She liked the bay at this time of night. Few of the white and yellow lights were on; enough to see, walk and avoid tripping on a pipe or tool by, but still imparting a sense of late-night to the few people few people around. A rattle of tools, a hiss of steam, a ckick-clicking of a chain-winch, the low rumble of the carrier's engines didn't break the sense of quiet; instead, the little noises enhanced the peaceful feeling, substitutes for the crickets and owls of a late night on Earth. The odd maintenance tech was still up, leisurely performing a status check or an upgrade on one of the sleek spacecraft nestled in their maintenance cradles.

That was one of the things she liked most about the exploration mission. On a carrier of the line, continual, round-the-clock readiness had to be maintained in case of an emergency scramble. Here, out in the Reaches and away from the front, there was little need for such measures; in fact, they were considered a waste of valuable resources on a long-term mission with irregular re-supplies and extremely infrequent furlongs at convenient starbases.

At the moment, though, she didn't care much for the reasons why the bay was so quiet. She simply sat on a gantry walkway, legs dangling down over the edge, arms on the lower horizontal rail of the safety guard, looking straight at the nose of her plane.

Technically, the machine lying inert in its cradle was a light transatmospheric reconnaissance astrodyne. However, "astrodyne" was too dramatic for her; "spacecraft" sounded too technical and detached, and the ubiquitous "ship", although romantic, didn't suit the comparatively small machines. This was simply her plane, and although it wasn't quite as aerodynamic as its atmosphere-going brethren, the two types of transport shared enough characteristics for the name to stick.

Her plane was sleek indeed. It was one of the lighter astrodyne classes designed for entry into and exit from a planet's envelope of breathable gases. Its aerodynamic properties made it sleeker than most of its fellows. Its blue-painted surface was dotted with clusters of optical and trans-optical cameras (other detection gear, such as radar, infrared and laser sensors, was nestled below the plane's skin) and pitted with hits from micrometeorites that weren't entirely buffered by its magnetic repulsion shielding.

Near its nose and on its wings were the lightly scorched muzzles of energy weapons. Slung above its wings were the thin cylinders of missile weapons; hanging below from the fuselage were droppable sensor pods and drones that aided the plane in its purpose of reconnaissance.

An intake on either side of the primary fuselage led into the fusion turbines that powered the plane and provided both atmospheric thrust, when the intakes would guzzle atmosphere, and spaceflight, when the magnetic buffers would funnel microparticles and other stardust into the turbines. This both aided the fusion process that burned water for intrasystem flight and provided the enormous amounts of power required to charge and fire the plane's jump drive.

The jump drive was the next stage in man's development, as had been the wheel, the combustion engine, the rocket and the fusion exhaust had been before it. It could hurl the fighter from one side of a star system to the other in less than the blink of an eye, or - in a pinch - get the plane to a neighbouring star system (within four to six light years) in just under a week. This was slow, a mere thousand-multiple of the speed of light, compared to the tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands the massive drives of the big military ships, the carriers, the destroyers and battleships were capable of. Those looming hulks, often a kilometre or more in length, could travel ten light years in mere hours before requiring recharge. Civilian craft usually took a day or two to travel similar distances.

She sat and looked at the sleek lines of the plane as it lay in stately repose. She knew other pilots sat similar vigils with their astrodynes. The male pilots - usually the ones who still liked to call themselves "jocks" anyway - often likened it to watching their lover as she slept. It was a little different for her. She loved her plane, probably more than she loved anything else. But there was one thing she loved more.

Space itself.

In the few times she had attempted to explain it to someone, she supposed that space must be the ultimate tall, dark and handsome stranger. Space was immensely vast, so deep and richly dark, the pinpoints of stars only serving to give tone, texture and flavour to the darkness instead of setting it in stark contrast. And it was the ultimate unknown, so much of it unexplored, mocking yet tantalising at the same time. But it was never quite as simple (?) as that to her. There was something… utterly undefinable about how she felt when she was out in space, something that happened within her, that she just couldn't explain.

Rather than her lover, the plane was more her accomplice, allowing her to leave the company of her crewmates for a while so the stars could seduce her.

Her duty aboard the carrier vessel was service with the system/planetary recon unit. While the carrier would remain a few safe Astronomical Units outside a promising stellar system, she and other pilots like her would jump in and examine the planets and other bodies about the sun. The mission never varied: Find new planets for Humanity to colonise and/or meet and open up diplomatic channels with new races.

Footsteps sounded on the metal walkway beside her. It was only when she opened her eyes that she realised they'd been closed. She lifted her head from her arms and opened bleary eyes to stare up at the maintenance tech standing beside her.

"Hi, Jen," Marc Leary said.

"Nnnhi, Marc," Jen replied, blinking bleary eyes up at him. "Ws I sleep ngain?"

Marc smiled. "Uh huh. Not for too long, though. I checked on you ten minutes ago and you were still awake. Least, I think you were."

Jen climbed unsteadily to her feet, loosening her duty fatigues from where the walkway had pressed them against her skin. "You could've just left the two of us here alone, y'know?"

Marc shook his head. "Not with you on duty tomorrow. I know Mae wouldn't appreciate you being bleary at her controls."

Jen smiled over at her sleeping plane, at where she had hand-painted Mae West on either side of its sleek nose. "We're so lucky to have a nice guy like you taking care of us both, Marc," Jean said, cocking a wry grin at the technician.

"Y'kiddin'? Us techs aren't that lucky. Heck you and Mae only have time for each other!"

Jen laughed. "Hey, wait a minute - you're the one who gets to lift her skirts and caress her privates!"

Marc rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but when I go up and see her sometime, Mae's a frigid bitch. That ain't sex, it's making sure her plumbing's in order. Hey, I'm a gynaecologist!"

Jen grinned broadly at that while Marc led her out of the maintenance bay. "C'mon, let's get you back to your bunk."