Stowaway
09 Sep 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
This can't be happening.I brace myself against the nearest cargo container, my heart racing. Both my high and the job are in the garbage. I'm not only not alone, but an unwitting slave-hauler to boot. Collecting my thoughts further, the unusual terms instantly come into focus:
The off-the-grid mining camp.
The generous payout.
The deception as to the true nature of the cargo, using jerry-rigged cargo containers instead of proper cryo-pods.
Ignoring the stowaway for a moment, I walk down the cargo bay, popping the lids off of every cargo container in the hold. Sure enough, they're each holding an unconscious man, women, or child. They're in chemically-induced stasis, their bodily functions slowed down by a half-assed ghetto cryogenic cooling system. Shaking my head, I replace the lids. They'll get to their destination covered in bruises and feeling like death, but they'd live. Probably.
And what was their destination?
A slave mine. I was hauling to a goddamn slave mine.
Sooner or later, every pilot hears stories about the Pitts: isolated, scattered mining settlements that rely more on enslaved human labor than industrial machinery to extract ore. They're always illegal, always dangerous, and always a cesspool of violence, desperation, and misery. No self-respecting pilot has anything to do with them, not even morally flexible smugglers like myself.
But here you are, on your way to one. Played like a fucking newjack.
Well, it won't do to stand here and be astonished. I've got a terrified kid in my cargo bay, and that's priority one right now.
Hesitantly, I squat back down and look at the girl behind the canister. She's small, small enough to fit in-between the sorting arm assembly and the containers themselves. Carefully, I reach out to the shivering bundle.
Alright, Kyndi Jane. If you've a got shred of maternal instinct in you, now's the time to break it out...
Hey. Easy now. I'm not going to hurt you.
Yeah, okay. You don't believe me. Can't blame you.
But seriously. It's freezing in here. You have to come out.
There you go. That's it. Nice and easy.
Let me just take your hand...
God dammit, that hurt! You little fuckers bite hard, you know that?
Great. Now you're in the other corner of the cargo bay. I know where you are. I see you. And I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I mean it.
Look, you can't stay in here. You'll freeze. Life support in a Lakon docking bay only pumps air, not heat. Now will you just trust me already?
Okay. You're in a shitty spot. I can see that.
Am I supposed to say "shitty" around little kids?
Alright. Fine. Stay there. I'll be right back.
This is insane. Absolutly fucking insane. Been flying since you were sixteen, and this is the first stowaway you've ever had. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Okay. I'm back. See this? This is a ration bar. Food for pilots. It helps keep you healthy in low-g. They're good. Kind of.
It's for you, okay? I just need you to come out and into where it's warm. I don't like it in here any more than you do.
Besides, I'm getting cold, too.
Okay. Thank you. No biting this time. Here you go. I know it probably tastes terrible, but-
Holy shit. It's gone.
Just... follow me, okay? That's it. Nice and easy. I'm not going to hurt you.
See? Warmer in here than the cargo bay. This is my bunk. You can sit on it while we talk. Let me make you some tea. Here's another ration bar. Just take it easy with them, okay? Chew your bites. Just give me a minute to, uh, check up front.
Jesus fuck, Kyndi. A kid. A kid is sitting on your goddamn bunk. Eating your goddamn ration bars.
Just keep it together. Take a deep breath. It's just a kid. You can handle this.
Hello again. I see that the food is gone. So is the tea. How are you feeling?
O-kay. Not the talkative type. Well, I don't blame you. Just stay there on the bunk. And go ahead and keep staring at me. That's not creepy at all.
Christ, Kyndi. Think of what she's been through.
So... my name's Kyndi. You're on my ship. It's kind of my home.
Hell, it is my home.
What's your name?
You don't have one, apparently.
Alright. You don't have to talk. Just, uh- stay there. Do you want another ration bar? Okay, we've got a head nod. Head nods are good. Here you go. How about more tea? Yeah? Alright.
Look, I've got to go up front and figure out where I'm going to g-
Oh. Look at that. All over the bunk. Guess those pilot rations were a little too rich for you, huh?
Twenty minutes of being a mommy, and I'm already cleaning up puke. Nice.
No, you're not in trouble. Just... stand over there, okay? Give me a minute to clean this up.
Not like these sheets are strangers to bodily fluids anyway.
Alright. There. Changed. Go ahead and hop back up, and, uh-
And what, genius? What the fuck do you tell a shell-shocked little slave girl who just woke up in your cargo hold?
-and I'll figure out where to take you. Someplace better than where you've been. I promise.
Yeah, because the word of grown-ups is rock-solid, right?
Alright, so, uh... don't go anywhere, okay?
I'm hunched over the nav map, searching desperately for possible destinations where I can humanely dump a hold of slaves and fly away a free woman. For being a smuggler, I'm having an awfully shitty time figuring out what to do with a hold full hot goods. Cargo like the kind I'm hauling is illegal as hell everywhere in civilized space. If I get caught with it, I'm busted. I can't go to the Federation. I can't go to the Alliance. I can't go to any halfway decent indy world.
And I can't go to the Empire. They've got their own little self-righteous brand of slavery, and it's not like I can just-
Wait. Who was that blue-haired, empty-eyed princess I'd read about on GalNet? Abigail? Aysha? Aisling. Yeah. That was it. Young, idealistic, and opposed to slavery in all its forms- with the money and organization to boot. Takes in all kinds of folks, feeds 'em with her bleeding heart, I guess. At least, that's the buzz around the bars. Who knows what actually goes on in an Imperial princess's head?
My face twists into a scowl. I goddamn hate flying into Imperial space. And I hate Imperials. All their fake courtesy and opulence and bullshit refinement. A fifty-word conversation anywhere else is a one-hundred and fifty word conversation in a blue-dot system.
But it's still my best shot. Hell, it's her best shot. I harden my mouth and set course for Cubeo. The job is out the window, and it's time for Kyndi to do her good deed for the year. And my lying, no-good client? Fuck him. It's time he learned the same lesson that he taught all those poor bastards in my cargo hold:
Life doesn't always work out the way you want.