When it Rains, It Pours
02 Nov 2016Kyndi the Badass Space Chick
Jesus Christ, Kyndi. Stop looking over your shoulder. You're fine.
I take another drag of the onionhead joint, still collecting my nerves after the unexpected company from earlier. I'm hunched over in my bunk, the plasma blaster at my side, one eye kept warily on the door that leads to the cargo bay. I haven't gone anywhere, haven't done anything in the half hour since I watched the cryopod seal around the escaped convict in my hold. He's not waking up to say hello again, either. I verified that he was on indefinite suspended animation and locked the cargo bay access. I know that he's on ice. I know that I'm safe. I know that with my blaster I've got the drop on him even if he did stick his head through the door.
But still.
The obvious thing to do was to run back to Bolton Asylum and explain to them the misunderstanding. But was that necessarily wise? Clearly, the Blue Feds had no compunction against breaking just about every civilized standard for the treatment of inmates. What would they do to some freelancing chick who might tell half the bubble about their shoddy security? Might I be press-ganged into the mining life alongside the worst of the worst?
I softly scoff to myself, a little puff of smoke escaping my lips. I don't think I owe it to Mr. Would-be Rapist to find out. But I can't just keep him back there forever, either.
Despite my efforts to not do so, I again glance towards the bulkhead door, and then to my other side, towards the cockpit canopy. The black vastness of space beckons, tempting me to solve the problem then and there. He had wanted to get fucked in the middle of nowhere...
No. That's just cold- even if the 'verse is better off without him.
Exhaling dejectedly, I take a drag on the joint. So- what, then?
I can't just strand him, and I don't want to set foot in a middle of a sketchy prison outpost in the midst of an outbreak, either. But I can jettison his cryopod just outside of the station and let one of their ships scoop him up. It's simple, it's easy, and I don't have to see or talk to a single person to pull it off.
The cherry of the joint glows one last time as I finish it off. Looks like I've got myself a plan. Return to sender, it is.
My hand unconsciously brushes the blaster as I steal a final glance towards the cargo bay.
And quite being so damn paranoid.
The streaks of passing scenery break up the monotony of supercruising in a penal system where there's nothing to do except split rocks. I was irritated that the transport job had turned out to be a scam, but only middling irritated. My thoughts drifted to the brute's hulking form and jagged length of pipe, now securely locked away.
It could have been a hell of a lot worse, Kyndi Jane. Thank God you had that insurance policy stashed under your seat.
My face sours at the memory of what that pig had expected. At what I'd almost had to do...
Maybe you should've blown his junk away anyway. Would have served him right.
I let out a short, sardonic laugh. It wasn't like he was in for an easy time. Escaped convicts tend to get it twice as hard upon return- so intact junk or not, I wasn't exactly cutting him a deal.
Still, pulling the trigger would have felt-
WHAM!
I lurch forward in my seat, the sudden jolt of the interdiction tether causing the Cool Under Pressure to drift and wander in the unstable slipstream. My hand grips the stick, fighting to stay in control. I'm good- but whatever it is that's locked on to me has a really fat ass. Gritting my teeth against the inevitable, I throw back the throttle and brace as my ship is thrown violently back into normal space.
The ship's systems automatically reduce the artificial gravity as the Cool Under Pressure cartwheels from supercruise, the directional thrusters firing in tandem to help me regain control. The supercruise itself is still cooling down and resetting, disallowing me from just gunning it. My thumb flicks the hat switch on my joystick, bringing up the only other ship in my region of space.
My eyes narrow. A fat-assed Annie. Wonderful.
The long, massive ship moves intimidatingly close, hardpoints deploying a menacing array of multicannons. My thumb hovers over my own weapons activator on my joystick, but slowly moves away. There's no way that an entry-level explorer ship can match this beast in firepower. The Anaconda bears down, crudely-patched hull plating telling the story of battles past. I'm physically pressing back into my seat as the comms chirp to life...
Remember you? Sorry, hon- it's hard to remember a specific Annie jock with little man syndrome. Care to offer some detail?
Oh. Right. The asshole who loaded my hold with slaves. And you've spent all this time looking for little old me?
I'm almost flattered. And no- you won't be seeing that cargo again. When the merchandise has a pulse, the deal is off. Sorry about your bad luck.
You're sorry, too? What the hell is that supposed to m-
In one motion, the Annie's multicannons adjust their angle, centering on my canopy. My mouth sets as my hand grips the throttle, preparing for anything.
Oh, shit.
A heavy lump settles into my belly as I look around, the surrounding canopy glass making me feel uncomfortably exposed.
You always did love a good view, didn't you?
My breath catches in my throat as the weapons begin to spin. Flashes of the events that led me back to Chuuku play through my head.
Suddenly, the thought of servicing convict dick doesn't seem so bad...