[EDIT] Before The Morning After
01 May 2018Namita Pear
"Hey, Namita, uh, why can't I try some Dance Dust," is the stupid question Tyler asks me from behind the chair, continuing with, "we have like thirty tonnes of it. They won't notice a personal dose, or two–"He's about to say 'missing' and I make the mistake of turning around to cut him off. "For the last time, man, you don't skim your haulage! We already flew like four hundred thousand seconds to get this crap, I'm not gonna risk the party just so you can trip on the job." Dance Dust, for the uninformed, is a special type of mood alterant produced and exported exclusively from a lonely little outpost in Geawen. As the name implies, it makes you dance. It's going to be popular at the Sikorsky party for the reason that it works well, only messes your greater motor skills up in a fun way, and you can regulate its effects with some precision.
We've already hit the exclusion zone of the Vadimo star by the time I turn back and realize where our throttle's at. We had just jumped in, and while I was busy cursing my rookie fuck-up I could see Tyler slide past me to the right and hit the cockpit of YIAH, the Asp Explorer he was going to call home for the next few days of hauling. Though he complained, I was yet to put him in the copilot's berth, since unlike Wade the kid actually had no experience piloting anything even after the cash he made working for me and the Privateer's Alliance.
As his boss it was well within my rights to laugh my ass off as I saw him smack the automask of his Remlock up against my front view-port, and I did so with revel. I recall saying something like, "Holy shit, kid, you made that SO worth it!" He didn't think it was very funny, kicking off the glass to get back on the pilots deck and return to work, but it took a while for me to calm down, flying away from the sun.
"But listen," I continued, "assuming you could fool the canisters to think they weren't opened, and assuming when they weighed them the stevedores didn't realize it was fractions lighter than our manifest says, these are Imperials we're talking about. D'you really wanna risk it?"
"What's there to risk," he replied (with a tone I didn't like) as he reset the gestures his tumble messed up on the wall terminal. "Us having to go back for more? I mean, everyone's gonna be taking this stuff at the party, they're gonna go through a LOT of it."
"Yeah, but they'll fine you, man. For even more than the pity cash I'm paying you. Your ass is gonna be so deep in debt you'll ask for slavery when you see the inside of their prisons."
"The Imperial hegemony treats their slaves well, Namita."
"Yeah, you'll get assigned to a puppy manufactory."
"Look, I'll get to serve Senators their breakfast on an Interdictor, I'll be the best fuckin' slave they've ever seen!"
I dismissed the conversation with a grumble. He had work to do. Wade's substitute was a poor one, and as much as I stretched the old fart's contract with my obsession a week or two ago, I'm beginning to miss him pretty hard. As the only kid in the galaxy I knew with enough confidence to invite onboard (available to me) I hired Tyler to act as a desperate last resort, and errand boy. He made some sweet credits on fighter duty as we hauled equipment for the anti-thargoid installation, but lacked actual systems experience. I even asked him about what he had done when I went to pick him up on Barjavel:
"Oh, uhm, nuffin, reawwy." His mouth was full of pizzeta topped with some local craze that I didn't dare put on my slices. "Mh. Uh, what about you?"
"What? You haven't been reading my blog?" He hadn't. After I signed him on, I had that be his first job. It's not inflating view-counts if they work for you, is it? (Suddenly the idea of Imperial slaves doesn't seem so bad...)
Tyler tried his best to sign on as a rookie Eagle pilot at the HIP 33368 installation, but, being professionals, the PA refused him on grounds of inexperience. Truthfully, I never even let him telepresence the fighter on board our Anaconda. He set out to convince the shipyard to sell him a Sidewinder, but they wouldn't without employment or a Pilot's Federation license. The PF local branch didn't approve him on account of local troubles he'd gotten up to and weren't willing to overlook them without endorsement; poor Tyler had absolutely no clue how to reach me, too.
Couple this all with a spending spree and helping his family out with the money earned, and the kid was right back at square one, practically creaming his Remlock when I gave him a call from the docking bay at Barjavel. Of course, with him so desperate for more creds, an endorsement, and experience, I had the kid by the nuts and there was no way I would be starting a charity now.
And so here we are. Stocking up for the biggest party of 3304 (high target for taking place at the start of May) and letting the kid take a Viper out around the station when I need to eat. Life's good enough, and I'm keeping him busy trying to contact Wade and find out about the Professor's chauffeur so I can stop stalling and get into contact with the 'goids. When he's not kept busy, I find junk-food crumbs all over the living quarters, Imperial anthems in the music loop, and blurred-out images in my Galnet search history.
I really wish Wade would pick up the phone.
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See you at the party Namita! ♡ CMDR Wade Alexander