Kyndi the Paramedic
20 Oct 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Ugh. Even for a little podunk backwater, this place is dead. 
Bolton Asylum is an isolated penal outpost meant to house a modest inmate population. It's as good a place as any to have a for-profit prison- the station doesn't fall under any significant jurisdiction, but is still connected to several populated systems. Best of all, competition is non-existent. Blue Federal Industries is the only authority around, and they stay in power mainly because Chuuku isn't worth making a fuss over.
I exhale as I survey the scrub rock and vacuum showing in the system info screen. The only folks out here are the ones who have to be. And even that wasn't enough to keep them out of trouble.
Indeed, there aren't enough people in the entire system to fill a damn starliner, but they've managed to get themselves sick as dogs regardless. The illness itself is a degenerative condition caused by long-term exposure to mining chemicals. A lot of the inmates here are serving sentences that are measured in decades, and the equipment is likely to be older than they are. Blue Federal Industries probably doesn't give a shit about the individual cons press-ganged into doing their mining work, but a sick labor force doesn't generate credits.
The inmates themselves are treated about as well as one can expect. Their days are spent shuffling back and forth between their cells and the rocks that they split with handheld mining lasers. It's rare to find a setup like this in the middle of Imperial space, so smart money says that Blue Fed Industries is in bed with the surrounding blue dot governments. And really, why wouldn't they be? The Imperial systems get to banish their very worst, and the company pockets both the mining profits and housing fees free from any pesky government oversight.
It's a nice system, until the free labor gets sick. Then it becomes a nice system for indy pilots like me.
I'm in my cockpit, feet propped up on the dash and sipping imitation Fujin Tea. The whine of the auto-loaders breaks up the silence in the station's docking bay, unloading the sealed canisters of medical supplies that I'm delivering. As I expected, all the communication between myself and the station has been over comms. All they want is the medicine, and all I want are the credits. It isn't long before my cargo hold is empty and the comms panel on my HUD notifies me that the payment has been transferred to my account. I confirm the transaction and sit up, prepping my ship for launch.
Why can't more jobs be like this?
Almost as soon as I've accepted the credits, another message follows:
<Incoming transmission>
<Optional mission:
Transport one occupied stasis pod for emergency medical treatment. Local facilities insufficient.
Destination: Fischer Vision, Hunzi System (8.3 LY)
Payment: 15,000 credits upon successful delivery.
Accept? Y/N
<End of transmission>
I groan out loud, rolling my eyes and shaking my head. First I've been a delivery girl, and now they want me to be an ambulance driver. It's boring, it's wholesome, and the pay is lousy.
Still, fifteen grand is fifteen grand. And it's not like you've got anything else to do.
Exhaling dejectedly, I accept the mission and wait. As expected, the patient is already on ice, waiting for the first available ship to take them away from this hellhole of a prison. Fifteen minutes later, the cryopod is secure and the Cool Under Pressure is lifting off. I reach into my jacket pocket to fish out a joint, but think better of it. The Imps aren't as big on automation, and it just wouldn't do to land with glazed-over eyes and onionhead wafting from my clothes. Speaking of which...
Looking down, I shake my head and take a deep breath. Probably wouldn't hurt to show up wearing an actual flightsuit instead of jeans and a worn-out jacket, either.
I chuckle to myself as the Diamondback aligns itself and the countdown reaches zero.
Sober, legal, and concerned about your appearance? Jesus, Kyndi. A few more jobs like this and you'll have gone straight.
