The Archivist

By Jameson C. Smith

You nearly fall through the door of the ship’s command deck but manage to catch yourself against the back of the empty copilot’s chair.

“Hop in.” The pilot doesn’t look at you, dark eyes fixed on the controls.

“I-I’m an archivist.” Still, the chair is probably safer than standing when the ship’s this unsteady. You clamber into it, white-knuckling the arms.

“I know,” he says sharply as he banks the ship to avoid debris. “But I hear you’re trained in navigation.”

“It was my secondary focus in training.”

“The nav’s beacons got knocked out when we took that second hit. We’re off-course and Base can’t track us. I can’t fix the nav and fly us out. Congrats on your temporary promotion.”

“Promotion? I’m just here to manage the cargo and flight logs.” Which you had been doing when something collided with the ship, tipping it sideways and triggering alarms and flashing lights. Now, you watch massive rocks cluster uncomfortably close to the window. “Where’s the copilot?”

“Medbay.”

“Why?”

“Do I look like the doctor?” He grits his teeth and raises a bloodied hand to the overhead switches. “Concussion, we hope. Either way she’s out of commission and you’re what we’re left with. Let’s just hope you’re good with an older nav system, yeah?”

“Says the fancy flyer who almost crashed us.”

A sharp exhale slips through his lips. “I thought I could get us through, all right? I messed up the data points, otherwise we never would’ve been flying through this debris field to begin with.”

He’s one of the best pilots—or so you’ve heard and read. He must have earned all those medals and accolades for a reason, but this is your first flight on his ship and you’re beginning to question those supposed skills. “Must sting to admit you made a mistake.”

“I—” His jaw twitches.

Your words have hit their mark, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. “Just handle the flying and I’ll manage the nav.”

“Brace!” The warning comes just in time for you to heed it as he swivels out of the way of a giant careening quartz.

You find and boot up the manual nav-drive and start setting anchor points. The charts are accurate enough, but they aren’t synced with the newer in-ship system. “Why haven’t these systems been synced?” you grumble as your fingers speed over the keys.

“Just get it working!”

“Can we overlay?”

“Green switch to your left and the control pad under it.”

You input commands and connect the drive, and then the window panels fill out with the pale green of the display. The ship is a little blue blip floating across the gridlines.

The pilot gives you a sharp look. “Can you really guide us true?”

“You want to handle it yourself, or let me do what you called me in here for?”

Something in his actions seems less certain than when you first took the chair beside him. “You can handle it,” he mutters.

You resume running numbers to reset the course and reorient yourself—and more importantly, the ship. Minutes pass, and aside from your conveyance of coordinates and the occasional muttered word from him, there’s nothing to say. The alarms continue to shriek elsewhere in the ship.

“Whoa, there,” the pilot says and jerks the controls to the left as debris grazes the underside of the ship.

A jolt, a metallic ringing—

“Oh, stars above—”

The ship shudders uncertainly, but he doesn’t falter in guiding it back into line. Mistake or not, he’s still the pilot, and of the two of you, he’s the one who knows how to fly this thing.

“We’re going to make it out,” you say, keeping your tone light.

“Let’s hope so.” The blue blip steadies on the grids. His hands tighten on the controls, but you can see some of the tension leave his shoulders.

Through the window, you study the sparse edges of the debris field. Almost safe, but still without help if something else goes wrong.

Unless…

You unbuckle your harness and kneel in front of the copilot chair. “This ship model—the nav’s core is here, right? Beacons and all?”

“Yeah.” The pilot breaks his gaze from the window, brow furrowed. “Can you fix them?”

“No, but I have another idea.”

“What…”

You meet his gaze. “Yes?”

“Never mind. You know what you’re doing. I’ll trust that.”

He’s quiet while you open the compartment and fiddle with wires, ports, and switches. Now, if you can connect the older system to the new…

Thankfully, most of the tech is compatible. With some careful reworking of wires and a muttered wish, you hit the reset switch and hold your breath.

Codes, codes, more codes—and then data points start flashing across the nav.

“Stars,” the pilot breathes. “Is that…?”

“We can use the manual nav as a temporary tracker with data from the in-ship system. Hopefully we won’t need it, but if we do, Base can see us.”

He looks impressed. “Maybe you should be flying us.”

“I’m not certified to fly.” You nudge his shoulder, settle back into your chair, and secure your harness. “Sorry about what I said earlier. We all make mistakes, and I was out of line.”

“Don’t be. I deserved it for getting us into this mess and putting everyone in danger. I’d no right to take it out on you.” He glances at you. “You hear that?”

You shake your head—and then realize what he means. No screaming alarms. No flashing lights. “We did it.”

“When we get back to Base, I could recommend you for copiloting…”

“Thanks, but I like being an archivist. You can focus on that fancy flying,” you say with a smile. The nav chirps as you input new data points. Behind the display, the last of the debris passes by, and the ship’s blue blip is bright against the quiet expanse of space beyond. “I’ve set us a clear course home.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jameson C. Smith is a genre-dabbling writer who’s been in love with stories since she was a little girl. When she isn’t getting lost in fictional worlds or chasing her own characters, she enjoys adventures in the real world, baking cozy things, and spending time with her family and cats.

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