Jorus Q. Merrill
I'm a Vima-da-Boda, honey
Truth be told, Jorus had gone into piloting because he was a terrible passenger, a truly shameful backseat driver. That was at the best of times; today the agitation ran far deeper. Every instinct commanded him to stump up there to the cockpit and take over from the Gree charter pilot at the Gree-calibrated controls of a Gree starship. Jorus held himself back from lethal stupidity by force of will. No ship he'd ever built or flown could safely get close to a yellow star, let alone take a dive into pure solar fire. He was, in several ways, out of his depth.
"Final notice to please don your goggles, honored passenger," said the droid flight attendant scuttling past. "The shutters will open momentarily."
The little vessel carried only a handful of passengers, all hurrying to don their safety goggles. An intangible but very real energy surged in the passenger cabin as Jorus, and others, turned in their seats to get their first view of the inside of a star. He found himself mumbling an ancient rhyme or prayer in Olys Corellisi, a half-forgotten thing that somehow reached across most of the last century with perfect clarity tonight. Not that there was night inside a sun.
"Final notice to please don your goggles, honored passenger," said the droid flight attendant scuttling past. "The shutters will open momentarily."
The little vessel carried only a handful of passengers, all hurrying to don their safety goggles. An intangible but very real energy surged in the passenger cabin as Jorus, and others, turned in their seats to get their first view of the inside of a star. He found himself mumbling an ancient rhyme or prayer in Olys Corellisi, a half-forgotten thing that somehow reached across most of the last century with perfect clarity tonight. Not that there was night inside a sun.
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