Out...and about
06 Jan 2019Dixon-Phyre
The door hissed aside and Mikael stepped through, his first real steps of freedom as he disembarked from the rattly Type-6 that had brought him to Asellus Primus. As he had left the ship, the pilot, lounging by the gangway, had wordlessly handed him a sealed packet; nodded at him then disappeared back into his ship. Mikael slipped on dark glasses to conceal his eyes and went out to face the world.After the confines of the prison complex, the corridors of Baker's Prospect seemed huge, even though this was hardly a large settlement. People went about their business. Unrelenting lights shone harshly. Adverts glowed their holographic messages. The unending recitation of announcements from the PA system. He found a bench and plonked himself down on it, head a-whirl. So many things to consider. What was he going to do now? Could he find work? More to the point, where was he gong to sleep tonight? He had a little money to his name, but he doubted it would cover the cost of even a cheap hotel for more than a night or two...
However, he realised there was something important he had to do, right now.
He watched the bartender remove the lid from the bottle of beer. Listened to the hiss of released gas, saw the little wisp of vapour.
Condensation ran down the sides of the bottle as he gently, reverentially, raised it to his lips. That first mouthful was indescribable. He let out a long sigh and smiled.
"Been waitin' a while for that, huh?" said the bartender. Mikael raised his eyebrows as he went to find a quiet seat.
"Yeah," he replied, "seven damn years..."
He sipped beer, knowing it would go straight to his head. He sighed again and pulled the packet from his jacket pocket. Setting the bottle down, he opened the packet and carefully shook its contents out. A wrist terminal. A few documents. He picked up the covering letter and read it. Took a long pull on his beer, read it again. The feeling he'd had when Klowski had said he was being released crept back. It still felt like someone's bad idea of a joke. He took a deep breath; time to find out for sure.
The hanger door hissed open, and a wave of chill air, tinted with the smell of burnt metal washed over him. He shivered as that icy air hit him; the thin t-shirt and black denims that were all he had to wear did not exactly offer much warmth. He stepped slowly inside and gazed up. A starship. Someone had given him an actual starship.
Faulcon DeLacy Sidewinder. Not a new one, judging by the paintwork and general state of it. But a working, functional ship, none the less. He activated the wrist terminal and searched it until he found what he was after. Moment of truth time...he tapped the icon and held his breath...
The boarding ramp rumbled out and the hatch at the top opened. He pulled a second bottle of beer from inside his jacket and swigged as he walked into the ship, gazing down the dimly-lit central passageway, breathing in the smell of dust, oil and hydrogen fuel. Peered into the minute galley - there were packs of rations in the drawers - looked into the tiny living quarters - a Remlok suit hung on the wall - ducked into the cramped cockpit. He sat down in the pilot's chair, gazing around and taking mouthfuls of beer, still trying to grasp that all this was real. The ship. And a new bank account with one thousand credits in it. The beer had indeed gone right to his head and everything felt unreal. But then something occurred to him and he smiled, as he drained the bottle. At least he had somewhere to sleep tonight.