My New Toy
15 Aug 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Yeah, Jim. You're right. She's beautiful. 
In that "Kyndi's getting paid out the ass for this" kind of way.
What's that? How does she handle? Like an Eagle on blow, that's how. Just watch the throttle. She gets the rattles a little you max it, and a lot when you hit the boost.Yeah, Jim. I'm sure your service department will love making her new again.
Speaking of love- how about those credits?
Hmm. Define "in good time". In my line of work, that usually means that the client is broke or stalling. And I know that Big Jim Masterson isn't broke, so what's your angle?
Right. Of course. You want to get me in my new ship. And offer me a great deal on something better than my old Cobra?
Ever the used-ship dealer, Jimbo. But I'll pass. I took the job to gain credits, not blow them on some lemon with a new wax job.
Yeah, you're right. I need a new ship, but I don't want to get bent over in the process, either.
Uh-uh. Don't even say it, Jimbo. You've been a remarkable facsimile of decency this job. Don't blow it by opening your mouth.
Tell you what: why don't we make things nice and simple, and you just transfer ownership of the best-running Cobra III on your lot?
Say what? What do you mean, "none"? What the hell kind of ship dealer runs out of Cobras? Not even on that patch of desert surfaceside where you keep most of your stock?
Jesus, Jim. The Fuel Rats must be really hard-up to get their gear from you.
Oh, you've got just the thing in mind? Of course you do.
Alright, fine. I'll take a look. But I expect both a ship and a nice pile of credits when this is all done.
Seriously? This is it?
Look, Jimbo, I get it: you sell a lot of ships to the Fuel Rats. The Explorer variant of anything is probably your go-to pitch. But in my line of work...
No, I'm not a racer. But I liked my old Cobra's speed.
Sure, keeping sig to a minimum is important. But what does that have to do with-
Yeah, that would be handy. And yeah, that jump range would help soothe the nerves of a lot of anxious clients...
No, I'm not sold on it! And if you think I'm signing the dotted line before a test flight...
Yeah, thanks. Alright. Get her prepped. I'll take her up after I've had some chow. Yeah, you know: food. I kind of lived off of my suit's water supply the whole way back, you see.
Now why would you go and ask a thing like that? You pay me for results, not details. See you in an hour.
What's that, Jim? How did I like it?
To be honest? I felt sorry for myself just being in here. Boring to be in, boring to fly- how do those Rats do what they do without giving in to depression? And how the hell are you going to make a deal on this ship with cash left over for me?
Oh, that's a load off. Really. Knowing that the previous owner traded her for a batch of Leestian Evil Juice makes me feel amazing about what kind of shape it's in.
Yeah, I can see that she's fitted for distance and hauling. I'm just worried about speed. My old Cobra got me out of more than a few-
Ah. You and your little low-sig obsession. Fine, Jim. I'm sold. Besides, I know a few people who could take a ship like this and make it almost impossible to see...
On scanners, anyway. This yellow paint is just killing me.
"Just another utility ship?" Excuse me? Do I wear a set of stained coveralls to work? Do I look like your typical fix-it wrench monkey?
You know, I think you're just trying to talk your way out of a paintjob. But you're right. People expect these ships to be yellow. All that matters is that I'm not scanned.
Alright. Back to your office. Let's sign some paperwork.
Well, that was a downright civilized run of business with Big Jim. Almost made eye contact that entire time.
The blackness of space surrounds the Diamondback as I blast away from Wollheim. As much as I expect something to go wrong with the Diamondback, every system is in the green and functioning flawlessly. Well, any good ship dealer makes sure to sell quality stock, and Jim is no different- even if his ships do tend to run on ill-gotten parts.
I slip a hand inside my inner jacket pocket, pulling out the half-a-mil credit chip Jim and included in the deal. I hold it in front of me, smiling. So now I'm back on my feet. New ship, bank account in the black, and I feel like I can breath again. Not a bad turnaround.
But there's not a lot time to pat myself on the back. Even half a mil gets chewed up by ship maintenance in a hurry if you're not careful. No, I have to make my rounds, get some jobs, and re-locate some cargo to some place it shouldn't be. I had been lucky to score such a great deal working for Jimbo, even if the Diamondback wasn't exactly my first choice. Once again, I look around, slowing the ship to a full stop and rising from the pilot's seat. I open the door and take a long look at my new home, sighing slightly.
The interior of the Diamondback is just as drab and utilitarian as the faded-yellow exterior. Dull grey bulkhead walls surround me as bare-bulb utility lighting illuminates the narrow corridor. Like the Krait that I had just delivered, bundles of exposed cables and modules crowd the walkway, and peeling paint labels the locations of the ships interior section. A tiny room with a bunk and a combo shower/toilet is all the living space I have, and the lockers are jammed full with my clothing and gear.
Well, it's not like you're the high-maintenance type, anyway.
I reach into a tiny storage chest under my bunk and pull out a baggy with a few onionhead joints in it. Lighting one, I walk back over to the canopy and take a look around. It's certainly a better view than the Cobra's had been. I'm surrounded by starfield everywhere except the deck under my feet.
The control panel is bare-bones simple, and I prop my feet upon it, distorting the holo-display with my boots. Taking a drag of the onionhead, I look around me.
I can't decide if I like the view or if I should feel exposed.
Exposed. I chuckle to myself, recalling what happened last time I lit a joint while slouched in the pilots chair. But that had been in the more covered-up Cobra, whereas this Diamondback cockpit...
Love it or hate it, one thing's for certain: no more naked o-head naps on the station pad.
