Ch 3 - Altitude and Denial

The interior of the Imperial airship smelled like lavender oil and engine grease. It had a quiet hum, a pressurized calm, like a floating control center from an old sci-fi film. The walls were matte black carbon composite, with brushed aluminum trim and soft green lights pulsing around thick steel-framed doors. Rows of toggles, buttons, and round-glass displays blinked softly behind reinforced panels—some labeled in Norsk, others in clipped English. He didn’t see the bridge, but even the glimpse of operators adjusting sliders and dials hinted at a retro-futuristic tech aesthetic designed for function, not flash.

Tucker-James clutched his duffel bag tightly, heart pounding as he stepped aboard.

He had imagined clean uniforms and firm handshakes, like the propaganda video had promised. What he got instead was hips—wide, swaying, absurd hips—striding confidently down the corridor in soft leather boots. The first crewwoman he passed wore a crisp officer’s jacket that barely contained the swell of her breasts. Below the jacket was a dark bodysuit with reinforced seams, clinging to every exaggerated curve like it had been sprayed on.

She smiled. Tucker almost tripped.

“Papers?” she asked in English, her accent lilting and warm.

He handed over the folder Pastor Elbert had packed for him, his eyes doing everything they could to remain north of her neckline. It wasn’t easy. Her cleavage formed a perfect, shining canyon beneath the brass pins of her collar.

She flipped through the documents, lips pursed thoughtfully. Then she looked back up, head tilted.

“You’re very cute,” she said cheerfully. “They’re going to love you in Oslo.”

“I—thank you, ma’am,” Tucker stammered.

Another officer passed by behind him, dragging a cart of travel rations. “That one?” she said, with a playful smirk. “Mmm. I’d love to play with his joystick.”

Tucker blinked, horrified.

The first officer gave her a warning look. “Don’t scare him. He’s clearly from one of the ‘Values’ nations.”

“I’m not scared,” Tucker said automatically. His voice cracked.

They both giggled. The sound was light and sweet, like kindergarten teachers discussing which cookies to serve—except these women looked like pin-ups engineered by an overworked AI with a fertility fetish.

He hurried down the corridor, his shoes squeaking slightly on the rubber floor. His bunk was in a small private cabin—clean, cold, steel-plated, with a thick, fluffy Norwegian-style duvet and a compact console on the wall. He threw his bag on the cot and sat down, knees shaking slightly.

This wasn’t what he’d imagined. But then again, nothing had been so far. At least the bedding looked decent. He ran a hand over the duvet—plush, soft, oddly luxurious. Way nicer than the scratchy quilt back home in Solhavn. Maybe this part was okay. Maybe God was easing him in. Pressure regulation? Thermal retention? Or just wealth. Imperial Norway was supposed to be rich, after all. Rich and righteous.

God worked in mysterious ways.

He closed his eyes and whispered a quick prayer.

“Lord, I trust in Your plan. Please don’t let this be a test I fail with a visible erection.”

Somewhere outside his cabin, a voice echoed over the PA system—soft, sensual, and commanding:

“Welcome aboard the LZ-42 Noctilucent. We will be gliding along the western coastline of Imperial Norway. Please enjoy the views of our fjords, forests, and alpine ranges from your observation window. Our staff is here to ensure your comfort and emotional equilibrium. And remember: in Imperial airspace, affection is health.”

Tucker buried his face in his hands.

His pants were already starting to betray him.