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The MISC Hull Series “10-4, Hull-C Alpha Seven Seven,” the voice of the Vega weigh station’s traffic control officer cracked over my comm. “You’re cleared to the outer marker. Clear skies.” I’d stopped at Vega for a gallon of coffee and what might charitably be called a sandwich, and then found myself stuck in the outbound queue in the middle of planetary rush hour. 45 minutes of shaking my fist at short-hop Aurora pilots who clearly never learned to fly and I was late. Which meant that 1,530 S…