ve gotten lucky last year. I can have the machine shop print something custom, but you’ll have to hang around a few days.”

Carlos shook his head. “What about a pressurized slip? How much will that cost me?”

“Let me check availability, sir.” Jessup was back.

The waiting indicator spun again. Carlos stared into the spinning white circles.

“Looks like we’ve got a no-show on Corp Ring B, but it’s for a starliner. An Orca class will be a tight squeeze. I got you a discount though—only an extra four hundred scrip-credits a day.”

Carlos grunted. “Only?” Then growled into the app, “Joderlo! I’ll make it fit. And order me that custom adapter for next time, assuming you don’t add anymore holes before then. Take whatever deposit you need out of the wallet address I’m sending now.”

Carlos muttered and grumbled a string of unkind analogies as he hunt-and-pecked the address into the comm app and applied his thumbprint for authorization. The slip would cut deep into his profits, but at least the corporate rings had decent bathrooms.

The speaker crackled again. “Um… Fee-nix? About that wallet address.”

He glared up at the grey metal ceiling. “Maldito dios, now what?”

“Can you convert to Zentari-Neys scrip-credits? We don’t accept that cryptocurrency anymore; the market’s too erratic. Here’s a link to our exchange service.”

“You can exchange it, but you can’t accept it?” He slapped the send button.

“No… it’s a different corporate entity, but they only charge three percent.”

Carlos smacked the console. “Fuck!”

At that, the hatch to the bridge creaked, and a bronze, oval face peeked in with welding goggles bugging out over an aquiline nose.

“What did you do?” The woman demanded. She crawled into the Fénix’s bridge, stooping under the two meter high ceiling. Black grease smeared her orange coveralls. She pulled off the goggles and hovered over Carlos, scanning the console with blue-flecked hazel eyes.

“I didn’t do anything!” Carlos barked at Mariem El Ouaer, his first mate.

“What then, did they mispronounce Fénix again?”

Carlos scratched his head with both hands and a growl rose up from his throat as he glared at the exchange site on his screen.

“No... well, yes, but it’s not that. We’re docking first-class this trip thanks to fucking industry standards. Remember that brand-new adapter we bought the last time we were here?”

Mariem nodded.

“Well, it’s obsoleto, and will take days to print from scratch. So, we’re using a slip.”

She waggled her head. “Oh, nice. And?”

“Annnnd, they don’t take ZipCoins anymore, so I have to run our fees through an exchange service with a three percent surcharge.”

“Fuck!”

“Exactamente!”

---

An hour later, the Fénix approached slip 81 on Corporate Ring B. She wasn’t a new ship, but she was sturdy, and Jessup was right—this was going to be a tight squeeze. At about a hundred metric tons dry, the chubby, reverse-winged Fénix had Mariem and Carlos bickering on her snub-nosed bridge over the best angle of entry.

“If you come in like that, we’ll never get the bay doors open,” Mariem snapped. “What good’s a slip if we can’t air the old girl out for once?”

“I know, I know. I’m trying not to scrape the port scramjet,” Carlos growled.

“Now you’re too low; you’ll bang up the keel and jam the landing struts!”

“¡Sé que sé! I’ve done this before you know.”

Crunch!

Mariem crossed her arms. “Do you want me to park this thing?”

“¿Quiero que aparques esta cosa? Te diré lo que puedes aparcar.” He muttered, then stood and gestured at his chair with a bow.

Mariem sat, cracked her knuckles, and grabbed the stick. Carlos rolled his eyes.

The Fénix tilted to port, pitched back like an owl taking its dinner and settled gently onto the landing pad with plenty of room to open the doors.

“You don’t have to look so smug.” Carlos grumbled.

Mariem lifted her head. “Oh, but I feel smug, so very, very smug.”

When the outer doors closed and the slip pressurized, the inner doors slid into the ceiling, allowing the bustle of the hangar to seep inside. The Fénix’s carapace split, and the bay doors creaked open, stuck once, groaned, then broke free and landed on the deck with a clang, forming a ramp.

Carlos barreled down, steel-toed sandals slapping the ramp. Shielding his eyes against the harsh light, he turned and admired the Fénix resting low on her haunches for the first time in years. The hull gleamed white with an orange firebird airbrushed along the neck and up to the bridge. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts and grinned, his black and silver goatee jutting off his chin.

With a sigh, he muttered, “Ah, you look so pretty in this light, mi pajarita.”

“Oh god!” A lanky man rushed out of the cargo bay, hands clutching the brown corduroy at his backside. His spiked green hair bobbed and swayed as he hobbled past Carlos, knees locked the entire way.

Carlos watched him go, then shouted over his shoulder. “Hey, why’s Titchy doing the gotta-shit-shuffle?”

“He’s been waiting on a clean toilet for days.” Mariem hollered from the back of the bay. “Says he didn’t want to squat with the waste system backed up again.”

Carlos shook his head. “The rule was if it’s brown, flush it down, not hold it until your colon ruptures. Kid didn’t even like my cooking. Stuff his shit into a duffel and pitch it out the door with a pink slip. See if you can find a new hacker on the station network. And change all our passwords this time!”

Carlos grimaced when Titchy tumbled, stood slowly, then stick-walked like a scarecrow to the maintenance office.

“Titchy McStitchy sounds like a fake name anyway.” Carlos mumbled, then hollered back at Mariem, “And no fringe-hackers this time, comprendes? No bandidos! We’ve got to be on the up and up for that Zentari-Neys contract next year.”

“Sure thing, Cap! I bet there are one or two hackers running around this place who would’nt dream of breaking the law.”

The titanium-alloy ramp groaned as Mariem emerged from the bay with a huge crate perched on her right shoulder.

Carlos squeezed his brows together. “What are you doing?”

“We got the whole slip. I’m going to stack these outside. That way I don’t have to hunt for the one you want every time you bring in buyers. I could take a spa day.”

Carlos nodded. “Need some help?”

“That would be nice.”

His face split into a grin. “No problemo, I’ll rent a forklift.”

Turning on his heels, he marched towards the maintenance office, then called over his shoulder. “I get to drive this time!”

“Any excuse to go wandering. You know I’ll be done before you get back!” Mariem called after him.

Carlos ignored her.

“Dick!” Mariem shouted.

He swaggered off with his right middle finger high in the air.