Buzzkill
07 Sep 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Oh, yes. Oh, God.
Come to mama.
A brief flash of light illuminates the darkened cockpit of the Diamondback as the onionhead joint is lit. I inhale deeply and rest my head against the pilot's seat, closing my eyes and exhaling the smoke into the air above me. I feel my body get lighter and my muscles relax; the old, familiar tingle spreads over my skin as the drug courses through my system.
I allow myself a lazy smile. Jesus, I've been needing this.
I'm in supercruise, in the middle of nowhere with a cargo hold full of narcotics. Some fool wants them delivered to a mining installation on the fringes of Fed space; for the price he was offering, I'm happy to oblige. But I won't arrive at my destination for hours, so a little mid-trip R & R won't hurt anything.
I stare into the black, absent-mindedly pondering the job. It was a little unusual to deliver tons of illegal drugs to a mining colony, but paying a miner with energy-inducing blow instead of credits wasn't unheard of. Nobody but the lowest of the low would ever agree to back-breaking work in exchange for having their addiction supported, but the 'verse was what it was.
Allowing a smile to spread across my face, I take another drag. And right now, the 'verse is pretty damn profitable.
It's a healthy chunk of change that's waiting for me after I make this drop. What should I do with it? The secret project is doing okay. The Cool Under Pressure is running just fine.
Check out a spa on some lux Earth-like resort?
Spend the night at Dan and Monty's nightclub?
Book an Orca cruise?
I'm in the middle of daydreaming the ways that I can blow it when the warning light flashes, accompanied by a short chirp.
<cargo bay irregularity detected>
I screw up my face. "Irregularity"? The hell does that mean?
Hoisting myself up, I unsteadily make way to the cargo bay. My system is pretty well saturated with o-head at this point, but I'd rather be safe than sorry. I activate life support in the cargo bay, closing my eyes and waiting for the air to cycle, leaning unsteadily against the bulkhead and closing my eyes.
Why did something have to happen now?
After a short period of time, the controls turn green and a pleasant chime sounds, indicating that the cargo bay will be cold, but breathable. I slide open the door and hit the bay lights, filling the metal-plated room with stark industrial illumination.
I frown as I look around. Nothing out of order. All the cargo canisters are secured. Maybe the sensors had a false reading.
Still a little dizzy and not a little irritated for having had my time wasted, I'm about to hit the lights again when I see it:
A single container with its lid off. Footprints that lead away from it. Small ones.
Oh, shit.
My eyes follow the trail, leading to a corner in the cargo bay. I walk cautiously up to it, the harsh light creating dark shadows around the rows of cargo canisters. The footprints seem to end behind the one furthest into the corner, so I squat down and peer behind it-
There, in a compact, shivering bundle is a terrified little girl, clutching herself and looking at me with confused, mindless fear in her eyes. She's wearing nothing but a slave collar and a simple, filthy dress, and she buries her head in her hands the second she sees me.
I bolt upright and take a step back in shock, my still-drugged mind sobering up in the cold, oxygen-rich cargo bay. My breath catches in my throat as I process the situation.
And this right here is how a perfectly good high and a perfectly good job both go straight to hell.