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Fifteen Minutes Earlier?.
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"Quentin, me mon, you got a copy?"
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"I'm right here, Shaaaa. I'm scrambling to two, four, niner."
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Charlie Shaaaa quickly set his digicitizen deep-space scanner to the coordinates mentioned and plugged in the code he and Quentin had exchanged in their meeting at The Fishing Hole, Charlie's favorite haunt. "We're twelve minutes out and cooming up fast on da big rock. Tooch down on the agreed coordinates and I'll follow. Remember to cloak."
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"Like the phantom himself, baby." Quentin set his ship, The Christine, to auto-rotation. "Setting coordinates . . . . Prepare for the big spin, folks," he told his crewmates and yawned to relieve pressure that was steadily building in his ears. "The magical mystery robe is on, and we're ready to touch solid ore. Does anyone need to go to the lobby before the aria?" Quentin's team mostly grunted and sniffed, uninterested. "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. It ain't gonna be over 'til the fat lady sings."
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"Cut with the twentieth century opera analogies, Quint," growled Dagger, his co-pilot. I never have understood your fascination with that genre.
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"Lock 'n' load!" A crewmate from the rear of the craft yelled a few minutes later as The Christine touched down on Victoria Asteroid.
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