Mail Call: Chapter 1

	There was a time when mankind looked up to the stars and saw only dark emptiness, dotted with a few, rare pips of light. It had seemed so distant, so remote as to be literally beyond our scope of understanding. But then, mankind once viewed the sea that way as well, but before long we had explored it, conquered it, tamed it and eventually built ourselves homes both above and below it. Naturally, we would do the same to the stars.
	It started slowly enough, one small step for man, and then one giant leap for mankind. It wasn’t long before the countries that quarreled over the relatively minute space of the earth expanded themselves to the varied and numerous planets around, with new technology came new distances the peoples of earth could place between each other. Just as the sail fell to the engine, so too did the conventional rockets fall to jump-drives and warp-thrusters.
	Before long mankind had placed so much distance between themselves that even light-speed messages required generations to pass from the furthest outpost to mother earth, to the point where it would take less time to use a jump-drive ship to hand the message to them in person than it would to send it over light-speed communication networks.
	And so they did just that; giving rise to the very unusual profession of Deep Space Postman. These brave and often underappreciated men and women held with them the vital task of ensuring communications between the various colonies and were often the only means that allied systems had of warning against war or famine or disease.
	The typical long range messenger was a small craft, just enough to fit the oversized engine required to leap the overwhelming distances between ports and fuel depots as well as a cabin to house the crew of 1-4 workers. Trips between systems could take up to a week despite the ludicrous power of the vessels, during which weaker-willed individuals might go mad from the close-quarters and isolation.
	As such, those employed as Deep Space Postmen, often given such terms as Jump-Jockeys, Messengers, Postals,  Mailmen or Brick-Phones, are picked from only the most elite of pilots and freighters. Shouldered with the words and thoughts of hundreds of thousands of souls, they are humanity’s sole currier of knowledge and information in the universe. A task few aspire to, but all require, the unsung heroes of the Age of Distance.
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	Jordan Francisco Magnusson reclined lazily in his seat, the massive video screen casting a dim light over the small lecture hall. The film continued spouting it’s rather optimistic view of the honor and valor of Jump-Jockeys, despite the majority of potential applicants who filled the room being second or third generation Postman, some even stretching farther back than that. He was well aware of the importance of the job, how it was one of the “single most important occupations their society had”, he was also brutally aware of how boring, monotonous and mind-numbingly lonely it could be.
	Jordan came from a long line of mailmen, his grandfather even insisted that his great, great ancestors had been part of the pony express, and much of his childhood had been spend aboard a boat belonging to his parents.
	He had just graduated from a small secondary school on the agricultural world Áine, and while he didn’t fancy the thought of spending the best years of his life carting postcards and love letters from planet to planet, the job paid damn well and his lineage had more or less ensured him employment. He had figured he’d work a few years there, save up some money and get a ship of his own, maybe become a trader or apply for a naval academy.
	As the lights in the auditorium rose, his attention was draw back to the podium in the center where a thin, elderly man stood; dressed to perfection in a black and silver business suit, his grey hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail. Greeting the room, he introduced himself as one Theodore Shaw-Banks, the illustrious son of Gerald Shaw-Banks, the leading mind behind the Uljori-Shaw-Banks Jump Drive. While not the first of its kind, the USB Drive had accomplished the task of reducing travel time between systems nearly in half.
	While many in attendance sat forward in their seats, excited by the presence of such an important figure in their seemingly unnoticeable academy, Jordan stayed reclined. He was well aware of this speech, he had stood next to his father the last time he had heard it, and Mr. Shaw-Banks had worn the same exact suit and the exact same ponytail then. The truth was, the person before them was simply a holo-cast of Teddy that they had used every year, likely bought of some teaching aids service or another.
	In actual fact, Jordan’s attention was focused on the line of individuals standing at the back of the room. A collection of senior Postals, likely alumni from the Áine Academy for Deep Space Postman, stood patiently waiting for the hologram to finish. It was customary for new applicants to be given a “trial by fire”, being grouped up with an experienced mailman and taken on a short, week-long trip from Áine to Danu and back. It served to gauge their ability to handle the stress involved in jump-flight as well as help weed out the less-determined applicants.
