Origins by Jamie Sawyer Page A

disbelief that a station rat would have a press pass, but was obviously too lazy to bother making the necessary checks.
    â€œGo a through,” he said. “Enjoy a show.”
    â€œWe will, sir. Thanks a much, see.”
    The shuttle bay had been completely given over to the launch and thousands of people were piled into the chamber; doors currently sealed, sixteen staunch transport shuttles on the apron, surrounded by launch scaffold and steps to the passenger cabins. Mostly unnecessary, but all part of the show. In the midst of the hangar, a military band paraded up and down the apron: fuckers in dress uniform playing their songs, barely audible above the combined cheering of the crowds. Civvies were blowing horns, waving flags, chanting.
    I was glad that the press pit – despite its name – was elevated, overseeing the civilian onlookers. To my surprise, there was a mixture of press and military in the pit. The area above and around me was abuzz with news-drones – tiny cameras and microphones recording everything for posterity.
    An enormous LED countdown flashed with TIME UNTIL BOARDING – 45 SECONDS AND COUNTING! SPONSORED BY DELAT ENTERPRISES!
    There were no seats, but Vijay secured us a place near the front of the pit next to a female military reporter. I jostled my way forwards. I could see right down into the landing gantry from here: would be as close as I could get to Elena. Directly beneath us was a clear corridor, policed with security staff: a cordon holding back the swelling civilian masses.
    I can’t let her go
, I told myself.
She can’t do this.
    â€œGreat! You’re Sim Ops, huh?”
    A female reporter stood beside me. Flame hair spilled over her shoulders, and a tight smart-suit clung to her body.
    â€œWhat gave it away?” I said.
    â€œYour uniform, actually.” She smiled at me with full red lips. It was an award-winning smile. An expression designed to make the recipient feel at ease.
    â€œI was being sarcastic,” I said.
    The woman shrugged off the implied insult. Two small news-drones circled her head. “How many deaths for you, Captain?”
    So she could read rank insignia as well, huh? “Too many.”
    She smiled that Pulitzer-winning grin again. I vaguely recognised her from one of the news-feeds that the Alliance military regularly put out; Cassi Something? Her deep green eyes flashed; data dancing across her pupils. I guessed she had an uplink with the Calico Base mainframe.
    â€œCaptain Conrad Harris, one hundred and twelve transitions,” she said. “Impressive.”
    â€œThat’s a dangerous toy. Lot of intel could get into the wrong hands like that.”
    â€œCore News is careful,” she said, tapping the holo-badge on her chest. The name read CASSI BROOKE, CORE NEWS NETWORK. Brooke nodded at the hangar. “Looks like you’re just in time, soldier-boy.”
    The countdown flashed: BOARDING! BOARDING! BOARDING!
    The crew were protected by a military cordon, and were now being hustled to their waiting shuttles.
    Shit. This is it.
    Faces projected on to massive billboards, holos of the brave men and women of the Alliance expeditionary force.
    Brooke began her spiel, speaking not to me but the news-drone in front of her. “Ten minutes to launch, people! The atmosphere here is incredible. The festivities have to be seen to be believed. The UAS
Endeavour
is currently kilometres above us, in Calico’s galaxy-famous orbital docks.”
    I gripped the safety rail of the pit. Far from being incredible, the atmosphere was dizzying. Beneath me, flags of a hundred colonies, of tens of nation-states, were being flown. Representatives from pretty much every colony, outpost and national body had gathered here.
    â€œThe
Endeavour
’s mission specs are staggering,” the reporter said. “She’s one of the largest non-military vessels ever built by the Alliance. Capable of prolonged