Like a Fox on the Run

of pride welling up in his father’s eyes the day he watched them pin his son’s rockets on. The Old Man had always dreamed of rockets and space since his web-comic days as a young kid. If Tiger had been graduating from med school, he wouldn’t have been any prouder. It had been the first time Tiger had ever seen the man cry. Not even when Mama Thomas died had he shed a tear. And even Uncle Mud had misted up a little then.
As long as he lived, he would never recall a fonder recollection.
Tiger came back to reality as the NavCom brought Jenny in over the landing pad and landed her with the lightness of a feather on a pillow. The dashboard stripper slowly came to a much-needed rest. As he ran through his post-flight shutdown, the four, throaty Star*Burst Super Novas slowly, reluctantly submitted. The blue rings of flame and light inside the nozzles turned red and then to orange before finally fading and dying out with some stubborn crackling and sizzling. Before they even cooled, ground techs swarmed over the pad, securing the ship.
“How’d I do?” Jenny asked and he could sense the pride in her voice.
“Not bad,” he removed his helmet and winked, knowing her sensors would detect the slightest facial movement. “Keep it up and maybe we’ll get that learner’s permit we’ve been talking about.”
“I’m glad you’re in a better mood, now.” She’d obviously picked up on his earlier feelings of anger and resentment. “Welcome home, Tanner. Please … enjoy your weekend ... and stay out of trouble!”
“Thanks, doll. Gonna do my damnedest!” Unbuckling his re-entry harness, Tiger gave thanks for a safe landing to J.C., the patron saint of all redneck rocket jockeys everywhere. He kissed his first two fingers and touched them to the photo of the Man in Black, Johnny Cash. He always kept it taped to the overhead console right above his head. Nobody really knew how a musician from another era and another century had become so influential again in this one. Maybe it was because modern music sucked so bad now. Everything was computerized. Nobody could actually play any real instruments, and even the voices were artificial sometimes. Anybody could get on a PDC and record a song. And it usually sounded just like they’d done exactly that.
But J.C., he was the real deal. There was something about listening to that powerful baritone out in the midst of the Great Black. It could comfort and reassure you while making you feel lonely all at the same time. He could make you feel like you were the only person left in the universe … and you wouldn’t care. Not as long as you had Sunday Morning Comin’ Down, Hurt, or Folsom Prison Blues in your PDC.
He climbed out of the pilot seat and made his way back to the rear of the cabin. He stuffed a meal bar into his jacket and a few more into his flight bag. Slinging it over his shoulder, he hit the main hatch lever. There was a loud hiss, as the hatch cracked open and the cabin slowly depressurized. Blinding sunlight and a pleasant breeze poured into the cabin. The sweet smell of honeysuckle wafted in from the nearby fields. After so many months of breathing the antiseptic smell of a spaceship interior … it was nauseating.
“Tiger, my man!” Dontaeus “Dee Train” Ridley, the pad supervisor, greeted him as he sauntered down the mobile ramp. Ridley and Tiger went way back, to the beginning of the Rush. Ridley had graduated the trainee program in the same class Tiger had. Both were seasoned veterans of the Huntsville rocket scene. He and Tiger shook out their ships during the construction of Lunas Three and Four. They’d both done some freelance work years ago on Mars, when wildcatting had actually been profitable after all the colonization work had settled down.
An accomplished pilot in his own right, Dee’s true talent was his mechanical genius. He could diagnose a problem with a Charger simply from feeling the vibrations of the engine through the firewall. Sometimes, just listening to the pilot describe a ping or a hum over the com was all it took. Even Dalton James, the inventor of the Charger, would later say Dee Train Ridley knew his ships better than he did. In fact, there was not a man in the trade who knew rockets better than the stocky, beloved pilot who always had a smile on his face and a kind word for everyone. When James started up his Super Charger concept, he lured Ridley out of the cockpit, hiring him as the Master Builder for the upgrade project, overseeing construction of all prototype models.
When Weird Wednesday went down, Dee Train was one of the many affected by the fallout. Older, married and settled now, he opted to stay behind on Earth when his boss left for the ‘Roids. When the VBSP was completed, he’d accepted a position at the shiny new port. Steady pay. Good benefits. Government pension plan. Sleep in the same bed every night. Hell, Tiger couldn’t blame him. He had to wonder why he wasn’t that smart.
“Dee! Whazzup, my man!” Tiger and Ridley grasped hands in the customary Spacefarer’s Handshake. “Good to see you, Bro!”
“Damn, your ass gets older every time you come rock side!” Ridley shook his head.
“Speak for yourself!” Tiger nodded towards the shiny black dome of Ridley’s head. “Where’d the hell your ‘fro go, man?”
“That bitch was shrinkin’ on me! I couldn’t do that George Jefferson look. I went Cool J on that shit!”
“Who?” He’d totally lost Tiger with that reference. But before Dee could expound, the expected nausea finally got to him. Gravity’s Revenge. He held up a finger to the crew chief, as he made his way over to the pad’s edge to empty the contents of his stomach into the