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Description
I think that's a kickass thing to have a viewport in your cabin. The main observation gallery, a hundred and fifty metres long, offers a better angle than this comparatively small panel of triple-thickness Plexiglas, but it's halfway across the carrier and I don't really fancy navigating through five-hundred-or-so metres of narrow corridors and walkways to get to it. I already have five hours of flight behind me today, and another sortie scheduled for dusk, so no unnecessary efforts.

The unbroken mass of clouds extends as far as the eye can see, until the curve of the horizon gently cuts it. The zeppelin's shadow is projected on the ever-moving screen of grey-brown mist, as the sun nears the end of its daily course. I'll be called to the briefing room in a minute... But for now, I'll let myself stare at the awe-inspiring view. For a groundborn like me, I think you can't get used to it.

Earth. Once called the "blue planet". Now, seen from space, it's glowing a faint, sickly yellow. A mass grave with a lid of clouds, that's what it became. Billions of rotting bodies, once belonging to friends, relatives or complete strangers... But no groundborn aboard the Tigre, the zeppelin carrier I'm based on, has been spared. Final death count is rumoured to be around the six point two billion deaths. A world's population wiped out, and a single, unbroken mass of toxic clouds and ashes to cover it.

What seems like a speck of dust on the viewport, nearly invisible against the darkening background, suddenly flashes in a complex pattern. As it grows bigger, I can make out the single set of thick, backswept wings, the three engines, the bulky frame and the seemingly enormous booster unit attached above the hull. An armored ground-able shuttle, probably carrying a Prospector... They are the only ones allowed groundside now. Heavily cybernetized humans, apt to resist to the conditions below the cloud cover, that harvest the mineral ressources necessary for the Fleet to keep on going... We extract our water from the atmosphere and grow our own hydroponic foods, but we still need to process raw materials to get the spare parts, equipment and weaponry we use.

My pager's been trying to attract my attention for the last five minutes, and I finally decide to let it remind me of my duties. Without looking away from the viewport, I slowly reach for my helmet, tossed on the desk when I came back from the last patrol. When on duty, I sleep in my jumpsuit, as nearly every pilot does, but I don't push it as far as keeping my boots on, like my former roommate and wingman did... Corwin. He was shot down on what should have been our last mission together, when our squadron attacked the Federation's convoy near the Eagle base. Stupid way to go for a veteran... During a strafing run along the zeppelin's engines, a spike caught the underside of his Mirage, and tore off both the starboard wings... I guess, and hope, the shock either killed him right off or rendered him unconscious, because up until the Two-Five's wreck spiralled down into the clouds, he didn't radio in or try to eject. Rest In Peace, brother.

The other bunk in my cabin is still empty... Standing outside my doorstep, I allow myself one last look at the neatly packed sheets at the foot of the bed, the immaculate desk and the bag that I found when I came back from my morning patrol. Probably the new guy's belongings... "Flt. Lt. P. Janssen - M.A.C.", it says on the tag. Attached to the Medical Airlift Corps... A C-SAR pilot, more than likely.

Let's hope I don't have to pack the room for this one as well.

Description
I think that's a kickass thing to have a viewport in your cabin. The main observation gallery, a hundred and fifty metres long, offers a better angle than this comparatively small panel of triple-thickness Plexiglas, but it's halfway across the carrier and I don't really fancy navigating through five-hundred-or-so metres of narrow corridors and walkways to get to it. I already have five hours of flight behind me today, and another sortie scheduled for dusk, so no unnecessary efforts.

The unbroken mass of clouds extends as far as the eye can see, until the curve of the horizon gently cuts it. The zeppelin's shadow is projected on the ever-moving screen of grey-brown mist, as the sun nears the end of its daily course. I'll be called to the briefing room in a minute... But for now, I'll let myself stare at the awe-inspiring view. For a groundborn like me, I think you can't get used to it.

Earth. Once called the "blue planet". Now, seen from space, it's glowing a faint, sickly yellow. A mass grave with a lid of clouds, that's what it became. Billions of rotting bodies, once belonging to friends, relatives or complete strangers... But no groundborn aboard the Tigre, the zeppelin carrier I'm based on, has been spared. Final death count is rumoured to be around the six point two billion deaths. A world's population wiped out, and a single, unbroken mass of toxic clouds and ashes to cover it.

What seems like a speck of dust on the viewport, nearly invisible against the darkening background, suddenly flashes in a complex pattern. As it grows bigger, I can make out the single set of thick, backswept wings, the three engines, the bulky frame and the seemingly enormous booster unit attached above the hull. An armored ground-able shuttle, probably carrying a Prospector... They are the only ones allowed groundside now. Heavily cybernetized humans, apt to resist to the conditions below the cloud cover, that harvest the mineral ressources necessary for the Fleet to keep on going... We extract our water from the atmosphere and grow our own hydroponic foods, but we still need to process raw materials to get the spare parts, equipment and weaponry we use.

My pager's been trying to attract my attention for the last five minutes, and I finally decide to let it remind me of my duties. Without looking away from the viewport, I slowly reach for my helmet, tossed on the desk when I came back from the last patrol. When on duty, I sleep in my jumpsuit, as nearly every pilot does, but I don't push it as far as keeping my boots on, like my former roommate and wingman did... Corwin. He was shot down on what should have been our last mission together, when our squadron attacked the Federation's convoy near the Eagle base. Stupid way to go for a veteran... During a strafing run along the zeppelin's engines, a spike caught the underside of his Mirage, and tore off both the starboard wings... I guess, and hope, the shock either killed him right off or rendered him unconscious, because up until the Two-Five's wreck spiralled down into the clouds, he didn't radio in or try to eject. Rest In Peace, brother.

The other bunk in my cabin is still empty... Standing outside my doorstep, I allow myself one last look at the neatly packed sheets at the foot of the bed, the immaculate desk and the bag that I found when I came back from my morning patrol. Probably the new guy's belongings... "Flt. Lt. P. Janssen - M.A.C.", it says on the tag. Attached to the Medical Airlift Corps... A C-SAR pilot, more than likely.

Let's hope I don't have to pack the room for this one as well.