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Chapter Seven: Twinkle twinkle, little star.


Mikhail looked to the left, where Heather had chosen to sit.

She had sat where she had with a smile and told him, “you might recall, I prefer the left.”

He couldn't help but blush, as he thought back to the events of the brief holiday.

He couldn't believe how much she had changed since that fist day he had met the woman that Sparks had called The Rattler.

Now, here they were in the cockpit of the shuttle and Mikhail was stunned by the vast array of switches buttons and lights that surrounded him, with several levers at floor level.

Before them both was a simple stick with a handle affair, which Heather assured him he would hardly need and maybe not at all.

Shortly after that she had donned a tight-fitting cotton cap, that she strapped beneath her chin, explaining to him prior, “It's wetwork enabled, with a wireless interface to the ship. In essence, electrodes in the scalp reader pickup my commands and immediately feed them to the ship...”

Geoff had explained a lot to Mikhail, yet he was still fazed by the equipment before him and the occasional glances of amusement cast his way by the beautiful redhead.

“You look terrified,” she said to him, flipping switches on the console to her left and before her,
“There's no need, Geoff will assist me with the take-off. You're here as my co-pilot, to offer support where needed. This is our test. Next time, it'll be your chance to test a suit and go walkies...”

She pulled back on several levers, looking straight ahead through the curved screens.

“Are you ready?” She asked Mikhail, a grin on her face.

“No,” he replied honestly, glad that the webbing crossed across his chest was as tight-fitting as it was, as he had visions of being thrown upwards against some of the controls once weightless and ensuring that they couldn't return to Earth, as he had damaged a vital component.

He wasn't going to tell Heather of this and a myriad other fears, after all he was here for a reason.
'But I'll swear blind,' he mused, 'I can't figure what they need me for...'

“Firing up secondary jets...” She called out and seconds later, powerful jets fixed to the wingtips and beneath the large tail fired up, allowing the young woman to manoeuvre the hodgepodge painted craft out of the hanger, it's nose pointed toward the beginning of the runway.

“Never did name the old girl did I?” Heather mused aloud, pausing a moment, to allow Sparks the opportunity to appreciate his investment, in all it's glory.

'Granted,' she thought distractedly, 'she does need a paint job... and, a name...'

“Now what did that character say? Oh aye, 'To infinity and beyond'... that was it...”

Mikhail couldn't have imagined The Rattler saying that, grinning maniacally, but this was what Heather was doing.

For a moment he closed his eyes, his knuckles white as he clutched the sides of his chair.
Powerful rockets fired and gave the shuttle the impetus to move forward faster and faster and then...
Mikhail heard Heather speaking into the radio, “Lift-off attained, beginning ascent...”

Suddenly calm, as if the worse of a storm was over, he opened his eyes and smiled...

The launch had been perfect and now they were arcing upward, toward where the sky darkened and waited, for them to enter it's inky darkness.

“I think this is awesome,” he gushed, being sure not to touch any controls, just in case he caused a mishap, that could lead to a catastrophic failure to their mission.

Heather could sense his wonderment, that overwhelmed his previous fears.

“You ready for something?” She asked with a grin.

He nodded.

“Good. There'll be a little turbulence, for a few...” Heather began, with her words cut short with her need to concentrate and guide the small craft upward, as it was buffeted by it's own upward thrust.

“Little bit more...” Heather told no-one particular, as she pulled on the lever before her.

Then as the massive engines ceased she angled the craft so that she could attain low orbit, beneath the rings of discarded metal, that now encircled the Earth, with a scattering of satellites amongst them: “Look up,” she instructed, sounding quite serious.

He did as told and saw; he saw how the remains of craft before theirs, boosters, casing and many others twisted pieces of metal, that now encircled the Earth, thus preventing the launch of any conventional rockets.

Mikhail could now see for himself why they were there, to clear the rubbish left in the past, so as to make way for the future and, their work would be profitable for Sparks, of that he was sure.

As the shuttle drifted Heather asked, “Now you can see why you're here?”

He nodded, still in awe of the view before him.

“I guess I'm working the world biggest scrap-yard,” he laughed.

“Oh so-much more,” Heather told him cryptically, a light smile playing across her lips.

She fired a thruster, then another, to help the craft stay in the prescribed orbit. Then, she flicked a switch and called out, “Shields engaged.”

Satisfied, Heather turned to look at the young man with her and smiled.

“When work is underway, you'll be clearing a pathway to the stars, for those after you to use. You'll be important to the future of your planet,” she assured him.

“You think this is that important?” he quizzed.

“The opportunity to communicate across the globe, to have your internet and... space travel... yes, of course it's important,” Heather responded, wondering for a second if she had said to much.

She had.

“Erm, I'm not dense Heather. You said, 'your planet' and 'your internet' – arn't you from Earth?” Mikhail asked, realising as he said it, his question seemed ever-so daft.

Then she winked.

“Sometimes your lot have needed a little help and, sometimes you get the help you need...” she explained enigmatically.

“So you used Sparks, to create... this...?” he asked, gesturing around himself.

“Hmm...” Heather considered, “used, no. I sort of guided him.”

Her voice was light and infused with humour, as Heather recalled how little persuasion the greedy man had needed, seeing roubles, dollars and yen dance before his eyes, at the ideas she had expanded upon, over a drink in his hotel.

“And now?” Mikhail asked.

“You begin work soon, using the headset, as I do...” she told him.

His mouth opened wide, as he considered what he had just heard.

Heather couldn't help but laugh.

“But not for a long while Mikhail,” she assured him, “after all, man's got a lot to prove, before being accepted onto the Galactic Council...”

And he looked to her eyes, sparkling like the stars before him...

Chapter Six: If a rocket rises and there's no-one around...

Creavey followed Sparks toward the open hangar doors.

The airstrip and expansive hanger were a reminder of the twentieth centuries second greatest world war. During that time a lot of unused arable land of a reasonable size became an airstrip, some being 'off the radar', pun intended.

Behind his back Creavey wrung his hands, well aware of his employers barely concealed anger.
He didn't want to answer the question, “Where's the media?” But, he knew he had to.
“Not even the Huffington Post,” Creavey admitted ruefully.

Sparks was livid.

It seemed to him that the media couldn't appreciate that a local entrepreneur might be able to achieve something that could be of world import.

If it were because he owned and ran a junkyard, he felt his business acumen slighted somewhat.

Ignoring his lawyer once more, Sparks entered the dark of the hanger interior and called out, “This place cost me a million or so... and, I pay my bills...”

There was silence...

The lawyer was aware of how much the airstrip cost; also how much had been spent on the airstrip
cost; also how much had been spent on the acquisition of the two shuttles.

Yet Creavey was a man of dangerous contradictions.

He was a lawyer, but he thought like a businessman.

Although the project had overspent, Creavey was aware of it's potential to earn his employer a vast return. So sure was he that his assumption was correct he had even ploughed a small fortune of his own into the project. Like Sparks, he wanted a return on his investment...

Yet being a realist, he knew the expected profits would take awhile to accrue and, until then he had to bow and scrape, remembering to say “yessir and nosir” in all the right places...

“Coming Sir,” Creavey called out, as he followed...