The Approach.
Aug. 14th, 2005 04:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flybywashIllyria's nothing but a dull, marble-sized speck at forty thousand miles out. The Academy's not even visible. It's only through heat vid that Wash can pick it out: a pinkish smear against the grey, flickering as it bobs in and out of range of the sensors.
Click. Click. Click. He reaches to thumb the internal comm.
"Going to partial blackout in ten seconds," he murmurs, as if speaking quietly will help mask their approach. "Kaylee, get ready, shields'll be on in fifteen. Everybody else, make for the cargo bay."
It's not quite hitting the dartboard, but it's close enough. As Wash's hands progress over the console, everything that isn't necessary starts to darken. Primary lighting. Heat, down to just above fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Auxilary currents. The engines stay on, but only just; the thrusters flare briefly as Wash fires one last push, then dim to almost nothing.
Thirty-one thousand miles.
As he draws a breath, he reaches and flicks the switch all the way to his right. Serenity immediately starts humming in the same vaguely disconcerting way as before. Kaylee's soft, worried affirmation that the shields seem to be working like before gets a distracted nod before he turns all his attention to the windscreen.
Except...the yoke feels a little too tight, like the mechanism's gone dry. That isn't good. Wash frowns, pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head to clear the shield-noise, which seems awfully loud all of a sudden. With his other hand, he gives the steering a barely perceptible nudge -- only now it's gone too loose and over-slick. At twenty-six thousand miles, Serenity veers off-course.
"Tāmāde," he swears under his breath as he makes a hasty correction. The Academy angles back into view, but when Wash scrubs at his forehead again, his fingers come away soaked in sweat.
In the reddish glow of the bridge's back-up lighting, it almost looks like blood.
He stares. It's so minor that it shouldn't faze him, but all of a sudden, it isn't a question of what-ifs anymore. It's Murphy's Law made manifest. Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, he thinks, and soon, it's mounting into a frantic mantra.
Nineteen thousand.
Ain't just the steering that'll give out. The shields will fail. He'll miss the target. Zoe will die. He'll die. And what about the gunslingers? They're just men and women, they'll bleed like everyone else, they're damn good shots but the Alliance is better and even they won't be enough to save them.
No longer possibilities, but honest, terrifying truth.
Oh, God.
Thirteen. The station's large in their screens now.
Focus, gorrammit.
Except he can't. His hands are shaking so badly that he has to take them off the yoke before he knocks them too far off-course to recover. Breathe in, breathe out, except that only makes him feel like he's strangling (I shut off the air, he thinks frantically, I hit the wrong button and accidentaly shut off the air), and he has to squeeze his eyes closed and force his lungs into working with a far too conscious effort.
Then, through the hum of the shields and the blood in his own ears, he hears the sound of paper rustling.
And it hits him.
The key.
Quickly, Wash seizes the paper. It takes four tries to unfold it and another three to make his hands stop trembling long enough to read what's written there.
He drags in another harsh breath and says, as loudly and clearly as he can, "Opoponax."
Something snaps. For an instant, his fear's as solid and palpable as the paper...and then, just as suddenly, it puffs out like an ion cloud into nothing.
When Wash looks up this time, his eyes are calm, clear, and distant with focus. He exhales for a long, long while before crumpling the paper in his fist and taking the controls again. With extra care, he cuts the thrusters entirely and pulls back enough to slow their approach.
"Hitting their front door in four minutes," he says.
Mal's voice begins to trickle up -- not in reply, precisely, but as much of one as he'll get.
And exactly three and a half minutes after the captain finishes, there's a loud thud as Serenity makes contact. The airlock slides open. The ramp begins to lower.
Wash checks his own holster and swings down to the hold.
Click. Click. Click. He reaches to thumb the internal comm.
"Going to partial blackout in ten seconds," he murmurs, as if speaking quietly will help mask their approach. "Kaylee, get ready, shields'll be on in fifteen. Everybody else, make for the cargo bay."
It's not quite hitting the dartboard, but it's close enough. As Wash's hands progress over the console, everything that isn't necessary starts to darken. Primary lighting. Heat, down to just above fifty degrees Fahrenheit. Auxilary currents. The engines stay on, but only just; the thrusters flare briefly as Wash fires one last push, then dim to almost nothing.
Thirty-one thousand miles.
As he draws a breath, he reaches and flicks the switch all the way to his right. Serenity immediately starts humming in the same vaguely disconcerting way as before. Kaylee's soft, worried affirmation that the shields seem to be working like before gets a distracted nod before he turns all his attention to the windscreen.
Except...the yoke feels a little too tight, like the mechanism's gone dry. That isn't good. Wash frowns, pushes a hand through his hair and shakes his head to clear the shield-noise, which seems awfully loud all of a sudden. With his other hand, he gives the steering a barely perceptible nudge -- only now it's gone too loose and over-slick. At twenty-six thousand miles, Serenity veers off-course.
"Tāmāde," he swears under his breath as he makes a hasty correction. The Academy angles back into view, but when Wash scrubs at his forehead again, his fingers come away soaked in sweat.
In the reddish glow of the bridge's back-up lighting, it almost looks like blood.
He stares. It's so minor that it shouldn't faze him, but all of a sudden, it isn't a question of what-ifs anymore. It's Murphy's Law made manifest. Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong, he thinks, and soon, it's mounting into a frantic mantra.
Nineteen thousand.
Ain't just the steering that'll give out. The shields will fail. He'll miss the target. Zoe will die. He'll die. And what about the gunslingers? They're just men and women, they'll bleed like everyone else, they're damn good shots but the Alliance is better and even they won't be enough to save them.
No longer possibilities, but honest, terrifying truth.
Oh, God.
Thirteen. The station's large in their screens now.
Focus, gorrammit.
Except he can't. His hands are shaking so badly that he has to take them off the yoke before he knocks them too far off-course to recover. Breathe in, breathe out, except that only makes him feel like he's strangling (I shut off the air, he thinks frantically, I hit the wrong button and accidentaly shut off the air), and he has to squeeze his eyes closed and force his lungs into working with a far too conscious effort.
Then, through the hum of the shields and the blood in his own ears, he hears the sound of paper rustling.
And it hits him.
The key.
Quickly, Wash seizes the paper. It takes four tries to unfold it and another three to make his hands stop trembling long enough to read what's written there.
He drags in another harsh breath and says, as loudly and clearly as he can, "Opoponax."
Something snaps. For an instant, his fear's as solid and palpable as the paper...and then, just as suddenly, it puffs out like an ion cloud into nothing.
When Wash looks up this time, his eyes are calm, clear, and distant with focus. He exhales for a long, long while before crumpling the paper in his fist and taking the controls again. With extra care, he cuts the thrusters entirely and pulls back enough to slow their approach.
"Hitting their front door in four minutes," he says.
Mal's voice begins to trickle up -- not in reply, precisely, but as much of one as he'll get.
And exactly three and a half minutes after the captain finishes, there's a loud thud as Serenity makes contact. The airlock slides open. The ramp begins to lower.
Wash checks his own holster and swings down to the hold.
