Doing the right thing , 1: What's that smell ?
09 Jan 2022Alysianne
[05 Jan. 3308]I step off Kingfisher's ramp, greeted by a wave of freezing air and a nauseating stench. Blowing sharply out of my nose, I immediately put my helmet back on and slam the visor down. With a soft hiss, stale, bottled air fills the helmet. Much better than the bloody open sewage odour that lingers in this mess of a hangar, with its flickering lights, hissing vents and barely liveable temperature. Blast I forgot how bad an infrastructure failure can be when living in a tin can orbiting around a backwater planet in the middle of nowhere.
I quickly make my way to the closest shuttle-lift to the station’s concourse, mag-boots clanking. Of bloody course the Imperials would target the outpost’s base functions to try and bring Gold Universal down – and GU couldn’t do much to prevent it, could they, what with the nitwit goons that call themselves this system’s “security officers”. And it’s not like this snazzy new Imp Cartel that came out of nowhere has many qualms about making these people’s lives an absolute misery in order to kick GU out and take their place.
The shuttle-lift shudders to a halt. Thankfully it didn’t break down along the way, and brought me in one piece to the station’s living, beating heart. Sarcasm intended – only the bored Apex employee slouching behind his desk glances over to me before looking back at his screen. At least the lights here are mostly functional. And they did their best to heat the place up to bearable temperatures – although a quick flick of my visor lets me learn all I need to know about the… Olfactive situation of this place. Back down my visor goes, then.
I walk down to the bar, where a few miserable-looking patrons linger. As I pass, a few eyes turn towards me from the assortment of shivering locals sitting in the lounge. No doubt most of these have set up camp here in the hope of catching a Commander like me to haul some literal shit to the arsehole of the galaxy in the name of the greater good, or something stupid like that.
“I'll take a coffee, please. Strong, plenty of sugar.” The tired-looking bartender grunts and grabs a plastic sealed goblet from a shelf behind him. As he prepares my drink, I glance back to the lounge, resting an elbow on the counter in such a way that the red Winters insignia painted on my flight suit’s shoulder is clearly visible to anyone over there. Most of the prospective employers scowl slightly and get back to their grumpy waiting at that point. A Winters agent here can only mean one thing.
Sounds of someone hitting metal catches my attention. I turn back to the bartender and find him bodily shaking the coffee machine, cursing under his breath as the thing finally starts spitting out coffee with a broken up whirring sound. I’m starting to regret having ordered anything from this place…
A few minutes later, trying very hard not to breathe through my nose as I sip the tasteless sock juice of a drink this place has to offer, a sneery-looking official walks up to me. I glance at her badge – bingo, HIP 51748 Gold Universal Corp.
“The FLC sends their regards,” I mutter through my straw. “Heard you were experiencing some…” I wave my hand around to the general dishevelment of the place, “technical difficulties. I’m here to lend a hand.”
“Yes, yes, very well, it’s about time some more agents showed up, isn’t it? We can’t really… lend our support to the cause if we don’t have a system to control, hm?” The tall woman has deep bags under her eyes and looks distinctly sour – like everything else in this place, as a matter of fact. “We barely managed to maintain control when the neighbouring "Imperial Society" folk showed up, and then those bastards from Kamas came over guns blazing – and now this new Cartel is threatening to ram the station into the planet just to kick us out!”
I take a sip of my drink, and scowl. Fuck, how can one butcher coffee so badly? “Sure, but we were the ones to haul you out of those messes - you wouldn’t be here without us in the first place. And we’ve seen your balance sheets – the real ones, mind. Winters is basically holding you together at this point, so quit whining and tell me what to fix to get your production up and running again before you become just another client of these Yaso Kondi bozos.” Ah, balls. Not the most diplomatic, but fuck can Imperials get on my nerves quickly.
The official blinks a few times, visibly shaken by the bluntness of the retort. “The balance sheets..? We’ve - I - Yes – yes, of course.” Slightly flushed, she takes a deep breath and continues tersely. “We’ve been having severe power outages in, uhm, all our surface settlements – and we’ve had to… We’ve had to evacuate most of them, and, well, now they’re overrun by some... scavengers come to pillage our equipment.”
Huh. And since none of their “security” idiots know how to hold a handgun without firing a plasma slug into their face in the process, they couldn’t send in teams to get the settlements running again. Typical.
“Sure. Hand over some spare power regulators, I’ll see what I can do.” The Imperial looks slightly taken aback for a second. She was probably expecting more resistance – or at least discussion about the reward. “Well? What are you waiting for – go, shoo, get the damned components !” Waving the ruffled bureaucrat off, I’m left for a few minutes sipping what’s left of my black turd infusion and reflecting on how fucking much I hate dealing with Imps.
Cuz yeah, the galaxy’s weird like that. Sure Milady Felicia Winters is Shadow President of the Federation and all, but this underground influence war of ours? It knows no borders. If some no-name corpo in a backwater system is ready to support our influence network – and Winters is especially good at dealing with corporations – then who gives a shit if they’re Fed, Imp, Allie or Indie, that’s all we need to know.
Bah. Who am I fooling, I give a shit. I always feel icky after dealing with Imps. Sure, they have to renounce using slaves and pledge to uphold a number of human rights to get Winters money – but still, it just doesn’t sit right with me. “Do what is right, not what is easy” is what my FLC badge says on the left of my chest – but at some point, Realpolitik kicks in and you gotta throw a thing or two out the window. Like signing a couple contracts with Imperial firms. I scrunch the now empty cheap plastic goblet in my hand as I wait for that corpo lady to return with the materials I need.
“Ship restraints released, please observe safety regulations a-” I cut off the voice comms as Kingfisher’s vertical thrusters push me down against my seat.
“Right-o, I’ll do just that” I mutter sarcastically, fingers flying across the control panel, pressing buttons in quick succesion.
“Landing gear retracted.” Damn, even the COVAS sounds relieved to exit that shuddering mess of a station.
I smash the boost button, manoeuvering out of the way of the gigantic fucking solar panel some braindead engineer decided to slap right in front of the landing pad. Kingfisher’s thrusters roar as I skim the outpost’s walls and point my ship’s nose towards “Savchuk’s Biological”, some research settlement across the system that needs repairing.
(Kingfisher "observing safety regulations")
A few seconds later, I exit the station's mass-lock area. “Friendship drive, engaged” I echo the COVAS in a falsely perky voice. Man, I must sound insane when piloting. What can I say, sitting in a cockpit all day, subjected to all sorts of insane G-forces and temperatures and whatever tech sorcery manages to make frame shift faster than light, it does things to you. As my ship gathers speed, I stretch out a bit and let loose a long sigh.
Let’s get this job over with.