You Snooze, You Lose
10 Aug 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
The first thing I notice is that I'm naked, slouched in the commander's chair of my Cobra. That isn't exactly normal for me, but it isn't abnormal, either. The second thing I notice is the message informing me that my cargo had been unloaded, with fifty-thousand credits deposited into my account. Which was great, except-
Son of a bitch. Did I really pass out that hard?
The third thing I notice is the message right above it, notifying me that my post-unloading grace period has expired and my dock rental fees are currently at six thousand credits.
My eyes widen and I bolt upright, bare feet hitting the floor.
No... that means I've been out since-
I check the time. Turns out my little o-head nap turned into my night's sleep. I close my eyes hard and open them again. Yep. It says what it says. The memories of my stay return to me in a flash. The arrival. Meeting that guy at the bar. The satisfying romp. Kicking him out. The fat ol' joint of pure Panem leaf...
Well, Kyndi Jane, looks like you got fucked in more ways than one this trip.
With a snort of disgust, I transfer the credits to the station docking authority. I'm officially ten-thou in the hole, even after a successful run. Normally, that wouldn't be too much of a problem, but I just paid a few major bills, and my credits are now officially running low...
Great. That's what I get for combining a sex nap with an o-head nap.
Above my head, ships come and go at the same brusque pace as before. Unlike last time, they aren't a source of stoned amusement. Now, they all seem to mock me.
I bet none of these other assholes are going to blow it because of a snooze gone into overtime. Nice one, Kyndi. Real nice.
Well, I still have fifteen minutes before the dock rental ticks again. That gives me just enough time to get dressed and fly the hell out of here. It only takes me five to pull on a flight suit, two to make sure my hair looks okay, and another to grab a ship ration and canister of orange juice. I'll have breakfast on the go, but for now I've got to scoot.
"Scoot."
That's what I had told the guy to do right as I was kicking him out. Now it's my turn to be shown the door- or in this case, the mail slot. Except I hadn't fined the guy six grand for overstaying his welcome.
I smile sarcastically as the tower duly grants my departure request. What would you call that? Not the pecking order. The fucking order, maybe?
The docking clamps release and I take control of my Cobra, jetting it straight up and easing the throttle forward. It's tempting to hit the boosters and pull an adios, motherfucker, but it's better to not draw attention to oneself. The point of smuggling is to stay off the radar, after all. So it's nice and easy as the blue light of the mail slot envelopes my ship.
And profit. The other point of smuggling is that you make money, not lose it all after getting high and passing out.
Once I'm a comfortable distance away from the station, I swing to my left and pull up the galaxy map. I've got to take another job, and fast. But for whom?
I was just at Dan and Monty's nightclub a few weeks ago. They're fixed for disco pharmaceuticals for at least a month. They'd buy, but not enough to make the trip worth it.
Then there's the black markets of Panem. It's the number one spot to get o-head for rock-bottom price, but it's crawling with leftover Feds since their righteous little drug war a few months back.
I break open a ship ration and take a bit, chewing as I scroll down my list of affiliates. A lot of them aren't exactly in the bubble, and tend to be a pain in the ass to actually contact. Except for Jimbo. Jimbo always has work for me...
My face twists into a grimace. He isn't exactly my first choice, but-
You're short on cash, and you'll be even shorter if you waste time sniffing around for a job.
"Big Jim" Masterson is a small-time ship dealer with big-time ambitions. He operates out of Wollheim Vision in the Fuelem system, the cheekily-named home turf of those starry-eyed do-gooders, the Fuel Rats. Half the ships that the Rats fly come from him, and it was rumored that more stolen ship parts passed through his hands than the rest of the black market combined. Authority can't touch him either, since he's too close to the Fuel Rats to risk scandal.
Besides, he sells them their ships, too.
I frowned as I set the course to Fuelum. Jimbo is a big, greasy slimeball of a client- but he pays well and even throws in a few bonus goodies from time to time. You just have to be prepared to tolerate his oily gaze over your curvy parts.
Well, for what he pays, I can stand to be ogled for a little bit. It's time to put the ledger back in the black.
The nav computer finishes plotting the route, and I take another bite of the ration bar as the frameshift drive spools up.
And this time, don't let your kitty do the thinking.