	It also succeeded in pawning off a week’s worth of lessons on someone else while the teachers counted their paychecks and then proceeded to drink them away.
	Most groupings were selected at random, though there was the option of submitting a request beforehand, for a fee of course. Jordan had instead taken a slightly different route, electing to request a solo flight where it would just be him and his randomly selected mentor. The advantages of a solo flight were twofold, it gave him the chance to learn one on one with a veteran pilot who would frequently show off unorthodox or lesser-known tricks and tips, as well as showing a sense of independence on his record, which would go a long way.
	When all was said and done, groups assigned and meeting times determined, Jordan returned to his simple dorm. He had held off decorating, leaving most of his belongs still packed and pushed in the corner. He was well aware of the way things went at the Áine Academy, and saw no reason to fill a room that he was simply going to leave empty for a week right after. Grabbing his pre-packed bags, he decided to be fashionably early for his meeting with his mentor, one Taylor Ostrander. Making his way across campus, he looked up at the massive bubble that encapsulated the university. Áine was an agricultural word, a breadbasket for most of system surrounding it, however while the food grow on the purple planet was safe for human consumption, the air was very much not; as such the few pockets of civilization that made their homes on the world were kept safe within these large domes.
	This was all old hat to him by now, having spent largely half of his 19 years alive on the planet, the other half shoved in a metal box with his parents and, eventually, his younger sister.
	Sipping his Caff-and-half, a mix of standard coffee and a high caffeine plant native to Áine called nerve-leaf, Jordan waited patiently for his new instructor to arrive. Taylor hadn’t been one of the people physically AT the lecture, mostly because of the finite space of the building, which gave Jordan the chance to guess at his appearance.
	Considering they were a veteran, he imagined they were probably in their late 40’s, probably lanky from so much time in zero-gee. They probably tried to dress too well yet ignored their physical hygiene, like most Jump-Jockeys; after all there was very little room for showers in the small crafts they used. He imagined he was balding like Jordan’s father was, and smelled like sweat, spray deodorant and cheap whiskey.
	That was probably why it took him so long to notice when his actual teacher walked in.
	He heard a cough from his left as he lounged on a picnic table near the coffee shop. Turning he saw a rather attractive woman, he guessed around her early to mid-30s, eying him.
	“This seat taken?” She asked, her voice smooth and thick like caramel.
	Jordan was rightly confounded at first, this hadn’t been the first time a girl had approached him. He was not unattractive, possessing a trim and modest build with well-defined shoulders and a handsome face, his clothes fit him well and his pale skin had just enough color to avoid looking sickly. He even occasionally managed to wrangle his blonde mop of hair into something resembling an attractive shape.
	This was, however, his first time being approached by an attractive, older woman. Gesturing to the open seat on the bench he looked her over. She was taller, at least taller than him, and had an athletic build, lean but fit. Her skin was a creamy white that went well with her curly orange hair and a spattering of freckles fell over her nose in a manner he found rather appealing. She was dressed in a pair of short but loose gym shorts that hung long on her hips and a close fitting t-shirt.
	She seemed to think for a moment before taking a seat right next to Jordan. Her leg pressing against his as she took a sip of her drink, some manner of iced coffee he suspected, she turned to thank him. Seizing the opportunity, Jordan offered his hand.
	“Jordan Magnusson, my friends call me Frankie.” He did his best the give a winning smile, taking care not to let his gaze dip from her dusky brown eyes to her bust; her breasts small but big enough to fit in his hand, or his mouth.
	He was glad he had spared her his wondering eyes when she introduced herself in turn, “Taylor Ostrander, seems I’ll be your mentor.” Her grin was playful and knowing.
	Jordan could feel a blush hot on his cheeks and gave a small laugh, “I’m not going to lie, I was expecting some sweaty guy in his 50’s, not…” He searched for an appropriate compliments, but it seemed Taylor would have none of it.
	“A hot piece of ass?” She laughed, a hearty chuckle that brightened and pinched her features. “Come on, daylight’s burning and you’re already packed, let’s get you on board and see what you know.”
	Jordan almost couldn’t believe this woman, she was the complete opposite of what he had expected, considering his father and the few work friends he had brought to visit. Still, he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to spend the next week on a small, intimate craft with such an interesting and open woman. Shouldering his bags he stood just moments before she did.
	“I was aiming for a more subtle approach honestly. Though, I am looking forward to serving under you.” He couldn’t keep the teasing edge from his voice, though he knew it was rather unprofessional.
	She didn’t seem to mind at all, grinning as she raised an eyebrow, “You’ll have to keep up. Let’s see if we can put that youthful energy to good use.”
	With that she turned and started jogging towards the dock, giving the boy a nice look at her ass. And god what an ass, he thought, you could probably bounce a credit chip off it and kill a man. Plentiful and pronounced, it bounced and swayed enticingly with eager step she took. That, combined with her soft, supple thighs and way her hips flared out to accent them held him in place for a good few moments as he imagined eating that ass for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Finally he recovered only to learn first-hand how annoying it was to run with a hard on.
	For a spacer she was quick on her feet and Jordan considered that she must have done a fair bit of resistance training to keep that fit in the zero-to-low gravity of the mailships. And judging from her backside she must have done more than her fair share of squats.
	As they made their way through the grounds towards the hanger, Jordan found himself constantly having to force his eyes away from her rear to avoid pedestrians and passersby, yet he couldn’t bring himself to try and catch up to Taylor, lest he deprive himself from that view. Eventually, the pair made their way to the far end of the university, to a large airlock leading into where the shuttles sat, waiting to ferry the potential applicants to their ships.
	The rectangular craft was cramped and loud, depriving the young man from getting in more than a few questions in, though the view from the circular viewport was rather incredible and Jordan had been lucky enough to snag a window seat. No matter how often he saw them, the masses of ships and stars over varying sizes and colors and shapes never failed to steal his attention. That was, of course, until he felt a hand press on his thigh.
	Turning, he found himself face to face with the older woman, his eyes drawn over her mature features, the subtle lines around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes. Where on most women they would age them, on her they seemed to accent. He was just about to do something stupid when he realized she was looking out the window.
	“Some view, eh?” Her words leaving with a warm sigh.
	Turning, Jordan’s eyes joined hers.
	“It sure is.”
	The shuttle finally docked with Taylor’s craft, which was held in orbit via magnetic anchor. Due to its size, shape and lack of hover thrusters, it would be a bitch to get back into orbit once it touched down; instead most crafts of its size stayed in permanent orbit when they weren’t in transit, signaling the specially made “Go-Between” shuttles to transport the occupants on and off-planet. Each vessel required a special, unique pass to signal a return trip, as well as a biometric ID, making ship theft difficult to the point that only the most desperate attempted it.
	Passing through the airlock, Jordan surveyed the small ship. Past the initial entry way on the portside the hallway formed a T, at the bow was the cockpit with two doors on either side. Taylor’s ship was a Terra-Cotter class USB-Drive Mail-boat, meaning it was a bit more luxurious than most two-person ships. However, that simply meant it had a separate bathroom with a door.  Aft was the small engine room that housed the drive which made up fully half of the entire ship.
	Taylor explained in simple terms that the door on the right was the cabin and the one on the left was the bathroom. Attached and slightly aft of the cabin was the databank/storage for the mail and small packages, larger ones were stored below or required the use of a separate cargo freighter which was slower but cost much less. Getting settled at the helm, the veteran woman told the newbie to stow his luggage while she maneuvered far enough away to drop into warp.
	As he floated through the small craft, he did his best to seem at home in the low gravity environment, even if he hadn’t been in space for a good year or two now. As he transitioned from cockpit to cabin, he noticed some odd straps on the bed, likely to keep the sleeper from floating away. The cabin was small, the bed taking up all of the floor space with shelves covering the walls, the ceiling was either a viewport or, more likely, a monitor that just happened to be tuned to an outdoor camera at the moment.
	Stowing his luggage he joined his new mentor, clicking himself into the co-pilot’s seat. Grinning, the older woman looked over at him. “Ready to drop into warp kid?”
	Nodding, he replied, “Yes ma’am.”